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The Godfellows. . . .



They Whose Vision is Long and Far Away. . .

I see a difference in the eyes of people whose vision is long and far away.  These are people whose eyes do not stop at the curb but travel distances to a horizon hampered only by trees if it is good, but not by buildings and vehicles and junk.

The difference in these eyes is that I feel they do not stop seeing where I begin.  They see beyond my human skin, deep into my heart.  I find these souls now and again, but not often.

They do not linger about.  They are not in the malls nor connected to computers all day nor are they working fingers on text gadgets.

They mostly are found in open fields working with animals or plaguing the peoples with questions and puzzles to keep minds from atrophying.  They are the pied pipers of children who follow them about like puppies.

Children often are the first to find these souls.  Others might consider them simple because obviously they are not with it whatever it is.  But children know them intimately and quickly.  They recognize them from a place the children themselves come from.  They know and recognize each other.

I am partial to these souls whose sight, inner sight, takes them beyond what most consider the here and now, the present.

What do they see?  Perhaps their ability to step behind our eyes to view the world from our perspective is what separates them from others.  Have you not wondered how they are able to pick up our thoughts or conversations coming into a room with no introduction?

And their ability to sort out our feelings without knowledge of our troubles?  These are special people,  special souls who wander among us.

We should grab them by the collar and say with force, halt!  I need you here.  Right now and right here.  They would be of immense help because their knowledge comes to them by lifting their eyes to the heavens. . . .

. . . . . . . where on speaking terms. . . they are known. . . .


The Godfellows. . .

they crowd him, he who walks
the path like the pied piper.

the youngers follow like
so many puppies.

he bends to whisper the day good
into ears that hear his beating heart.

and their hearts beat with knowledge . . .
that they are both Divine. . . . .


(photo by John Holmes)


What I Bring To The Table. . .

You think it is a neat hat?  My numb hands brought forth a memory of how to knit this after 50 years. Many dislike old talk but when one is trying to adjust to a life of diminishing returns,  there should be some straight talk about how does one cope with it all.

Mine has been a life of chronic physical disorder since I was ten.  A year and a half in a sanatorium when I was 8 years old and a steel back brace through teen years.  (I was mortified when boys smacked me on the back and yelped with mock pain to embarrass me. Not fun.)

Bone problems, arthritis, stenosis,  muscle inflammation, all chronic, then 2 cardiac arrests and 3 strokes. . . In 3 months I will be 88.  And I don’t know how come since I read like the Table of Contents for Contemporary Medical Conditions.

Coupled that with a head that saw too much and heard more than was comfortable to live with, a world crumpled that required medical help to allow me to function normally.  Physical pain I learned to suppress;  both took enormous endurance with ongoing learning.

One doctor had to resort to a scalpel to remove a deep sliver in my hand.  It took awhile and when he was through he asked how I did it.  What I asked?  Not move nor cry he said.  I step out of my body I said.  He looked at me horrified and turned and slammed the door as he exited.

Many of the doctors called me mystic.  My definition of mystic is one who is born to a new world  but dragging one foot still in the last world.  Hard way to live, but one can do it with diligence.  Or one flees to the forest as I have done many times, I hear.

But one can be an ordinary person, in an ordinary family, in an ordinary life.  This is what the public sees. But it is not a life like others live.  At some point it spills and the cup runneth over.  The answer is that it was worth it as every life is.  Just different, that’s all, different.  But of worth.

So it has taken some time to mentally write my book of lamentations.  Lest my readers think it is a make believe world I have created, I built a philosophy from the ground up.  It had to make sense with a life filled with non sense.

Critics say it is a philosophy created to make palatable issues life presented.  Which in itself is a small miracle.  Another says it is swiss cheese with many holes.  But he does not see it from almost 90 years or aware of the mountains climbed.  Another when transiting this world asked how did I know to do it?

All I knew is that I had to have a something to uphold me because there was nothing in my carpetbag.  When a philosophy is carved out of the heart, it upholds mind, body, and spirit.  It has demanded much,  but I have given it my life.  There are moments glorious but mostly my world of joy I learned is what I bring to the table.

