Archive | October, 2017

By Example We Teach. . .

All Things Are Connected. . .

No matter the outcome of any event, the process of integrating is uppermost within the chest of treasures.  It is not that all things are diverse, but that all things are connected in a way that is concealed and discernment is required for enlightenment.

Rubies are connected to stones are connected to moss if the thinker in contemplation can see that man and fish, that donkey and gods are one of kind.  You cannot see the connection unless the oneness of all of life and the concomitants of the each have an undecipherable basis and that their ultimate function depends on their being what they are and where they are.

And the what can be anything and their where can be anywhere.  This is the unalterable basis of God.  That the being of what is predisposed to the being in whom.  The lesson understood is that the basic concomitant is equality in basis and in presence.

Understood also is that the outward is but an unrefined still beautiful expression of the great godhead within.  And to exercise firm control over the criticism of the godhead no matter the dislike or the revulsion of the outward signs of human behavior.  It is by example we learn and by example we teach.

(excerpt from
The Word Is God. . . .)

Can it be said in truth
that the word be god?
It is.
For within its power to create
it moves with desperation to voice feelings,
to give breath to visions and to heal.

The word created creatures and dynasties,
wars and rebellions, held peace in abeyance
and brought us to life.

So speak softly when speaking.
Words carry the weight of the heart
with intent to topple empires
and worlds and men.
In the catalytic movement
of the word, the world’s heart beats,
years are gifted
and man’s future secured.

It is all we have.


Photo by
John Stanley Hallissey




Wandering The Galaxies. . .

Wandering The Galaxies. . .

Again,  I am here with pictures,  primitive to be sure,  that I drew of what I encountered in  the dream world written on September 9, 1991.  Previously I had shown the pictures I had drawn of the gentle fishes in the post on this blog called Worlds I know. . .to speak of. . . which was on September 3, 2017.   I wrote then that as I continued working on cross referencing my journals with other work which corroborates them, I would share the pictures and the journals.

I came across the notes I had taken when rereading the journals of the pictures you see here.  I knew I had the sketches and showed them to my son John.  He said I was ahead of my time.  This week we activated solar panels on our home  after much protocol.  There obviously are worlds where other forms of energy are utilized to a greater extent.  I share a part of the journal of that date. While I was not fully awake and the dream was fresh,  I drew the sketches you see.  My input to the dialogue taking place was . .

(The energy on the mountain.  What I thought were trees in the vision, shaped like trees, were not were they?  They somehow brought in energy to run houses without chimneys.  And from those strange shaped trees I thought on the mountain.  From a distance I thought them trees, but they were energy sources, weren’t they?  I wish there were credentials to back me up, but then I wouldn’t have taken this seriously but just a powerful play . )

I could not have envisioned this on my own nor have thought one day to be living here in California where solar panels would be discussed to offset the high cost of electricity.  But almost 30 years ago I had  sketched other worlds where gentle fishes and houses without chimneys were evidenced.  I had heard of Rachel Carson and her worries for this planet.  My concerns were immediate and I was the person on the premises needing to deal with why my world was wobbly when I tried so hard.

I told my sons I needed a Hazmat suit when I entered my workroom.  The emotional vibes are hard on this aged frame from a life of memories relived.  Memory is both joyous and painful and always entwined.


There Is Still Time. . .





(Sometimes the poet and writer needs a good talking to.)






There Is Still Time. . .

I say. . . .
What more can I do?  I am
tired and I am old.

You say. .
You are still breathing.  And as long
as there is breath,  you can still create.

I say. . . .
It has all been said.  How many different
ways to instill the will to make a difference?

You say. . .
As many ways as there are people who awaken
before the sun decides to make an appearance.

And I say. .
Already too many times for me. . .

And you say. .
I have not heard your name called, which means, rise and do,
and you will be shown how.  I have journeyed with you and
do not abandon.

And I say. .
You are a hard task master. . .

You say. . .
When we walked the heavens and decided to explore our talents
we wanted to do good.  The world awaits. . .

