Archive | Poetry

No Place To Go. . .

 

I was told that what is done for one will be done for all.  Meaning for me that when one does something unusual or different, the potential exists then for all.  And this is how progress becomes a sure thing for civilization.  Evolution takes a step, sometimes a baby step, but it is forward.

There are others who have experience in matters not common.  I have kept notes on dreams and researched my experiences.  I could not speak openly and was cautioned much because of public circumstances.  Times are different and I speak for the children who are different. 

There are babies now being born who have been mentored and if they are fortunate and have support they will teach the lot of us from where they come.  In the Dead Sea Scrolls a disciple asked Jesus where we go when we die and Jesus answered, why do you ask when you never wondered where you came from?  He also said the ‘the twig is bent’  and religions don’t mention apriori, before we are born.

Most assume that all is formed after birth but every parent knows each child comes already predisposed.   My exasperated mother would gladly have told you about me.

No Place To Go. . .

Your words are strong my eldest says. . . .
and the road made accessible
for the rest of us.  No need I say, no need.
You will do what is yours to do
in your own way.

The road is closed with wooden horses
barring the way, not for repair
but because a new road is laid.

My Mentor said what is done for one
is done for all. . .so the heavens made bet
it would never be done but it seems
there was the surprise.  It is done.

They say they give an inch and I take a mile.
My verbiage is clear.  My focus enables focus
in boundary-less places as I weave
in and out of black holes and wind drifts
to find myself welcomed.

I have friends all over who wait
except where I am.  Here I am different
and in this place to be different puts one
on the outside looking in.  They do not know
where I am coming from.
My vernacular is not theirs and

I have no place to go with what I know.

 

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In Thanksgiving. . .Because it is. . .

Sometimes I look upon past work and see a new perspective, a new meaning.  And sometimes I cannot remember the person I was who wrote the poem or prose.  It is someone who has made up a portion of who I am and I bring her to the work I read today.  And I am all who I am, what I was and who I am becoming.  That someone I become will surprise me I am sure.

There will be more differences noted not only the physical ones all see.  The subtle changes may seem minute but large to me.  Glimpses are given embracing memories long faded but now gaining form.  Life lived with dedication to commitments leaves few regrets.  And what were considered obstacles now become mountains that have been climbed successfully. 

We are in the midst of a vast universe.  Vast.  And we are more than what we appear.  Our connection to All That Is is real and wondrous.  I bend at the knees easily.  In Thanksgiving.

Because It Is. . .

You cannot dream things that never were
for in a sometime and a somewhere
they’ve taken place and left their indelible memory
on your mind.

Only to be remembered when a slim shadow
casts its spell across your life
and causes you to bring forth a relic,
a piece of the dream that had its substance
in a far time when love was pocketed
near your heart and brought forth to heal
a wound, to make life complete.

Never to question why or why not.
Simply because it is.

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I Will Speak. . . .

I Will Speak. . .

I sometimes envy those who chose to come to this Earth having adopted a religion or a way of life to concentrate on what lessons needed to be learned or just to enjoy life.  It is only delaying what must be done eventually, and that is to confront the history either chosen or mandated.  It will need to be done sometime and I give what blessing we each have, and give profusely.  It is a damnably hard work.

This poem, ‘I will speak’ was a Given, as much of my work has been.  The footwork was mine, every step of the way.  It was not my intent to post this particular one, but when my eyes saw it this morning, immediately was given the artwork done possibly 35 or 40 years ago when I was deep into the journey augmented by Claudia’s art work from about two years ago.  I could see the two pieces spoke the meaning of the poem. 

I leave the meaning to the reader bringing his or her own history.  My explanation would need explanations profuse.  We all are more than we appear and I have used up whatever bundles of energy lying about unclaimed.  I have picked these bundles up like an alley picker to bring me to this time crowding a century.  It’s your turn.

I Will Speak. . .

I will speak of the membrane
covering tightly the beginning
where memories are housed.