One would think that after centuries one would have living down pat.  Not so.  The mills grind slowly we know and there are no skipped classes.  There have been lives not fit to live nor fit to live with.

I now hear only 4 out of 10 words.  I work hard even with hearing aids to hear human voices.  I learned to read body language, facial expression, eyes, even telepathy and still miss messages.

Often with solitude, musical ear syndrome is an aging problem with unfinished arias in my own head’s inner Julliard school of music along with ongoing noises from the gym’s open doors at the end of the hall with games in session.  It is muted but audible.

The specialists say the only way to cope with the ear syndrome is to flood the head with loud music. The body’s innate sense is to fill the vacuum.  Try that while hungering to hear your muses. . . .

One audiologist understood what I talked about and asked, does it interfere with your life?  No, I said, I have learned to cope, but it is tiring.  Another said,  my god, you work unbelievably hard at hearing, don’t you?

How to focus on deep thought when all else impinges on consciousness?   With an open head there is the invisible as well as the visible world to contend with.  The footwork with learning that short sentence is a life’s work.  I also must remember the bread baking in the oven . . along with what’s for dinner????

Hearing aids accent sounds of the house but sometimes the brain has difficulty registering human voices.  What did you say?  Say it again. . please?   No offers yet to wear my head. . .

Solitude is my companion.  The inner theatre of mine is rich and for me, understandable.  I have learned much and brought forth by deep focus things forgotten.   Aging numb hands have moments of memory also and when you cannot stand long you can sit and remember old things to make new.

There are things still to learn and life continues to be good.  Again, just different.


The Greater Heart. . . .


Everyone assumes that this blessed day of the Heart will be a happy one for all.  And if it is true for you and you and your beloved are partners in this great adventure,  you are to be smiled upon and wished much happiness.  Guard it  and each other well.  It is truly a gift and one to be remembered forevermore.  May you both look forward to an eternity of days such as this.

For those whose hearts need kind words I hope I can help assuage the hurt or  isolation you feel.  You cannot believe the little emphasis that is placed on words like character, loyalty and bonding in this time we inhabit.  You were of another world when you knew the truth of the greatness of the heart.  And it has filtered down to you in this world and caused you grief.

Know that what awaits will be something akin to what you know and deserve.  It will be what your heart requires and will enrich your life in whatever circumstance you find yourself.  Your emptiness would not be so great had you not been given what you cannot forget.  It will again enfold and embrace you.  You  know the greatness of love having been partner to it before.  You will know it again.


Valentines For Ever’one . . .


‘Til ever’ name is called  . . .

Can we make valentines,  he asked?    The younger looked as if he was torn by a big decision.

Why make them, I asked?   ‘Cause there are lots I know and they be real from me,  he said.   How real I asked and he looked at me puzzled.

I waited for an answer I thought would clue me to the crease on his forehead.

So’s they know I care he sputtered.  Don’t you know that for sure?  Again I waited.   They just don’ knowed, he said,  they don’ knowed.   What are they supposed to know I asked.  He came over to me and sat on the floor at my feet.

‘Member, he said,  when you were like me and nobody ‘membered you  and your  name not called out and there were lots an’ lots of valentines in the heart box your name not on cards?

I looked at this tender younger and wondered where he wandered.   My stomach knotted as I remembered the little girl that I was who sat and hungered for my name to be called.  The teacher was almost finished and looked around and said I have a few more cards yet and one had my name.

I rushed to claim it and knew it was from Guess Who?  But many of the cards were from guess who?  because boys and girls knew the word embarrass.

Much later we learned that our teacher checked off names as she called them and to make certain everyone had a valentine she had a supply in her desk.   We did not know it then of course.

And what are your plans I asked.   He said in his take charge voice it was not nice for some not to get cards so I give ever’one card and I make them so they be real.

Good thinking I said but no favorites?   When time comes for favorite I give real valentine.   That be my heart he said.   That be real valentine, think so, yes?

I lifted him up and hugged him.   Whoever gets your heart will be special because you are special.   ‘Til I be grow up,  he asked,  you be my valentine?

