Archive | Poetry

We Will Talk Again. . . .

We Will Talk Again . . .

We will talk of philosophy and
we will talk of poetry again like
. . . .once upon a yesterday. . . . .

We will talk of people and beings
whose lives are woven tapestries
of great wonder. . . .

And we will again grace the lovely work
of the Great God and say. . .

We walk beneath the wings of him
who holds us all together. . . . . .

 

(artwork by Claudia Hallissey)
(poem from journal entry July, 2013
but all time is now)

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When you are the ‘only’. . . it takes just one. . .

So Who Cares. . . Nobody I guess. . .

Except you do. . .
All it takes is just one I hear,
to look for the sun to rise each morning. .
to look at the moon at night and wonder,
where home is. . .
to keep the world turning on its axis.

Just one to hear the promise that
the rose will bloom in December
along the fence, in the dead of winter. . .
to have the promise true. . .
and the world to hold its shape.

To have just one
to care enough to rail
and fill the hunger for love
of just one child harbored to the grave
clinging in the aged body, still . .

Brains and body parts halt in growth
except to make another just like themselves.
But who cares?  You do.

The Teacher said . . suffer the little children,
tolerate them for he gave unsparingly
of himself to assuage the Unmerciful God
from the first book, though for untold centuries
mankind tried to gain tender mercies.

The greatest hurdle. . the Everest to climb
is the not knowing.

Are you the ‘only’ who cares?
You think you are not so different. . .
like others?   And they care too?
Not sure but you
might be the ‘only’ who cares. . .

to feed and nestle the babe
before you turn off the light,
. . . someone needs to stay the night . .

but who else cares  . . . enough?

 

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

 

 

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When Each Day Is A Victory . . . and our hands touch. . . .

Oftentimes we wish for words to say the wonderful phrase, that gives motive or impetus to a frame of mind that catapults our committed to things of highest value.  Yet there may be no words to say what needs be said.  What is upfront is already between the eyes.

I remember looking in the mirror angrily because it was not the girl I saw yesterday, but my mother.  And the mate looks at himself when shaving one morning or swiping his beard and he says to the image in the mirror, I am my father.  And with anger, hopefully not the same morning, sitting across from each other you both concur your irritating premises.

On further thought the day yields to brighter things and sitting again at the table there is a comfortable presence.  The presence says to us that we have shared a number of years and have come through bruised and slightly jaded but agile still.

With the number of things needing time these days,  each day is a victory, however small.  I remember the times I prayed to pick up someone’s discarded victory.  My need for one even discarded was so great,  I would chase a throwaway.

We change into faded sweats and sandals and sit and do what the old folks did when we were young.  Now since we are them, the fit of it all when shared says we are good, aren’t we lucky?  And our hands touch.

As I Am. . . in faded sweats . . .

Love me as  I am
for I can be no other.
It is not that talk is unwanted, but
have not all our allotted words been said?

Time now just for silence, a shared one, for
the years add up and there is no time for Others. . .

It is time for Being. . .

There is a time to accept
all that we have become
through years of arduous labor.

Not time for keeping up nor caring to . .
to someone’s elusive measure.
A time not to apologize for
our faded sweats and sandals.

We dress for the street to be seen
but this time now is private.

And being shared, are we not fortunate?

So much the better to love each other
and find us more than all right.
To say I’m good with no apology

. . . because we are.

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Ideas. . the power behind the horse. . .

This is from a journal entry shortly after my cardiac arrests.  Again I mention since my head works in quantum physics,  it is as yesterday.  The scribing is as true today because time is our measure, the measure our planet works with.  I had been slothful I wrote because I read immersed in family sagas for relief from the physical maintenance work.  Also I had word of a heart friend who was hospitalized and being moved to a facility with more state of the art machines and died enroute.

I was weeping on the phone to my younger and he said ma, she had an offer she couldn’t refuse.  That doesn’t make me feel any better, John I wept.  But he was right.

We think anyone leaving us no matter when, is too soon.  Yet the very young have fulfilled destinies we  probably cannot understand nor give credence to.  And the very old we see clinging to life like Hera to a love lost.

Sunday school for adults may look upon this entry with interest tomorrow.  Give it some thought.

I scribed the following. . . Oftentimes people say that a soul is dispensed before its time.  But this is not the case.  For we work on many levels and because we do, when the purpose of our existence has been served, we then are free to move on.  Notice how that term is used.  Free to move on.  Not tied anymore.  Not tied to anyone or anything.

Physical life gives the illusion  of permanence and material things, items, give the appearance of being in a finished or unfinished state.

This is to give continuity to physical life.  This is the linear measurement which is necessary to prevent a chaotic mind.  For it is far easier to deal with permanence in a positive material mode than it is to deal with nuances or illusions or concepts.

Yet ideas , concepts are just as real, just as permanent, if not more so than the so called material or permanent things which indeed decay with rust and rot.  But ideas are clear items, they are undying.  They may disappear for a time, but reappear when the time may be more precise.

Concepts are pie in the sky many think.  Yet concepts are to be grasped, grasped to be used to build a life on.  For that is all we have in mind when we come to earth.  We have an idea, a concept and proceed to chisel it to make it permanent or concrete.  A something to be touched.  A something that can be handled.  Yet the concept with its energy and power is the permanent thing.

It is the power behind the horse.

excerpt from His Purpose. . .

My God, he said
when first he saw himself in light of day.
Hidden with full knowledge was Creator,
Implementer of  dreams
gathering raw data to circumvent
the mind’s illusions.

My god, he said
and picked up the mallet
with his own hands

to chisel his own destiny.

(poem written 1980/81)

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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Among the earth’s persons. . racing toward his truth. . .

 

We were sitting at dinner on the Farm visiting with my beloved burly brothers.  I had been the first sister amid 5 brothers born and never doubted their love.  They were my introduction to the world of men and they could do everything. And when I first talked with words of meaning, I announced my intent to marry them all and be their slave!  I think I was about five years old when I stated my premise.

At that dinner, my brothers were talking about what they did to help, the meaningful work of life.  And when they got to the fledgling newly wed they asked what do you do?  In a loud voice he proclaimed. . .I pay the bills!  And a thoughtful response from my quiet brother. . . that is the easy work.  The hard work is within four walls.

And my life of nearing the century mark in a decade taught?  That the hardest job in the family is on the premises as parents.  That it was with cosmic intention birthing would be the extension of the mother’s heartbeat and the father’s process would be the soothing open hand on the child’s brow in love.  This was the paving way to brotherhood among the earth’s persons.

Both would be required and life would be lived with promise and the living made with talents sorted.  Where the talents the world used would be the living made and home where children reared with love.

In this new country settled by immigrants, life would try on and keep trying on the many ways to make a living and a life.  We still are in process for a more better fit.  With working it out, transitional methods are tried and in flux.  But we continue with hope to work hard.

The caring, the uniting, the intention of belonging to the greater humanity was what being human was all about.  Before going on to other worlds, we must learn to accept and respect the differences in ours.

Life everlasting  means that chances are given in many worlds for Beings to work on themselves, to bring forward the good within each.  We were told of fields ready for ploughing and farmers needed to feed mind and body.

Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms and this is but one of them.

It Is Said. . .

It is said that the heavens
care not what goes on the world stage.

It is too late to change
the outlines of a world gone mad.
But here. . .

Within four walls are children
eager to eat the bread
of the parent gods
to feed hungry minds.

Those the heavens note,
for  within these walls
is the outline for peace
on the next stage.

And here, the nurturer, the feeder,
will be given what is necessary
to begin the new world,
the brotherhood of man,

that could not be dreamed
with the old man’s dreams.

 

sculpture by Stanley Rybacki

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Is However Long We’ll Talk. . . Psalms of Love. . .

 

However long. . . .

Coming into a chosen family will be what someone will call a misfit.  And the label will stick.  This often is a child with a need to know everything and talk.   There will not be anyone to listen.  Because there will be other children, work to do, buses to catch, and excuses given on the spur of the moment.

I don’t have time to listen will be the mantra.  And the child grows to be adult with the need still unfulfilled.  Because in the course of life, there will be work and school, meetings and planes to catch and television.  Now of course we add hand held devices.

The need continues in those born with the desire to learn and talk but there is no matching soul with a similar need. The sweet hours of the night are filled with the best conversations, though silent they be.  No matter the fatigue of the soul, the mind conversations are filled with wonder and appreciation.

I awoke with the words, however long the night is,  and wondered perhaps I read them someplace.  Years of research never found them anywhere.  It proved to me again,  that we are not abandoned.    It is included in Psalms of Love. . .   get it for the one you love. . . .

However long. . . .

However long the night is,
is however long we’ll talk.
A tongue dismembered from its throat
is punishment too severe to be humane.

It has taken a life of silence
to filter through its members;
lessons enough for the toughest skin to break.

I have marched with your words
through endless tasks,
through nights not filled with magic.
And heard the harangue from compressed lips
tearing even the plea of forgiveness from Me.

Now I promise.
In the stillness of the life you know
I will come for you. In the light of the night
I will make my way
and no walls will bar my entry.

I will sit the night and across the table
a hand will clasp the one you call your own.
And in the magic of words spoken
I will listen to the story built
to house lives of wonder.

It has taken too long.

And we, the each, will speak and listen
and as the words flow like rivers
toward their delta, in ribbons of courage,
we will stay the night.

And however long the night is,
is however long we’ll talk.
July 1987

 

(photo by John Holmes)

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It Is A Fact. . . Know It. . .

 

Believe because it is true. . . . .

As we approach Valentine’s Day, to all who are bereft and do not or have not known love, what is missed is something you have known somewhere at some time else you would not know you miss it.

One day it will be yours again.   It will be a Given and you will know it because your name will be on that Valentine and you will be cherished for who you are .  Without conditions.  Because what is seen in you and cherished is what you do not see. 

That is what makes you so special.   Why the world does not see this obvious part of you  baffles the heavens. It is a love you have known and matches what is in your heart.  

 You will broach the heavens this night and take a walk through the Galaxy and swing through the stars.   You will see again the love you embrace in your heart and know that forever you have had arms to enfold you.   Never were you abandoned.  Never.

One day you will feel the familiar fit of those arms again.  For however long as necessary.  This poem is for you.

This Valentine Heart . . . 

I lay my heart crimson in splendor
beneath the branches on fresh fallen snow                                                     
open to my god. . . .

Here it is I am with  all that I’ve gathered;
completed to form just what you see.

The flakes have scattered in splendid ways
to carpet the floor as bed for my heart.

Pick it up if you please but handle with care.
Sorely I need, a tender touch.

Life has tested me to rare form.
I worked it all like Job and wanted not to fail.

See, this Valentine heart laid splendid on
the floor of the forest but  loved to the ultimate

by the god whose creation I am.

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My God Watches Me. . .

I had a journal entry I looked at that had hostility levied on differences in us and I thought it time to look at what unites as human beings.  It is a simple character attribute.

When we were children our parents expected we would be truth tellers.  We were asked the simple question. .  brushed your teeth?   The second question followed.. . .  why is your toothbrush dry?  We learned to tell the truth.

I was working with a lot of resentment one day unloading groceries in front of the house when a car pulled up and a young woman wanted to know where was a certain address.   She had underpaid a woman for an item at a garage sale and needed to make good on that.  She left and I continued with my task.

She returned and waved.  And thanked me and I said it was such a nice thing to do.  She said she must because My God Watches Me .  I looked at the open young face with a scarf hiding her hair and aware the hostility making heavy the air we breathe and the prejudiced perceptions circling.

While I had too many things to do and again at fault for being late,  I would have to admit my  resentment adding to the heaviness of  the air we breathe.   I did not share her belief system, but the Divine Within us both shared our humanity.  Time to make good on that.

MY GOD WATCHES ME. . . 

Over and over I create and recreate
situations and ordeals, arguments and wars
with symbolic enemies, but sometimes not.
I must of need watch my responses,
my actions and motives lest my
God think less of me.

So I spare my God further
annoyance by monitoring myself.
The situations and ordeals are best kept in mind.
I articulate my position to establish myself
several times in the course of a day.

The wars and arguments are pacified, only after
words become too tiresome to continue.
Peace becomes the only option.
I work toward perfection and a hard work it is.
As anyone who knows me would agree.
It is necessary though, you see,
for my God watches me.

I watch-dog my actions and harness my tongue
and change hurtful thoughts with labored caring.
It means I reconsider my earnest evaluations
of mine enemies and present the other cheek.

I prepare myself for sainthood
while I breathe the rarified air of my benign earth.
And watch myself as my God watches me.
Not so easy to do, this monumental work
of sanctification.

Of my internal warts and
grievous errors,  I am deeply conscious.
But perhaps I prevent them
from penetrating my soul
as long as I keep close the knowledge

that my God watches me.

 

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

 

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Lest We Forget . . .

I was sick to my stomach.  I had trouble breathing .   I had to stop before I had another cardiac arrest.  Hearing of the harsh brutality inflicted upon the Jews made me vomit when I was ten.    Studying the holocaust nearing a lifetime of ninety years had the question continuing,   why one man with such an evil idea of hatred started a war of blood and extermination only with the power of thought.

And a world of people praying for peace, desired peace and yearning  brotherhood  could not bring power to their idea.  Yet the power of one man’s thought to destroy cannot be overcome by worlds of
love for brotherhood?  Not one man nor group of theologians, officials, countries, institutions, not one religion to stop this evil course to destroy civilization?

We must question our belief systems.  We must look at what indeed gives impetus to our lives so that when we are against the wall and cannot move an inch, we buckle.  Why our judgment is so faulty as to allow power and greed to destroy and maim not only those who are living, but by trauma, Loves, trauma, where the psychological damage to our genetic heritage is irreversible.

It is passed through the genes and what we have are those of us whose memory is so deeply etched that living again will be those who will demand an eye for an eye.  No matter how far down the line we go.  No matter how far down.

It is through education that we reach the heart of man.  We must teach the children and be the example we wish to teach.  Only when we exhibit and are a living testament to love and tender mercies,  can we reach the hearts that waver.  The warm hand of the father on the brow  of the child, and the beating  heart in the breast of the mother in time with the child, will teach where words do not reach.

It must be done before exiting the front door to kindergarten.  Hold their hands while you can. Yet.  Still.

A sorrow hushed. ..the holocaust. . 

 My ears cleaved to the door frame
of the dining room. Her whisper was hoarse,
were there many?
Lots, he said, lots, as he held the letter
that told him what they saw.
They pushed for space, women and children
and their men. They wanted to see. 
My people saw he said.

Their words burned my brain
as I strained to listen, afraid I wouldn’t
catch a sorrow hushed.  It didn’t last long
he said, because they fell.  Matko Bosko she said.

Remember our history he said.   
As if that could explain what I heard.
And I knew the god they called
upon to save them from whatever they feared.
He whispered again, somehow trying to
make this horrid time an all right matter.
My people saw them, he kept saying.

And I loved those parents who made things
seem right yet what my heart knew was evil
and my head fought them and argued
till I would vomit.  We would go
into holy week and pray just as
my cousins across the waters who saw
what was done went back to their tables
and supped as if nothing had happened.

These were friends and relatives
whose prayers were different and
they said that made them different than us.
And the us that I was born into made me
ashamed and sick to my stomach and kneeled
in front of the toilet and emptied my shame
washed with the tears of I am so sorry
and threw up all of my ten years

and so went my trust.    

(How could it happen, how?  It is such a gentle culture,  so soft and warm.  Weronika, moya serce, Weronika,  ja cie  kocham. . . Veronica, my heart, Veronica, I you love. . .a girl, at ten and she weeps still.  The Polish culture is love embraced and so vivid was Winter Journey and Mosaic by Diane Armstrong that they will companion me and forever haunt. . )

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Under The Wings. . . .

 

Psychic phenomena is truly memory.  It is memory from another time and place.  When my mentor, the Nazarene, spoke of talents and told multitudes to increase those, to me he spoke of being open and working with what was within.  He also spoke of what moth and rust do not destroy which are things of the mind.

Not material things, but ideas, things learned that hold us in good stead for worlds we will enter.  Man was closer to his Source  than he would ever be again.  There were things man did easily and with no hesitancy because it was commonplace to do them.  To some, things were magic but to others it was simply a knowledge of principles at work.

To turn water into wine, to walk on water, or to be able to feed multitudes with scarcity of bread are discredited by those as a turn of phrase.  That there are principles of illusion at work or the knowledge of them, are quickly dismissed.  But there are worlds where these principles are at work and those who come to birth in Earth soon learn to hesitate in using them.

The fear of ridicule is great and history of our own Salem, MA is still uppermost in the memory of the most vulnerable.  There are others who do not relish the intent of memory.  That they are painful and confronting means immense work.  They simply are not cognizant of the rewards.  Yet memory is what composes us all.

In order for no rip or dichotomy in us, there must be a sifting and sorting to gain courage to stand and say what we remember.  We are recognized by a parent or both that we are different.  And most of us were told by parents or by the church that to dabble in spirits is the work of the devil.  And Salem took care of those we learned.

Hard going for those of us who could not silence the memories or the remembering.  Labeled too smart for your own good, or worse, who do you think you are, are levelers of the soul.   The sadness lies in the fact of innocence and naivete, in the not knowing that these are gifts of supreme talent and high caliber.

Levelers are employed to keep one in place.  This too, we learn and carry with us and make better choices.

Consider This. . . 

What makes you think we do not use
a worker who thinks and injects
new thought in old ways?

What makes you think we would let loose
the likes of you in a world for frolic,
for nothing more than waste?

We look for farmers for the vineyards,
for the fields needing seed,
for feed, for thought, for starving minds
as well as bodies.

Where we put you is in a place of value,
of your talents, of your loves, of your
sweet thoughts feeding the children of all ages.

How else to sweep clean the Father’s house?

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