I ask. . .
For how long?

Your answer. . .
There is still time to take harp lessons.  It’s been too long since
you used that talent.  We need to refresh your memory. . .


A World Affair. . .






A World Affair. . .

Give me the space
in which a few minutes rest
and tell me the color
of your eyes.

I know the direction
your mind would take you,
the roads upon which you go.
I hear your songs
of liberation from a self
holding you prisoner too long.
The songs reach my heart
and together we sing of freedom.

But the space
in which you move this time,
has color and form
and a life apart.

I push through seemingly heavy doors
to reach you and do,
that portion of heart and mind
I know as you.

Locked within a crystalline gaze,
I search my palette
for the emotion with which
to fill in your eyes.
Tell me,

what color are tears?


My Earth, My Earth. . .


How often have we said ‘it just doesn’t translate.’  Meaning that the nuance of the word is so important that when it isn’t there,  the meaning alters.  The word insensate is such a word.  The meaning of sensate means that there is an appreciation by the senses,  that what is perceived is beautiful and appreciated.  According to our dictionaries the word insensate means brutish, mad, inanimate or lacking in sensibility.  And what I mean when I use the word is that the depth of feeling is missing.  Small difference?  But in the meaning of the poem,  with what I perceive,  the difference is enormous.  Read the poem with this in mind.




My Earth, My Earth. . .

Though others reside,  it is my Earth.
This is how I feel where I live.
Do others?  I don’t know.

From a cosmic view this has to be
the most beautiful place in this Universe.
I can see coming back if only
for the first snow,  to taste
the cold air on my face,
the wind through my hair and
the breath of the elixir swimming
through my lungs.

Heady stuff?  . . . I know that.  I know that.

But to me the rest of the Universe
sits hot and heavy on my head.
Too much still with me
filtering through my senses to
make me altogether too conscious
of who I am yet.
Maybe only because

I cannot perceive an insensate body. . . .


Photo by
John Stanley Hallissey 



The Breaking Day. . .


Not often do we find sunrise photos.  I thank Jon Katz of for this photo which he so graciously lets me use.   Here in California,  morning’s sunrise can be counted on pretty much and often to our detriment as these weeks have shown.  Still, photos like these require a photographer to rise early to greet them and be in the right place.  This is a favorite of mine and says perfectly what I try to say in this Breaking Day.

The Breaking Day. . .

There is a texture to the morning
that I distinguish from
the silky drape of the night,
to the languid folding
of two o’clock in the afternoon.

I greet it with a welcome
and crisp breath that
will increase sharply my taste
of morning coffee.

The smooth touch
of the furry Newfoundland with
his wet nose give off a sparkle
of light in the rising sun.

I taste of the morning with its clarity
that I will miss in the
oncoming heat of the day.

But this breaking day I move
my arthritic fingers with
their numb tips and wonder where
the girl has gone who never gave thought,
not once, to the dawn that
would ever break unevenly
in her world.

Nor did she ever think that the magic
of her mornings would ever change,
and never knew of the Grace
that the Greater Heart would grant
her aging one,

to feel supremely blessed.



Reverence For Learning. . .

If I was to be an earth shaker,  I would first shake man.  I would have the apples fall down on his head again and again until some sense would come from the constant bombardment.  I would ply him with this food that tells him who he is.  I would have him search his inmost self with the intensity that would move mountains.  And I would tell him that all he needs to make his world a fit place to live is to first know himself.  But that has already been written, hasn’t it?

How to get him first to look within, to study his own motivation and to dispense with his own alibis before he can begin to attempt to disassemble his brothers.   I wish I had the ability to write what is in my heart.

I wish that I could roar from the top of the highest mountain, the highest building in the cities of men, to tell them of their cosmic connection, of their divine origin and let them bask in their own glory.  I wish, I wish, I wish.  How do I do that?

How do I tell them that their god is all that they can wish for?  That their brother is indeed themselves walking the path that will lead them to the mansion of many rooms.  That their sisters are truly sisters and color neither separates nor delineates their origins?  How can I even venture to tell them that their godhood is within and there never was  reason to believe otherwise?  The Master told us that.