With pleasure sir,  with pleasure  I said and hugged him again.  So we went to make valentines for ever’one so ever’ name is called.

It would be awhile before I learned that ever’ name is called.

(there is still time to make ever’one a card.  take the time with the young to do it.  the card above was made for me by a younger decades ago.)


It Is Hard Being Human. . . but a privilege. . . . .

                                                                                                          Love her, she is ours. . . .


I am grateful for my readers who follow my work though they may not agree and sometimes not understand what I talk about.  I overheard  one talking to my son and he said he gave up because he had to look up every other word I used.   I use words that come to mind and when I backtrack I often have to use the thesaurus to verify.  That is the way my head works.  I  try to  write in the vernacular and think I do.  Then when I reread or hear a comment like above,  I wonder.

I inwardly focus and have written about the deep place I enter to confer.  I say this and there are silent others who read these words and they know of what I speak.   I speak out now at the ending of my life so that there will be some understanding about the differences among us.  We cannot continue to stagnate and have no progress in our humanity else we continue to decimate cultures and bury our children.

My squabbles with beloveds stem mostly with speaking on things that are outside the frame of reference.  The following is dictation from a recent journal entry about my inability to fully appreciate how one can not understand something that is confronting one.  It is a stumbling block for me when understanding is not commensurate with education.  Another time for that, but here is the entry.

“when it is outside the frame of reference, that circle, that boundary, one cannot relate.  Each piece of information must root to push the frame of reference a bit farther out.  Each piece of information that makes sense, that roots, that finds reason will establish that piece firmly.  And when something similar comes to mind there is a magnetic action.  Growth happens, maybe no more than a micro, but growth.  Each new piece then fuses and we have a macro something.

Faster paced is the growth for awhile.  Enough so that it is noticeable and we have another human in evolution again.  Keep this in mind.  When there is nothing in the frame of reference that you give away for free, it is worth nothing.  If it clicks and has them saying it makes sense, or is reasonable and roots,  then we teach.  We expand our knowledge  and give grace expeditiously.  Grande feeling, really grande.  The lightbulb goes on. 

Even when just one understands and the action roots,  then all will progress.  When the second one relates,  we have a committee. The Master said that when you give me a drink,  all thirst will be satiated.  That is human progress in evolution.”

It is simple?  May takes centuries for change to occur.  When a new concept is adopted the brain opens chambers not used before and mankind prospers.  There is truth in the maxim that we become what we feed our minds.  I know, it is hard being human.

(excerpt from poem)
The Uncovering. .. . .

The idea will find its home in the minds of all men
and the revolution begins.  The learned ones
will marvel at the evolution in thinking
and peace with brotherhood will slowly mark
its beginning in the house of one man. . . . . .

(written 1960’s. . .before I knew that all time
is simultaneous. . .quantum physics)


photo by Joe Hallissey, Sr.


The Heart Knows Its Own Amen. . . .


Oftentimes I have written about the cosmic importance of families and homes and many take this as opposition to the seeming greater importance of worldly concerns.  The reality lists toward the impossible harnessing of worldly affairs by adults with hungers left unfed as children when they could have been directed toward  good,  toward universal harmony.    Those hungers  are fed when they arise in children by adults who understand the importance of parenting. 

The obvious spiritual wounds are evident in today’s world by behavior which should be mature in adult bodies.  It is childish in no uncertain terms but now called boyish or youthful or darling or cute or even charismatic.  Once we were called brats with no apology. 

The universe, both visible and invisible, suffers when babies continue to make babies.  And the scars are eternal. It takes a long time for undesirable behavior to be weeded out of the gene fields of humanity.  It will be done sooner if we make a concerted effort to grow up.


In The Quiet Of This Night. . .

In the quiet of this night,
come to me and we will hold hands
and talk and I will show you
from high up you jumped.

The night will love you
and envelop you and you will find
that in the cold moon,
there is a heat that sustains
to show you where your home is.

Within the skirts of who you are,
you will gather
the children around you
and we will love each other.

The heart knows its own Amen. . . . .



Only Said A Hat Was Required!!!. . . .