It is with comfort I see
in my head and feel in my heart,
spaces where I walked and talked
and hungered for Light.

It is a thin film covering
the foetus of memories
rolled up with bony knees
pressing my heart.  From where?

Except that place or places
I was cautioned about for being out too far.
I brought them with me, dressed
in pulverized skin that became coats for us
always too loose,

but garments we grew into as man.                                          

 

poem written in May 2013
Claudia Hallissey heart art
(my infant on wood plaque )

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Full Circle. . . .

I at first thought that everyone can do anything.  But later realized that somewhere, someone has to show by example something that strikes home with another.  A something that is meaningful to another.

That will be of value to him or her.  Then when something comes up there will be an instant where there will be only one course of action and it will be the correct one for them.  And that will be the beginning of a value system that will guide all action.

And then you will have the beginning of a philosophy being built.  And then we go for home.

The Farm Woman. . .

Woman of the Earth, you are loved.
You gather the fruits of your labors
to your bosom and feed the children.

You’ve inched your way along the dusty path
with back bent in great fatigue
and cultivated the rows yielding wise fruit.

You would feed out of your mouth
those you think hungry and then beyond measure.
The fruits are the heart of your labors,
the harvest of your mind’s philosophy,
spilling indiscriminately.

Who is left to feed you, farm woman?
What commissary is left open
to feed your hungry soul after hours?

What bookstall will house the words
between stiff covers to increase your harvest?
Labor, till the sun closes its blinds on the day.
Restless legs will speed you through the night

to find the bins ever full.

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Imagine. . .the godmen. . . .

 

Not many understand the full meaning of unconditional love.  By being kind and thoughtful, loving and caring, can these be given without ulterior motive?  To many these things given unconditionally speak of a people eater.  To some this loving seems conditional because by loving so you intentionally will demand some kind of response. 

This is a big lesson to learn.  That someone could love you because of who you are and not demand a piece of you.  Unconditional love is given from abundance.  Conditional love is an oxymoron.  You cannot give what you cannot spare.

If spoken from what cannot be spared, it will demand a piece of you.  Like a pound of flesh.

Love is not earned by physical acts.  There is nothing required from unconditional love but much given.  For the just reason that love is not earned by doing something but because you see in the individual what he himself does not.

You give from what you are.  From abundance.  You give from what you have because it was  a Given to you at some time.  Someone you respected saw you for whom you were and loved you.   All that was required was to accept it. 

Most do not know how to accept unconditional love.  A catch to it?  The only catch is feeling worthy of this gift.  Who first told us we were not worthy?

Conditional love shifts.  Unconditional love remains steady.   And benefits all whom you come in contact.  Imagine a world where love is an evolutionary step.  Just imagine the godmen.  Imagine.

Abundance. . .

In my abundance, I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
This love shackles you not
nor binds you tightly in chains.
It gives you freedom to soar
where your spirit wills
and in the same abundance
finds you winging back to me.

Run quickly from a love
which possesses by need.
Its momentary satisfactions
bind you to a life of servitude.
Its very negation of freedom
murders the giver and the recipient.
Love beckons not out of desperation,
but out of abundance.
It is life, calling to life.
It is life, begetting life.

Come to me,
when in your abundance
you would find annihilation in not giving.
When in your joy of living
you would find death in not loving.

Come to me then.
For in my abundance I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
And in our communion,

the Spirit lives.

 

art by Claudia Hallissey
Poem Abundance in Psalms of Love
available on Amazon

 

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Life Anywhere Is Our Destiny. . . .

 

Life Anywhere Is Our Destiny. . .

It is sweet breathing the elixir of rarified air and to be alive anywhere always is our destiny.  Life is everlasting.  We seem to forget that in the midst of making a living.  It is necessary knowledge in making a life.

The Master said suffer the little children to come and we suffer as they refuse to grow up.  Somehow to continue the playthings of the child is thought to be appealing and charming and essential to enter heaven if there was one.