How can I tell them love has all the potential of healing the mystifying elements of earth life and  they would indeed no longer be the enemy?  Where is it said that man must crawl on his belly to be able to stand in the true reflection of what is his birthright?

I would take him and stand him up.  I would take his face between my hands and shout at him that he is magnificent.  I would continue to shout until my voice drowned out his negative teachings of centuries and make him repeat after me.  I am he who walks with my godhood intact.  I am he who walks. . . . .


(I wrote the above in a journal entry on September 6, 1982 when I was 51 years old.  I am now 86.  Many times I have written of my Independent Study Program which I have continued  daily since I became a parent over 60 years ago.  I felt our children were special and I wanted to be equal to their needs.  I began my ‘need to know’ seriously.  I wanted to answer their why’s adequately and with knowledge. 

I did not know the depth and height this journey would take me.  I did not know it was a journey.  Only now I realize in working to cross reference my work of 60 years,  that the injustices I have seen throughout my life are now surfacing onto the international scenes.  I see support systems coming to life with hope for the future.

The above thoughts have deepened and broadened and integrated in my philosophy. I was mostly silent with my thoughts because they were unusual for my day.  Being told I was out of step I now find the opposite to be true.  I have found as those in ancient days that the inner experience is our most valuable guide.  The heart’s intent with clarity is the valid one.  All of life’s experience cannot be proven in the laboratory).


Sum Virat Honor. . . We Honor Truth. . . .

It is not without recourse that the soul cries in the night.  It is not with abandon that the individual who mourns whatever loss, be it of his innocence or that of a physical parting, is left.  We know and are known, and never is there a thought which rises from the physical brain and immortal mind, that is not noted.  It is these hard times that call our heart’s yearning.

My Song Goes Out. . .

My song goes out on this morning’s air
and penetrates the sky to where the stars
hang in the universe.  My lyrics ride the beams
that will meet the sun as it rises and
hang in the midday until even the grass hears
the melody or the mourning.

Look who is here, who is here, they say,
she speaks to us and we hear, we hear.
And I will say, it is a good place, this Earth home.
And I learn to speak its language and to learn
to sing its songs.  It is this space
where my sounds break out into form
and I see, oh yes, I see.   And I knew it all the time.

So listen to me, dear Earth and sea and sky.
I speak your language, your sound and hear your music.
And it is all for me, for me.  The tension
in my body is the lyre on which you play your music.
The mind is my opening onto worlds that I know
exist and can feel through the thoughts
winging sometimes painfully against my ears.

Listen to me, they say, and hear, hear, really hear.
I have songs to sing and lyrics which spell out
your beginning which never was and ending
which cannot be.  So listen and I will long
to seize you and carry you and tell you
of a richness that is yours since you were a star.

Laylo, laylo, sum virat honor.  I liken you
to the eddy which flows in my direction.
Laylo, laylo,  sum virat honor.  We honor truth.


photo by
Joshua D. Hallissey



Show Me. . . you are the more. . .

Show Me. . . you are the more. . .

When I see you in your prayers,
you pull from me
something akin to obeisance
of the highest kind.

I drop to my knees
and want to pray with you,
to the mighty of All That Is
who garnished upon us all
the sweetness that would
turn the hearts of stone
awash with tears.

Tell me,  how do you enter
that holy place so quickly
when your thoughts begin
with the heart of the child
and take them to the
highest altar of the mind?

You almost take
the highest and best into yourself
by some turn of mind
and close out the rest of us
like the door closing against
the onrush of minor thought . . .

How to get there?
Who lets you in?
Somewhere you go that
closes us out but, yet. . .
your love includes us.

You step over what is invisible
and takes you to the promised land,
which is not a place but a condition.
You know of what I speak
and so do I.
I want it for me.

Because you are the more because of it.   Show me.

                                                                    the Teacher. . .


(Scribed.  Journal entry August 27, 2017)
art by Claudia Hallissey


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