Archive | Poetry

A World Made Manifest. . . .

 

If it was a certainty that world creation was a fact, what kind of world would you create?  If you knew for a fact that your acts upon days upon days created just such a world, how would you change your behavior?  And what would be the attributes you would enhance that world with?

What kind of world would it be?  You think it would be different from where you are now.  It would be filled with actions that would not break hearts by words or deeds   .  It would be filled with responsibility because loving carries responsibility for who and what you love.  Children would be born of love and wanted for the best of what each parent was.  And considered a sacred commitment.

Children will learn early that actions have consequences.  There will be high standards and they will be considered the norm.  There will be values carved out of your heart and experience.  It will be a world of moral values and high hopes and the joy of learning.

And to sustain life,  all systems will adhere to functions that steward the world and Nature in harmony.  It will be a place of growth and it will be matched by those whose values are similar. 

This is the world of your graduation dreams.  One day it will be a fact we work toward because our father’s house has many rooms.  But we were told that but did not know we were all in the creation business.  How special will your world be?

A World Made Manifest. . .

This is a world made manifest
by yearning to touch what
the eye could see.  To be felt
only by hands tender as a baby
still fresh from the womb.

It is the world of thought
that brings forth the birth
of worlds, similar.

Without the need of
fulfilling vendettas, old wars
never fought to frightful finishes.

It will be a world of fresh grasses and
clear waters without the threat of toxins
to maim the brains of those too young
to complain and voice their wishes.

It will be the world that thought
brought to bear on hearts long singed
by ugliness.  Look toward the graduation
of a soul whose transit bears relation

to what life has chosen to negate.
It will be a graduation
of merit, a time for fruitful finishes,

the resulting birth of a yearning heart.

 

painting by Claudia Hallissey

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To Walk My Fields. . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Succor the Night. . .

This she-man, this daughter of a brother
whom I loved and now with whom I speak
was asking. . .
”do you walk the fields at night auntie,
because I am walking with your essence.

You are the essence of who walks,’
she says, ‘succoring the night with me,
succoring the night.’

And I know I am lost to the night,
to the fields of my youth,
giving me back to who I am.
I was lost for so long
believing I was a nothing for so long.

I folded my wings then,
thinking they were broken
never to fly again but no,
unfolded I began to flutter kick,
giving them strength to soar.

Soon they will give the span needed,
wing tip to wing tip,
to lift the heart of me home,
with knowledge given the all I had
back to the All in All.

Weave through the air softly, weave gently,
allow the wind to lift my Spirit.
Directions are

imprinted on my heart.

 

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I will give you a white stone. . . . .

White Stone. . .

I will give you a white stone.
On the stone will be your name
and you will read it and remember it.
I have called you over and over
so you would not forget it.

I have loved you long before the earth was,
even before we first walked the heavens.
I have shown you how to love,
unconditionally and forever.

I have been generous with your love.
I have spread it profusely
and the earth greens.
I have sprinkled it finely and with
long fingers I have pressed your love
into the heavens and you call them stars.

I have taken the heat of  your love
and put it all together
to warm the earth and you call it Sun.

I have stood you on a hot rock and
you molded it into a cool sphere and
I took it proudly and set it to light the night sky
and we call it Moon and man loves by it.

The moon warms his passions when they flag
and the sun browns his body when it pales
and the green earth eases
when the rocks pierce his feet.

But the stars are for you,
for you counted them and found
the heavens could not hold all of them

so I put the remainder in your eyes.                

 

 

 

Psalms of Love is on sale on Amazon and
White Stone is included.

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In Good Hands. . .

 

Many times I have said that this is a classroom and recently I was made to understand it will always be a classroom.  This is what is its purpose.  And my heart hit the floor when I realized it.  Our purpose here is to learn and to change ourselves into what we need to be.  Any fallout on an Other is from our abundance and by example, we teach.

That was the kicker.  All the effort, all the work, no matter how hard, was not for others as I thought, but for me.   Any good from me was because my cup runneth over.  Good that came from abundance was good, from duty, resentment clouded the issue.

Coming to mind again was the vacuuming I was doing when my grandson saw how tired I was and asked why was I doing it.  I shouted because I love your mother!  And his head swiveled and to this day I remember his look of surprise.  He does so much for others gratis because he is multi talented that I knew he didn’t realize that he, too, worked this way.  He was loved and what spilled over he gave from abundancy. His good given would be everlasting good.

We feed our belief system to build ourselves into what we need to be.  The good benefits us first.

It is a small hope that I harbor that the purpose will be for this planet to be simply united peoples.  With learning being our prime purpose of life, to learn of cultures and languages and what unites us all.  The only requirement is that we love life and think we can make a difference and Being is worth the work.  In all worlds, all worlds.

In Good Hands. . .

I will invite you to sit beside me
on my couch. . .
to lean into my arms to wrest
the fatigue from a body
grown weary with age. . .