It didn’t say exactly what kind was the implied accusation!  And I laughed out loud to the silence surrounding and know that the great grandfather on the other side of the veil  was harrumphing that she is another like you with no fashion sense!

And I said to Emma E. more like me, please love, more like me. . .

But coming to mind I wanted to tell Emma E. that once at a function an out of breath congressman’s wife asked me how do you appear so well put together every time I see you Ronnie,  with all you have to do?  Such good taste!

And when I told that lifetime mate of mine what she said he did not believe me!!  Emma E.  I want to tell you,  this grandmother great only speaks of what is true.  And this photo of you tells me you are mine.

I can hear you say to your Grumps,  this son of mine who is your adoring grandfather,  he sees you in your unbelievable honesty.  And probably like me,  cannot believe even yet that he is the recipient of this gift that has landed squarely on his heart.

I have lamented many times my one regret is that we did not laugh enough in my lifetime,  and especially when  our boys were growing up.  Circumstances were not often kind and time was limited.  But there were many occasions where laughter would have made the lessons less difficult.

And the heavens heard me and said we will send you a package of laughter to be opened daily and her name will be Emma E.

So the fun began once the footing was secure.  You have been a good teacher of laughter and have caused your families hilarious moments.  You not only have taught tightly crafted psyches to break a little into whoops and hollers but also have opened arms to much love.

Your great, great grandfather, my father in law, paid me the highest compliment ever when  he said he  finally knew what real love was when I married into the Hallissey family and became the mother of his beloved grandsons.  Your Grumps was his first grandson and you the gift cementing and laying yardage to connections on the mend.

It takes time and though generations may lag, eventually steps are taken and again we progress.  It takes an Emma E. to come
with a full package of love and laughter.  And directions with photos, how to slurp spaghetti the proper way to enjoy it fully!

(photo by Tresy Hallissey, grandfather of Emma E.)


Coming To The Sainted Day of Heart. . . .

They are such simple words but for some people to say the words will cost them dearly they think.  And yet to another,  their lives hang precariously they know if they don’t hear the words soon.    

When one speaks from one’s heart,  the Other intuitively must answer from one’s own, or not answer at all.     It takes courage to confront one’s vulnerabilities, or else one takes refuge with the dismissal  that it is all worthless drama.

As we approach the Sainted day of Heart,  this poem is for you.   I agree that you open yourself to some possible hurt but the greater possibility would be to close oneself to unbelievable happiness and pure joy.

To approach my ninth decade I say truthfully that pain does devastate but time softens it, but with happiness the Divine Within compounds with interest the joy remembered forever.  With what do you wish to be remembered?  Think it through.  Eternity is a long time.

She Says, He Says. . . .

She says,
speak to me!

He says,
I have nothing to say. . . . .

She says,
you can say I love you. . .

He says,
I look out for you, don’t I?
And help others every chance I can. . . .

And she says,
and everyone loves you but
what good to save the world when
your own house is falling apart?
We were told that, were we not?

Words mean a lot.
It is all we have
that connect us, one to the other.

He says,
no one ever said the words
out loud to me and I grew up.
So how important can they be?

And she says,
don’t I count?  Your heart is heavy like a rock.
Only by seeing what the past has done to us
can we change its direction.  And I see
your life long and worth the change.
But change direction only if you see your Self
deserving of this chance.  I say work it!

He says,
you think I will see a difference?

And she says,
you may really be surprised.  Really be surprised.


Choice Goods Are The Children. . . .

I was asked by a grandchild when I would start talking about how I write.  It was important that people understood the connection between worlds and they the youngest ones came with more open heads. The first work was almost 5 years ago and I will reprint some.  Because my readers now are familiar with my work and know what has been my experience,  I hope you read again with knowledge and your experience to see what is verified.  I see the stagnation of evolution being jettisoned  and maybe Peace on Earth can be a promise instead of a hope.

Choice Goods

I want to live long enough to see the children  born with more than the usual five senses come out of the closet of mind so they will be asked what they see and what they hear and what they think, especially what they remember.   And be looked upon as someone highly gifted and of high caliber.

And there will be a time when being however different will be accepted and not to be shucked away as an embarrassment.