As a result we see no progress being made where growth is necessary for the betterment of mankind or peace amid cultural differences.  We see ‘king of the mountain’ and ‘my god is better than your god’ still the games of the big in body children.

The Master spoke from a knowledge which was written in blood and bowed only to his greater self, a participant to the becoming of the Greater Mind.

The Our Father, Otche Nash of the Universe is the glowing ascent of man’s bowing to the Greater Mind.  All minds contribute to the vastness of it.  All input is regarded of major dimension.  We contribute to the All in All.

It is time that man sees what it is he contributes.  He is here to grind out a living from rock.  He is here to chisel an understanding with mallet in hand.

He has to grow up and be accountable.

A Truth. . .

I was told
that life is everlasting,
everlasting and everlasting.

And when my mind and my heart
and the fabric of who I am
accepted this statement,
I found I was very tired.

But I am reminded that still to come
are worlds of promise, whose substance
I have only glimpsed.

I, too,  remember my eagerness to taste of the apple.

 

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Great Songs Will Be Sung. . . .

 

 

We need to come to a place now and again when it is necessary to find a mind matched to ours so we can for all purposes say all that is heavy on our hearts.  With no explanation necessary because our route has been followed step by step;  to hear the words,  I held your heart in my hand for safekeeping and here it is, whole. 

And in a whisper would come the words,  I thought it fractured beyond repair!   We are embraced knowing instantly that we were not abandoned to do it alone. 

We prepare then to venture another time to come with the sweet knowledge that great songs will be sung again.

Great Songs Will Be Sung. . .

Should you find the need
to tell your story in words,
think mightily on them and
they will be caught up
in the air’s currents and carried
on the birds’ wings.

They will reach the ears
they were designed for.  You will find
that you are not alone in this universe
and you will be heard.

And when the thoughts reach
the places in the heart of an Other

great songs will be sung again.                                      

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Sometimes From a Distance. . . .

 

Sometimes From a Distance. . .

I recently told my readers that I would post the fisherman’s hat which I knit with thick and burly yarn.  Aging plays havoc with arthritic fingers and new ways have to be found to do the things I once found great pleasure in doing. 

Or told myself that I was contributing to mankind’s evolution by holding conference with the sages long forgetting what contemporary earth life was like.  I knitted in various colors shapes of sweaters and mittens and socks, waiting for loves to come home from whatever dreams they were dreaming. 

An aged one was asked how she became so wise when her life could not afford formal education.  She simply said, I knit.  And they who know don’t speak and they who speak, don’t know.  It has always been thus.

Once one sat hunched with crooked fingers and heavy thread boiled in herbal waters, subtle as the earth was, and knit the garments that did not pretend other than keeping out the cold.  Her thoughts were in conference with the sages and questioned what plagued her mind. 

And I sit here now questing still because the hunched back of one sat and with gnarled hands knitted into my mind those questions centuries before me.  And I am grateful.  The quarter inch progress in evolution has my progeny accessing what I could not.

Because I know. . .

I see worlds in motion, taking a portion
of each one’s talent for their own survival.

This is what I do with my hands,
this motion of knitting yarns to form a piece
of world to fit the mind of an elusive soul.

See here, I, content in what I do, I free a soul to do
the Great God’s bidding
in keeping only one world in motion.

See again. . . I give of my Self in this time,
to free an Other to build what may be
the perfect Universe or many.

So content, this that is mine to see, a great plan,
a strategy, unheard of.  It may not be for centuries
that my knitting fingers will alert the senses
of a soul to keep in motion, a Life, a Being, an Idea.

Sit here with me. . . and show my hands what to do
and they will do. . .The task, so simple will gather
other talents and make for itself
the grand design, futures down the line.

A bidding the nature of what
has never been seen before.
I know it and because I know,

you will know it also.

 

(Modeling the fisherman hat is Mela , our
newest addition to our family.)

 

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The Great Ahhhhman. . . . .