It will come to nothing, this fatigue
with aging because the heart of you
is alive and well though failing. . .
Alive for the world you have prepared yourself
with work, with love, with patience. . .

How do I know this?

You invited me in to have a time
of repair of Spirit when I needed. . .
to sup at your table full of good talk
with laughter,

at the fire with corn in the one bowl
I shared with your sons. . .
to have sat to converse with topics
scraping the souls of their transparency. . .

These were the times I knew
my choices were good ones
and the futures of my worlds

in good hands. . . .

 

 

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The Roses Are Yours. . .for keeps. . .

Long before the world ever was. . . .

As co-creator and creature both of the universe, it is man’s prerogative and innate yearning to stand erect.  To bow down all the time leaves one eventually on one’s stomach.  Man rose from the crawling position.  There are too many yet who find the child’s position too comfortable.

To stand erect means that certain responsibilities must be accepted.  And that includes responsibility for one’s person and attitudes.  There are worlds yet where man will find the child’s position more comfortable and comforting.

To be adult means that one has to survive the inner turmoil and the outward condemnation which the world applies.

You do not defame the heavens.  The heavens are not all that peaceful and without its own turmoil.  There are many cliques yet which aim to destroy what man in his finest moments tried to accomplish.

We continue to say at every life’s departure that we go to a better place.  Unless our life’s pattern has been to work toward that better place,  we may find ourselves again learning the lessons we failed to learn but in lesser circumstances.

Like primer on bare wood, being and doing good must be innate.  The Source of our impulses must be the Greater Heart.

The Roses Are For You. . .

I tell you true.  You were known
before you came here to this vast land.
A waste for some, a paradise for others. . .
for one a dim place, for another the sun shines.

You took upon your spirit a work, a job,
looking to make a difference.
You said to send you where your heart
could change the world. . .

You were given your wish, hard as it seems.
You have not failed.  Your ripples are felt
on unnamed shores and even the unborn
know your thoughts well. . . .

Come, be kind to one the heavens
sing praises for.  Your work is virtuous
and your talents creative.  We make bet on
the one winning the trifecta.

The roses are yours.  For keeps.

 

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Have A Heart . . . Ours. . . .

In my life I have seen much damage done when people have been deeply wounded by emotions  that could not be handled or words that cut and sliced the heart.

Is it for us to walk untouched but acknowledging the emotions that devastate us and continue to live our lives with no further ado?

Emotions become a burden needing to be understood before they are shrugged.  Once understood they become integrated and no longer need to be carried as excess weights.

Emotions belong to Earth life and here they are learned.  There are worlds where emotions are an unknown, where to love has to be learned and compassion is an unknown.  Where caring must be learned for those of less kind circumstances and must be attended to.

Those of us who have read the Doris Lessing’s Shikasta series or Frank Herbert’s books of Dune know intimately and identify worlds  with emotional innocence and sterility.  They are a shock to the sensitivities but even harder to live with such persons.

We cannot write a check to feed the world nor bandage its wounds, but we can walk into the mud to lift our brother up.  That to me is what emotional understanding does.

The Counselor. . .

She sat across the desk, crisp and sharp
and in charge of who she was.
Emotion is not fact, she said, so separate
what you feel from what is happening.

Then why I ask is my heart breaking?
And with composure she assures me
my heart is whole.  She does not see that my world
is built on feelings that shape my days.

I was born to paint my life
with the wide brush of emotion,  to teach me to love,
to see, to care and learn to Be.  When love
withdrew from me and left me barren,

I knew I would not forget its power to lift
me high enough to touch the heavens
and care enough for this Earth I walked
to sweep the debris where others might walk.

To see the opening of the crocus in the covering
of snow to tell of Spring arriving and of days becoming
longer with light and caressing me with breezes
as soft as baby kisses.  She did not know of worlds

where emotions were not born yet,
where facts dealt the cards to be played,
where feelings did not lay color on days and nights
and where learning to live with feelings were reasons

why we asked to be born of Earth. . . . .she did not know. . .

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Balanced Judgment. . . .

When appearance is all that reality is for some, that is all that counts.  It is a common reality.  Illusion is part of the game.

Jesus said that seeing you will not see and hearing you will not hear.  There is a world out there  they are not aware of and it would take a two by four between the eyes to make them aware, if then.

By their inability to see and hear, they put the responsibility on others and even that they do not see.

There is a physical limit, a mental and emotional one too that frames the question of how much can a body bear.

To maintain an infection free household,  the work falls on unsuspecting shoulders.   What good to have another sense and a responsibility to make a difference in this world if others can not or want not to share it?

How does one remove oneself and not be pained by inconsideration, obtuseness and senselessness of others?  Gaining another sense does not mean separation from self consciousness.

It means you are saddled with what you have been and then given another view of what you can become.  The dichotomy is excruciating.

But a gift of supreme value has been given to the seeker,  a gift of true contentment in being no matter the condition one finds oneself.  The word gift means something of value has been given by a giver.

And hopefully with it will be a sturdy constitution with sufficient self esteem.  And also held determinedly close will be the desire to continue to still make a difference in physical life because the dream was worth dreaming.

In the midst of sophisticated personal relations of knowing what buttons to push in this world,  the knowledge of ways of sophisticates can make one wash one’s hands of their supposed innocence.  Life continues its weights and measures and there is a consequential balance. 

If we learn nothing else, that lesson should bring us up smartly.

It Is Time. . .

It is time to call a halt
to the fatigue already overwhelming
and laying icy fingers upon your blood
and calling for your breath. . .

Too little now and too late,
but soon enough for meaning to come
pilfering through.  Lessons learned,
lives are lived without the intensity

concerning the air you breathe,
and bound only by their desire
fed by their anger and what life has denied them.
Life is a balanced judgment.

Next time conscience will lay heavy
on their unsuspecting shoulders.

 

 

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This Old House. . . consider this. . .

 

This Old House. . . .

I am like this old house.  I have windows that are broken or have shifted in the space designed for them.  I have appendages that were once new rooms added on to make space for new dreams or for widening the premises for old forms expanding.

There were so many things added to make space, to make room for adding new thoughts.  I felt so full.

Like a banquet dinner, overeating because the taste of the new sent me reeling into ecstasy with renewed energy,  exuberance to make new what now was seemingly out of date.

Excited,  couldn’t wait for the construction to begin.  This is what motivated me to move the furniture to new places in the original rooms.  And I did for what seemed like centuries, moved three cushion couches up and down flights of stairs.

Moved  furniture around curved staircases and did not sweat and with magic collapsed a wayward desk stuck hard within the frame of a doorjamb to regain its form on the other side of the door.

When the furniture had tried all the corners,  all the different positions,  we went with the room additions to accommodate the children’s dreams.  Eventually the children grew up and left and the funds ran out and now began  the simplifying.

Do we need?  Whatever we held in our hands the answer was no.  We did not need.  Just headroom to organize the memories of a lifetime so they wouldn’t decay amid the premises that began to fall apart.

The landscaping was the first to go because there was no energy to care for the feeding and pruning of what went unrestrained.  There was no greening of the lawns.

The funds were pared to essentials.  The wall paper peeled and the paint faded and then the bare boards loomed in their nakedness.  The house once held dreams and saw centuries pass.  My dreams inexhaustible, need new frames.

The teachers say that we stay until we use up all the changes, all the additions and all the new houses.  Then come the new worlds.  And worlds they are because one  world cannot contain all the ideas needing to be born.

There are places waiting for the itinerant and exuberant teacher who has in her carpetbag tiles from the Pewabic Natives whose art formed the skyline,  solar trees to grow on mountainsides to furnish heat in frigid places and books with magic words that show the love grown in unknown regions.  I understand the school stands ready.

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 seeds for food. . .
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?

                                                the teachers

 

photo by Tresy Hallissey

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The Weaver. . . .

A Kind Of World I Hoped To Build. . . .

where hearts open to each other, where minds are keen on learning and where love intends to see its full bloom.  Where beings are intent on growing to their fullness and work becomes a blessing.  Do I want much?

I want only what I worked and hoped for. . .where parenting is approached with a reverence bent on new life nurtured. . .

where the talents are perceived with a reverence granted to the giver, where life is held in the crucible of love and needs are cared for when they arise and lovingly attended with appropriateness.

Is it much that I ask for. . . . it only costs of self. . . . .priceless. . . .

 

The Weaver. . . .

Standing on a shrouded hill, integrating
worlds in a body split, is a woman,
weaving the old and the new
to warm a world gone cold.

Walking and usurping man’s ego,
split from his metamorphic mind,
she knots her splendor with magic.
Jealously guarding the expenditures,

she weaves the woolen mat in metaphysical colors,
unidentified by he who walks.
Marvelously melding with utmost utility,
she embraces the fabric, whole,

with never a glance to see the world
spinning into it.  Splendid is she
at her task as she garners strength from silences
filled with howling voices.

She separates them in her mind
and makes more magic.  Look up, we say,
look up at the wondrous unfolding!
Rain ponders its drops as they fall

but the woman weaves and weaves
and weaves.  She will look up

when it is finished.

 

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August. . .

August. . .

It is August and there is
a sliver of breath inside the sill.

The deep breath of autumn is, I think,
a matter of time; perhaps only in the memory
of the child anxious for the world
of new books to open.

Anxious for the toys of summer
to be put aside to make space
for new thoughts.

An old lady now I am
but still waiting with anticipation
for the long, dark nights
to be filled with time.

It is necessary.  It will take an entire season
to adjust mind, body and soul
to a new way of thinking about who I was. . . .

and now who I am.

 

artwork by
claudia hallissey

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