Archive | Poetry

A Thud Against Our Heart. . . .

 

Yesterday the world united in grief as we watched the fire rage and consume a large part of the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.  It was with dismay and heartbreak we saw a symbol of our civilization consumed by a utility given to Mankind to enhance life.  Yet at the same time we saw ourselves in communion with our grief.

We have lived too long lately isolated from each other and focused primarily on ourselves.  We have evolved to a world where commitment to others  is  in direct conflict with the desire for proclaimed self fulfillment.  We announce we are not caregivers and proceed either to neglect or farm out commitments.

Yet we saw our communion  as we united in our grief and we all know what we have lost.

What we do in this world of 8 billion people is show our young that commitment is primarily to oneself.  Yet we all age and our young may, to our dismay, shunt their commitments onto the shoulders of the unsuspecting in their lives.

I told my youngers with whom I live that I considered it a privilege to be able to prepare dinner and even do the clean up because in an institution I would not be let near a kitchen even to snack.  And though my dotage inhibits much energetic compliance with more activity, I still can push the vacuum to keep the dog fur at bay.  Thus stretching muscles wishing to atrophy I’m sure and forcing a heart to keep beating.

Children brought up in homes where value is placed on character, or simply on being  human, good and loving will indeed foster care on their commitments.  Can it be done in today’s world?  To rethink a value system is necessary.

I harbor the thought that there is time and world enough for all of us.  We can reclaim our innate knowledge of good in our actions.  What is done from love is readily noted.  Time now to reclaim the good in ourselves.

When the nudge in mind becomes a thud against our heart, it is the God Within urging us to listen.

Rest Well, Sailor, Rest Well. . .

So in this night when you lie still
and listen for the rain, listen for the wind,
listen for the stars moving about the sky.
Listen also for your heartbeat.
It is steady and it is sure.

It beats for all of your commitments,
both loving and lovable.
You are an important adjunct to this world
and your good you cannot estimate.

Rest well, sailor, rest well.
The seas have been rocky but now
we come to the inlet that will take us to port.
There will be nothing to bring in the ship.

She makes it on her own power.

 

photo by Joe Hallissey, Sr.

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Creativity. . Look, what I made! . . .

I scribed. . . .it is a bag of wind we seem to contend with and problems never ending.  The problems stem from diverse personalities complicating and darkening what should be an enlightened situation.  What is obvious to one is dark to another.

You think the world’s state of affairs too complicated to solve.  Yet should they be solved, what then the reason to continue?   People then would simply start trouble to spark things up a bit.  Too simple an answer.

When peoples are not operating on the same level, coming from such diverse beginnings as culture, genetics, health conditions, etc, you have a coloration that confounds even the Solomons.  One swipe does not wipe out problems.  Even annihilation would not be the answer. 

For the desire to create is so strong that another place would be found for manifestation.  And the creativity that would explode would put the same situations into play. . . .

Creativity requires expression, which will take on the coloration of the individual souls, the emotional as well as all the previous adjectives.  And memory being what it is, would soon also color situations and promote problems for people working and living together. 

With creativity, lesson plans burgeon.  Problem solving nests within the problems, within the creation, within the creators.

Unless there is personal growth, there will be unrest.  Look to solve what darkens your life.  Begin where you are.  When you bring peace to yourself,  you also bring it to others.

My argument. . . one man can ruin a world and a world of prayerful men cannot save it?  (what is the lesson here?)

Creation. . .

An ear from here will touch an elbow there
and mid the deafening roar, hear the shout,
‘I am here!’   ‘I am here!’

And another world is given birth with form
strangely reminiscent of a time and place
where you held me and I, you.

Together then, a life, a birth and a new world
created by the unmistakable combustion
amidst the resounding silence of an I love you.

Sublimely exiting, noisily entering, within
the crackling cartilage of old and new forms,
new worlds are born of memory, of experience,

housed in the eternal mind.

 

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

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To See The Day. . .

From Psalms of Love is the following poem entitled  ‘To See The Day.’ The emotions and the times were painfully immobilizing.  The inner journey means different things to all those who attempt it.  I did not realize there was a name for what I was thrust into.   All I knew was that I hurt.  Heaven intervened and there is a paper trail that I leave.  Perhaps it will prove helpful to  someone.  I live to tell you that I could not have survived without the ordeal of the journey.

To See The Day. . .

I’ve traveled distances
not measured in miles
through the intensity of love and found you.

I’ve broken barriers designed for men in mind
and found the freedom imposed by chains
within me ready.  I took upon me a coat to wear
when first I chose to come with Mind.

I pulled it close for warmth.
Its protection saved me from invasion.
Little was known about the warp of weave
and how fragile the belief that kept me warm.

I was told that distances were measured in miles,
that love could be seen and cold could be felt.
I did not know the cold felt in a house of fear
was colder than the Arctic and that all the blankets
in the world could not the body keep warm
if the heart was barren.  I learned.

I did not know that for some the barriers of mind
allowed the peaceful growth of children.
To have been so wrong was proved to me
by teachers intent on my freedom.

All in me, as I in Life was a lesson I came to learn.
The hour creeps toward dawn and I hasten
the good night toward a day to be broken
with promises kept.  I never thought

I would live long enough to see the day.

 

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey
Psalms of Love on sale at Amazon

 

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The World I Worked To Build. . .

The World I Worked 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 talents are perceived with a reverence granted the giver and 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?

Do I work hard because I think I am the prime mover and instigator in my life?  Are we, each and everyone?

And if it were a known, would there be chaos?  Would we be immobile because within the each is the knowledge that our god would rescue us?  Would it be knowledge or faith?

Is this why people don’t try harder?  But try they do.  Doing is what they don’t.

