Freedom’s Work. . .

Freedom Is Not Free. . .

Time nears for elections and we wonder  how can our aged bodies contribute to this magnificent  country  we live in so that our democracy does not die.  We  plead with the heavens.  And thoughts are given to match what can be done.  The healing begins and life  takes off with wings and we do more than we thought possible.

July 18, 1987 journal entry I scribed. . .

Life does present many problems now that must be confronted philosophically simply because one’s reputation is on the line.  You are doing a superb piece of reading enmeshed in the spiritual and moral qualities given by an unbiased person as the times had.  You have terms such as conscientious objector, moral judgment, secular world, triumphant and church militant.  All these and you cannot stop to sleep without scribing.  I must tell them you say.  I must tell them.

Who and what must you tell?  You do not fool yourself.  It has all been said before.  And unless you put  yourself in the front of the line, you will only impress who comes to your door. If becoming public, you might be noted in posterity.  But not without a taint of malice, a taint of mental ill health.  She was crazy they will say.  Smart, capable, a worker of good things and talented but a bit crazy.  Dependable too and a good writer.  A little doty, odd.   A good poet who walked among the great teachers but strange.  She talked to  the heavens and thought they answered her.

And others will say, the work is inspired.  But NO ONE WILL DARE SAY  and question, how inspired, what inspired, Who inspired and from Where?  What is this inspiration? 

Last   night as you heard the man talking about Muriza, the Hungarian shepherd’s poem, you ached with knowledge of   where they came from.  When I disappear the shepherd said to his sheep, tell them I married the moon, that I went to the place where the apple trees  bear pears and fleas  wear boots 99 tons each on feet.

It Grows Dark, Love. . . .

You say. . . So much to be said.
To take a hammer to a word and splinter it,
what’s to be gained?

I say. . . Where is the meaning if you don’t?

You say. . . .Let everyone take what is theirs and build on it.
That is the way of the world and
the way illusions are granted a solid state.
And darling woman, it is all right.

I say. . . They say that life is too hard just to be illusions.
The people will say of me that she was off the wall!

You say. . . .There will be those who say
you have a fine imagination.
And others will say you took an impossible life
and created a philosophy to sustain it.
Does not everyone?

I say. . . Not every child is shown tender mercies.
And without them, there is a long sleep when transiting.
Remedial help is needed.

You say. . . . You shored up when fault
was found within your system.
You continue to love, and lady, continue.

And I ask. . . Where will you be?

You say. . . Until the day you can no longer do it,
walk to the fields and lie down and say no more. . .

I will pick you up and we will again
set fire to hearts which do not flicker yet and
create that world where love abounds.
And commitments and priorities take proper place.
Time is limited and it grows dark. 

We work, we work and with love, lady, with love. . . .

poem written Jan 28,  2018

No comments yet.

Leave a Reply

Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes