Archive | Poetry

Honed Beliefs Made Manifest. . .purpose of lives lived. . . .

A value system is what is honed by a lifetime or many lifetimes lived as beings,  and not necessarily only as the human that we know.  It can reflect lifetimes of worlds not visible to the human system of values or cognizance of them.  What the value system will show is what has been driven through the heart of one to become what it is they are, who it is they are.

A value system cannot be measured by words, nor can it be described by words.  We can say  we hold this  to be of worth but the meaning to each will differ.  What it cannot convey is what the individual’s heart holds as value.

When the values of one are betrayed by someone of worth to the individual, either by words or actions,  the eyes will tell you of the hurt the wrong has done.  Here again, that hurt to be felt by another, can be understood only when it is within the frame of cognizance, of reference.

Otherwise it will be a matter with little meaning and as easily dismissed as a flick of the wrist.  Or a shrug. Aaahhhh they will say, a nothing.  No big deal.  But a big deal it will be to the one afflicted.  It will be a devastation and it will tumble worlds that have taken lifetimes to construct.

Values are gifts we shoulder from one generation to another.  The thoughtful ones gather the cores of the worthwhile that enhances the growth of humanity.  It begins always within the four walls of where cognizance emerges.  It is a responsibility; it is a sacrament.

It is long past the time we treat it as such.

A Belief System. . . .

It is a belief system designed
to hold together an idea.
It floats, this idea,
in the Sea of Tranquility
where the I of me resides.

Someday I will suspend my belief
that holds me to this place
hiding my jewels.

It is a beautiful spot I have made
to hide those jewels and no one
will find them.

They will be forever hidden
in a place no one chooses to look;
the hearts and minds of those who love
this Earth with passion.
Surprised they will be to see
in the palm of their hand

the keys of the kingdom.                                                       

 

The Farm by
Kathy Rybacki Qualiani

The Brothers by Artist
Claudia Hallissey

0

A Divine Surprise. . .

 

You know what I was thinking I asked my younger this morning.  He grinned at me and one arm  with hand out flat swooped over his head and then bent to the floor palm out.  It meant to me that my explanations are hard to understand.  I laughed.

I was only going to say that we have found the right foods for our bear Newfoundland because he is smooth and silky and shiny and his eyes clear and bright.  Leroy is one beautiful dog who loves his buddy and is fond of his food lady too.

I am ponderous at times it seems but my humor follows the pattern of my explanations.  It takes work I guess to appreciate my puns.  But I try, really do.

I came across this poem this morning as a change of pace.  I laugh when I read it and hope you do too.  It was after I read a journal entry noting that one of my readers said she doesn’t even know the language I use nor the words and thoughts.

She reads and rereads until she feels the weight.  I am grateful.  She is close to the kingdom because she learns and therefore teaches.  I am the perennial student and worship learning.  Truly grateful I am for my readers.

Physically Unfit or a Divine Surprise. . .

I muse that a derrick would be useful
for lifting an aging body from a chair
to legs that buckle.

My heart catapults out of its
protective cavity and I observe it
resting carefully in my hand.
Only to feel it pound against the ribs
Adam had broken.

I remember answering a phone with a voice
breathless and sexy  as the once famous
Jean Arthur of my youth whom I imitated
by sleeping in front of an open window
in weather forty below.

On flat surfaces which children vacated
I play musical beds to silence
bones that creak.

Darwin is puzzled.
I should not be alive this day complaining
but rather quite dead.

I too, have questioned when entire species
have disappeared and I remain to complain.
But I have learned while he did not,
that the unfit do survive
while heaven still holds the sparklers.

Even to me, I am I find, a divine surprise.                                                                 

0

Conference With the Sages. . .

 

As  a good friend kept telling me,  circumstances alter things.  And as birthdays gather behind one, one seeks the comfort places.  And at the keyboard with the mind in long conversations with compatriots, companions, in conference and in prayer, it is a comfortable place for me.

I asked Jon Katz of BedlamFarm.com to recommend a book on Kabbalah since he quoted the religion often.  What I did not remember ever reading and did not know was that Kabbalah was the religion or practice long before the conforming Jews were praying.

It was a form where what we call Sages were gathering and chasing down their thoughts and giving gratitude for life.  One sees the connection in the first chapter of Genesis.  Upon their death they were able then to enter what was home.

The Sages when they died would be thought to be as in the next room.  They were as close as thinking could be and were visited.  Part of the Sages’ knowledge was that they could be visited in graves and could be spoken to and they would answer.

And I too, now sit and converse and religions call it praying as easily as I do right now.  The Divine Within is the I Am of the each.  We are in conference.