THE WEAVER. . .

Standing on a shrouded hill,
integrating worlds in a body, split,
is a she-man, 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 splendour 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 gains
strength from silences filled with howling voices.
She separates them in her mind and makes more magic.

Look up, look up, we say,
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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In Memory of a Good Friend. . .

It is written that if you can count good friends on one hand, you are rich.  I was right to count myself as a very rich lady.  All have already transited, and another one or two still far younger than I, will follow long after me.

I want to write what is a good friend to me.  What I had in a friendship with Jan.  I met her at a crucial time of my life and we meshed upon meeting.  The following is from a journal entry edited for space.

I was then about to enter my fiftieth year.  This will tell my young readers that we do not appear full feathered just because we age.   It is a process and encompasses commitments  made even while the inner house churns about.

Less than three years after we met, my world fell apart.  And putting it back together was difficult.  One
never thinks about losing one’s ability to trust one’s Self, but simply stated,  it is a hard road back.

St. Paul and those who had their road to Damascus experience could take a year off and have their groupies care for them.   The times now have us blessed if we have a friend.

‘She has given me so much over the years.  She has pointed out how good and unique I am and has helped build my self esteem bit by bit.   From the first she had an open ear to what was said as well as unsaid.  She pointed a possible direction but never once said I was making a wrong decision. 

She understood from where I was coming.  And rejoices where I am today.  Everything teaches she says.  You are where you are today and go on from there.  She teaches.  You do not spend energy on regrets, but learn from them.  And she praises.

My parenting the boys she said had her and her friends wanting to throw in the towel.  They actually talked to me she said.  And we knew you thought we all were like you.’ 

We were best friends for over 3 decades.  It is now 25 years that she is gone from Earth.  It took a long time for me to stop reaching for the phone to call Jan.  Laughingly when there was static on the line, we said that obviously there was cosmic monitoring.

We matched minds on many issues and ‘all time is simultaneous’ we accepted.  She often said that what we learn is more a matter of remembering for those like us.  I am grateful she was in my life.  She was a good teacher.

From a line in another poem, I will say,  ‘ces’t moi, it is I,  pull me over.’

We Break Bread. . .

I have broken bread with old friends
for what seems to be many centuries.

We continue our conversations
begun when yet we were in other times
and were other people.

But it has been, you see, only a minute.
We bring to mind all things old and
some things new.

It was but a quirk of Nature, so that our hearts
would grow and become one heart.
It all has a familiar fit.  Don’t you think?

All things will be new again
when we break bread in the next of times.
But you knew that, didn’t you?

All things new are really all things old.
Even some of us.

 

photo by John Holmes

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We Are The Music. . . .

 

 

 

 

We Are The Music. . .

You say,

pull the shade!
Or the neighbors will see.

 

 

I say,

What will they see?
Us dancing?

I rest my head
on your shoulder
and am happy
in the embrace.

Us dancing
in the kitchen
too small to move much,
but close in heart.

I say,

Keep dancing.

You say,

But there is no music!

I say,

We are the music. . . . .

 

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For The Holy Day of Heart. . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Touch Me. . .

Lean over and touch
that part of me
that shows you know
where I live.

Love me
in the way
that shows you know
who I am.

Vulnerable
though I be,
trusting I am.

I love you,
knowing the parts of you
you do not know.
Afraid,
yet wanting to touch
the pool of quicksilver

which is your heart.

 

(from my book Psalms of Love )

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The Fairyland Was Real. . . .

This time you will mentally shape the thoughts for this poem.  You will remember the child you were at heart and the times when the world became a fairyland.  We all have these memories and we take them out when the world becomes brittle and sharp.  With these memories,  few that they are,  it becomes malleable again and softer.  Wear with splendor these memories.  They warm you when nothing else can. 

You Washed The World . . .

You washed the world
with my love
and took it and made
a valentine of my heart.

You washed the world
with a blanket of snow
and lace formed on my eyebrows
and made my lashes
heavy with snow.

You threw me down
and I made an angel
with wings outstretched
and I stood in my finery

and it never faded nor melted.

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Camelot Moment. . . .eternity practicing. . . .

 

When given and we are present in heart and mind, it is a rare gift.  I call it a Camelot Moment because it was perfect in itself and yet a confirmation to a philosophy in process.  It met with great appreciation when first published and now approaching Valentine’s Day,  for new readers, I wish you a Camelot Moment.

Camelot Moment. . .

The words we chose to speak
could not be construed to be words
of great love, but they were.
It was with gaiety that we chatted
about the commonplace and laughed a lot.
We were happy.

I sat in my chair at the dining room table
and watched with joy a moment rare in our shared history.
My coffee cup had been refilled so many times.
Its taste was cutting sweet.

You had risen from the table and in the space
that was the middle of the kitchen,
were moved by some unnamed force to do a jig.

In the fragmented second it took to blink away
a laughing tear, your form transformed and
there we were and yet not.

With feet doing your ancestral dance in mid-air,
your solid body was no longer solid.
A maze of dancing atoms and molecules took your shape.
Your color took on their transparency
and I thought how fragile you are!

It was just a moment but eternity practicing and
you were back into the time frame
we both knew as you.  I could not tell you what I saw.
The rules of this let’s pretend world are hard to break.

I sit at this desk with magically moving molecules,
drinking coffee from a supposedly solid white cup and saucer
and holding tight to a yellow pencil at a time
when the rest of the world sleeps and weeps.

Knowing the mountain is only a thought form
and with a little faith in my ability to move it, I could.
With our prejudices we mightily construct a world
to please or not, as our self image directs.

But in this brief Camelot moment,
I know that in that sacred space
I saw you so utterly defenseless,

I never loved you more, nor me.

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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.

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