Your Answers Will Be Sufficient. . . .

The path to understanding the other is begun by understanding ourselves.  When we begin the inward path to self knowledge, we can then view ourselves with compassion and then view others with compassion.  All knowledge is applicable to the self.

It is not worthy of the name if we use it to manipulate and maneuver the other.  Then it is a game and all the world knows this game.  It is played all the time and with huge stakes.  Insight implies that the sight will be applied inward.  If it is not, it becomes manipulative of the other.

It is said that some individuals take everything personally.  That is why we have Earth Life.  If it cannot be applied inwardly and used for growth, of what purpose is it.  Granted, some things are just for fun.  But laughter, genuine laughter cleanses the toxic wastes from swollen glands.  It is good and refreshing  to be able to laugh at oneself.

It is only the secure one who can afford to sing in the shower and to yodel with the grandest opera shows a security not too many demonstrate.  To be able to take life lightly displays a growth not to be measured in the local currency.  It is the individual who has gone the route  and has placed things in their proper perspective.

It is only with inward growth can we see that life is not a death matter, that our selfhood does not depend on the trends of the moment, that our lives do not depend on what importance the world credits but what our own premises are.

Who we are, what we are, where we come from and to where we go is not adolescent fare.  It is the meat of our lives and the wine of our maturity.  To understand the why of ourselves, why am I, is the beginning.   It is not downhill all the way but to those who reveal themselves, to them it will be revealed.

To be able to say I know and am known is a beginning of the long trek homeward.  You will not be destroyed but you will construct on solid ground with secure footings.  Shifting sands will not trouble you and your own eternal why is on the way to being answered.

Your answers will be sufficient for you.

 

(excerpt from The Rib Cage. . . )

For in that place in you
which rocks with pain
and fills the night with cries,
we hear. . .

There is no thing that fails
to place itself forever in the Universe.
All is seen, all is heard and from
the rib cage housing the great heart,
the ethers carry

the great Ahhhhh Man. . . .

 

art by Claudia Hallissey

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A Convocation of Saints . . .

 

Not Fun and Games. . .but in communion . .

My eldest in a conversation at one time spoke of the torture of those given knowledge in the inner journey.  He said there was no one with whom to share what has been given so they drag in nobility aspects of it.  He was a young man then and he was right.

The need for physical arms around one is not lessened in the light of cosmic awareness.  If anything it points up painfully how few there are who share or can share in this journey.  It points up even how very few there are who know of what we speak.

The desire to clasp hands across the table with a like mind is so intense that the desire is quickly dismissed with uttered arguments.  Yet they are just moments.

One learns to walk in communion with invisible friends and these times do make the empty house full.  I walked through those rooms with warm woods and the empty house was full.  The voices of long ago loves occasionally break through and ears ache from pressures of invisible friends.  There is a convocation of saints and the company of good minds still present.

I can throw back my head and laugh at a thought co-mingling with mind and know the presence of a kindred spirit.  You have too and to the questioning glances of those standing by explain. . . ‘a thought just struck me funny’ . . .and wish they were such good friends with themselves to be able to laugh out loud.

I can weep with unstoppable tears at ancient anguish hidden within centuries of genetic history.  I am given love and have the capacity to love the Spirit within me and to love the Spirit and struggle of the Other.  I am pieced and peace-d.

And in the company of those who love, I rest.  It is a way station.  The journey is unending.

The Welcome. . .

Come, we walk.  Take my hand.
Lean on me for a time to gain
a respite for a work unending.

I stand by you, ready
to catch you if you fall.
My arms are steady and ready.

I will not stumble, so do not be afraid.
It has been a hard journey
and you tire.

I’ve stood the watch and marveled
at your tenacity, your perseverance.
Though you faltered, you stood upright

without hesitation.  Now breathe easy
for a job well done.  No one
could have done it better.

Welcome to the winner’s circle.
It was worth the run. . . .don’t you think?

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