To be held up as an example of ridicule from the time one becomes a subject of reason is not easy.   To need to monitor oneself from the time of kindergarten, always told to watch what one says destroys any spontaneity.   To be different than one’s siblings already puts the different child on the outside looking in.  The isolation of such a one is abhorrent.

We in the western world have a history of brutal force to show what dancing with spirits was all about.   In this country we have a sordid past from the time in Salem, Massachusetts which is still alive in many, many people.   They make circles with their fingers in the air when showing their unmerciful disdain for those who walk with one foot in other worlds.

Their palpable fear is employed dramatically in the removal of those who harbor any form of uncommon thought.   The devil for them is at their heels when one of these differences happens in their family. They become stone faced and do not stop at whatever means necessary to remove the offending behavior or even the person.

With a hundred billion planets floating about, how long will it take for people to yield to the fact that intelligence also lives on a planet or two or maybe all surrounding us?   That maybe we can exchange hello’s, just maybe?  And perhaps those about who have more than the usual five senses and whose heads and hearts are open to unknown worlds may teach us something?

We ask the question when a beloved hovers near their final breath and we hope there is a something beyond.   We should have been researching the first question which was from where do we come?

Even in the Nag Hammadi texts Jesus is asked by a disciple where it is we go when we die and he answered why worry where you go when you never asked from where you come.  A bit slow we are it seems.

Look to the child who asks the why’s and has invisible friends as he plays on the floor with his legos.   Or the daughter who serves tea to her dolls with significant names and converses with them in grown up language.   These children are choice goods.   They will one day create the world we hoped we would inherit.   They deserve our support.

And it is our sacred obligation to do so.


You Laid Your Heart On Me. . . .


There are more than a hundred of us who share in what I call the ‘jenny genes.’  I am neither boasting nor complaining because we all share faults as well as some victories,  though the latter have come with a price paid dearly.  And the faults have had a dear price also.

One of the maxims we were reared with was that if you see something that needs doing, (meaning work)  do it because you will not pass this way again.  Some ignored this, but most of my siblings lived with this.  It stopped my  heart  twice with cardiac arrest,  and nearing ninety, it prods me on not to just try like Yoda says, but do.

It is a hard way to live because it gives an excuse for others not to work because ‘you like to do that’ whatever the menial task is.  You are told they don’t want to spoil your fun by insisting on helping, not understanding you’re working toward a different horizon. Others are quick to take advantage.

My artist brother and I  in our later years bonded tightly in phone conversations nightly as sleep evaded each of us.  He took the Nazarene as his God and  I took him as Friend.  We agreed on principles, especially the one, ‘hearing you will hear and not understand and seeing you will not see.’  Our conversations often were shorthand script like, you know when you look at the gulley??  answered with oh yeah, you see it too, I know. . . . I know. . . .the birdsong?

He worked his art into the night after the farm  chores were done and I, my studies and writing long after my world slept.  He sculpted  with iron and metals of sorts and used a blow torch.  We worked to show a world where all was sacred because All was connected.  And love was the solder welding The All.  It had to begin with us and the children we hoped were the best of who we were.

If We Sing To the Children

I wear these memories
as a cloak to ward off the chill.
Emotions forgotten, but like new now
ripping along my arms,
settling bumps in straight rows to my heart.

Kindred hearts,  matching my own heartbeat,
with eyes like mine and reflecting our souls.
Music in voices saying,
‘and when I look at weeds beside the road. . . .
but you know,  you know. . . .’

And I do, I do and we look with eyes
that see and ears that hear the song
of the bird before his sounds have escaped his throat. . . .
and the music rumbles in our blood,
coursing through our hearts and gives life only
to those who are ready to listen.

Not many to be sure, not many,
but if we sing to the children perhaps,  just perhaps,
the earth’s cacophony will one day be in harmony.

It is our heritage; from where it is we come.
From the farm country I was given
a substance that does not spoil, that does not turn sour
even in the residue of life. It is not dregs that I drink.
It is the cream rising to the top of the milk.
I needed to see a skyline with no obstruction

and with no words you laid your heart on me.


Artwork by Claudia Hallissey


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