The Road to Damascus. . .

And Paul,
on the road to Damascus, unaware
of forces pulling at his thought,
was none the less surprised.

In the privacy of mind, how could
an invasion of thought not his own
be in conference?
So it is,  in the wars of the visible

and invisible worlds, the
supremacy for power does not stop.
Our worlds!  Claim the gods. . .
My world!  Claims the pilgrim. . .

One in partnership till man
tasted the lust for power.
Lest we lose this,
the best of all classrooms,

brotherhood is still the dream
and our hearts still too unripe
to embrace its benevolence.
But its power of magnetism

still attracts
what prompted this dream,
that catapults us
to give search to the meaning

to the why of us. . . .

0

Later Comes Too Late. . . .

 

Not now!  Later! . . . .

It is time to be reminded not to spend recklessly what we cannot recover.  It was a late night comedian we were watching and he was interviewing a married couple who were both American song stylists.  Already you know it was  some time ago.

 Asked how they stayed married for so long (over 25 years and had grown sons) she said,  we have never had an indepth conversation!  That was my generation’s lifestyle though not everyone’s choice.

This poem has words for those who would like sufficient time to put thoughts on the table to be picked up one by one and allowed to be heard to completion. But what is heard going out the door is, not now! Later! 

But later comes too late.

However long the night is. . . .

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.

 

(haunted forever by a photo such as this when time and place to talk were held sacred.  Where and when memory does not reveal.)

photo by John Holmes

0

The Spoken Moment. . .

The Spoken Moment . . .

There are moments rare in our shared history that are so special that they must be spoken aloud.  I have too often not spoken them, and I regret that.  Now I speak and they may inspire you to speak yours out loud.

We were sitting at the island between the kitchen and family room and chatting at dinner.  Grandson Josh was chef and ably slicing what he had just grilled.  He is our chef and just plain good.

We had come through some difficult times and I was grateful to be among family.  In my gratitude I blurted out I feel so at home!  And Joshua caught my words immediately with chin lifted and carving knife in air responded, you are home, Gram.  You are home!

And I knew we were on the same wavelength.  It happens and if we are swift to catch these moments, they are ours forever.

When they happen, it behooves us to be aware of them.  We know the child or children born to us who are more of one parent than the other.  Biology teaches though there is more of the grandparents in the grandchildren than parents, whether human or fruit fly.

So, when everything is in sync, working as it was and I felt at home, Josh responded from the same source as mine.  There have been other times in my life when I failed to exclaim my joy fearing to be embarrassing.

My gratitude goes out when feelings sweep over me for shared times.  My thank yous are profuse and not expected I am told but regrets are too burdensome for me.

A heart will respond in like manner when it speaks in truth, either in joy or sorrow.  It must.  The consequences are dire, truly dire, if it does not.  Because our names are attached, we must pick up our mistakes.

Owning them, we must repair, however long it takes.  Eternity is a long time, so consider it.

To Savor the Minute . . .

Could we take the time to savor
this minute and hold it close?

There will be more minutes but none
more special than this one.

It tells me that you treasure our friendship
to show our true feelings

that connect us, one to the other.
I will remember the marks on my life

you put there when you took time
to rescue the self I thought I lost.

Today I am whole.  Forever drawn as a heart
beating steadily as if with an inserted pacemaker,

but with gratitude transcending its beat.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

0

Its Own Amen. . . .

 

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. . . . .

 

Sometimes it takes awhile and then the words pick their own photo to illustrate their intention.  And I cannot find argument just awe.  VRH

2

Rituals and Habits, A Practice of Life. . . . .

Habits. . .

The thud of the back door
as it swings shut, the sound of keys
clinking to their place on the stairs,
tell me even in my sleep, that you are home.

Small things noted,
giving rise to habits observed,
a sense of ritual to a life filled with them.

We continue rituals,
for without them is lost our practice of life.
We continue  to do those things over and over,
for if we miss once, we may lose us
whom only we know.

And we do not trust ourselves enough
to know when a thing is good.

 

People differ in thought about rituals.  Many, who lean toward independence, prefer the spontaneity of their lives.  For me, whose head wanders worlds uncharted with no clock or linear times to claim my intentions, rituals are necessary to navigate a particular world.  It is good for me to note the changing seasons,  as it is to follow what the inhabitants are doing as the saying goes, in whatever world.

For some, rituals are compulsive and for those, they are an anchor. Habits show customs and rules for where I am.  Rituals begin my day and close it.  And allows my head the freedom to explore what piques my interest without boundaries.   Rituals have helped me be at home where I find myself.  And by adhering to them, I find myself welcomed.   

2

A Heart’s Commitments. . . .

 

 

A Given . . .

There comes to mind
in the space of time a leverage. . .
gaining for one a semblance of peace.

Silly, it sometimes is when the purpose
of life is to regain and reclaim this right.
It is of no consequence now in the sleeping hours

of a lifetime that knowledge becomes loose.
Here we sit and wait for life to be infused
but what is needed is simply to release

and be released.  For this time now. . . .
look to  the weaving of a lifetime’s pattern
and see the beautiful results

of a heart’s commitments. . .

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

. .

4

Painful Perspectives. . .

The tablet is yellowed and the typed pages, crisped with age.  The year is 1979 and I had to use my calculator to see that it is now 40 years old.  But yesterday I read in a brochure for a health magazine that one of its articles states that the brain does not know how old you are and nor does it care.

All it wants from you is stimulation to keep dementia at bay.  Well, since I have been told that I know not how to play like others but I consider it a luxury and play to do what I do when commitments no longer command, I can help out my brain.

I had just walked Princess, my German Shepherd and was doing an entry.

I felt I had mucked out my head by confronting problems but wondering from which perspective the confrontation comes.  Was it a pitying pearl or an honest one by excusing others and justifying myself?  I was 48 at the time, mother of three 20 something  sons in varying stages of crises with a part time job that had become 10 and 12 hour days.

And I had made a gargantuan decision to defy an arguing mate to leave the family business at the end of the year.  Whatever happened would and I would meet it best as possible.  With the kind of head sitting on my shoulders, a job dealing with other people’s money was not good for me.  I read the following. . .

(As I walked my steps ate up the sidewalk.  I looked at the tree shaded street and thought it was not the street I had walked hundreds of times before.  In the shadows the houses were not familiar and the street lights spatial and I wondered if Princess and I were walking in another dimension.  Could we be focused elsewhere?

The legs were walking and counting off steps with familiarity, yet the brain had difficulty identifying the street segment.  It wasn’t with relief that we reached the intersection with things familiar because somehow I knew we were correct in direction.  It felt truly that we had briefly catapulted elsewhere yet sweetly focused.

Or possibly a bridge I walked with a foot on either side?  Legs walking but much aware that all is not what appears to be.  And marvelously comfortable with these perceptions.)

This entry was the first I have come across with a description of how my head works in words to be read.  I may have written so previously, but these words jumped out.  Other times now come to mind and I wonder the survival and painful coping techniques of differing perspectives.

Couched Memories. . .

Memories couched in images
struggle to be freed
of the encumbrances that
stressful generations had chained in irons.

So glad for the mind eager
to struggle also, but for the knowledge
to set free the life of fear.

Reading into all chambers
the ultimate on freedom,
the mind of its own volition

listens to its own teacher.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

0

Everlasting Life: caterpillar to butterfly. . . .

In this spiritual week for us so inclined, memory is mine of those who have transited from my  life.  All my beloveds come to mind, but one incident from the children’s younger days stays with me with more clarity because of my path.

I was standing at the door of the room shared by the two older boys.  The eldest was working at the desk which was a veneer door on wrought iron legs to serve both. (memory details stay)  Our David was lying on his bed and his legs walking the wall which I have seen him do many times.

He was lecturing to us of his dreams.  I wish, he said, to be a star in the sky in some future where I can shine down and give energy to whoever needs it to live.  He was about thirteen or so at the time and I stood there absorbing this idea and wondering at this child.  I see the time vividly inked on my mind.

His was a different head on his shoulders.  Coming to mind also is a psychic friend in her seventies when she and I discussed again life after death.  She wanted to be whoever she was then forever because her identity was locked into who she was.  But then I said the caterpillar would never be a butterfly.

If a mushroom and a daffodil come up blooming life after life could she be right?  Or perhaps the mushroom one day becomes the daffodil?  Like the caterpillar becomes the butterfly?  I like to think I graduate after giving what I hope is my very best to these times.

There is time and space for all thought and life is kind to grant dearest wishes.  And fairly balanced for consequences to redo our calculated and unwitting behaviors.  That, too.

Taking the Nazarene as my Mentor through this life, I have pulled everything through my heart.  Which probably explains two cardiac arrests.  It has not been a walk in the park.

But I wonder if faith had been in my carpetbag would life been easier this time and then I think of a beloved whose life with heavy burdens and her faith been more bearable with a head like mine.

The Teacher said only my head would frame the question.

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.

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

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

 

0

Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes