Archive | Poetry

Connections I know. . .

And you will know also. . . 

Nine years ago, when I was 80, a grandson said I should do a blog.  Not knowing what a blog was, he proceeded to teach me.   This perennial student did not want to disappoint the good teacher.   Edited here is one of the early posts where I try to explain my views.  For those who missed the first years I hope this helps to understand from where I come.

On Connections

‘This is an idea spoken of since man first began to think about the purpose of life.   Or perhaps his purpose on this planet.   It deals with the idea that every thing is connected throughout the Ethers.   That nothing happens in and of itself but is the result of an action happening because of a previous action elsewhere.   However long ago.   Our purpose,  however wrought with meaning as we think or not,   is the result of perhaps a stone let loose on some distant hill, rolling and crashing onto a field.    The storm in the night is the result perhaps of an argument lamenting the arduous activity of sea lions in some obscure waters.   The idea remains cleverly innate in heads looking for reasons to believe that of itself nothing exists.   We are connected,  one to another and one event tied us tightly to all of life.   It is with this idea in mind that this poem came to be.’

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 a 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 that this time is mine to see
a great plan, a strategy, yet unheard.
It may not be for centuries that

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.

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A divine observation. . . .

 

A divine observation. . .

 You take love
and wear as pearls.

Shiny tears they once were.
Shiny tears,

but they fell
to your breast

and now they are gems. . . .

                                              gems. . . .

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a soft goodnight. . . . .

A soft goodnight . . .

as night arrives and blankets all,
we take rest that is ours
and allow it to heal . . .

for it is no small thing given
but as with all, we use what is ours
and gently put the day to bed .  

the night still arrives on tender paws
to silence even the heart’s beating.
it is a soft bed we enter. . .

the day will have its demands
with another morning borning,
still we use our hearts .  

never to disregard thought,
but hearts must be followed.
so we take the night, love, and

wing it to the place of recovery and,
and bless. . . sometimes it is all we can do . . .  

 

journal entry 6 april, 1989
formatted 6.17.2020

photo Joe Hallissey Sr. 2012

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When You Have The Obligation . . .

 

Living The Martha Mary Story forever it seems. . . . . .

It was the Martha -Mary story which raised the hackles and had me fuming.  Martha wished to sit and listen to her friend and exchange thoughts but Mary of course took the seat.  Mary did not offer to pour milk nor water to the thirsting children and elders so Martha toured with pitcher in hand and fumed.

Jesus was attuned to this and chided,  Martha, Martha why do you fuss so?  Mary is only doing what Mary can do.

I am not really sure that anyone appreciated what Martha did.  Martha also did what only she could do because she saw what needed to be done.  No one else did.  No one.  Only her eyes saw the need.

There would be those who say that Martha chose to pour for the guests.  She could have said no and taken a seat.  But could she?  And did Mary see the need and choose not to service?  Or not eyes open and mind to understand?

I scribed . . .You have the obligation because you have the knowledge.   October 26, 1988

(my thoughts today. . . In other words  when you have the knowledge, you  have the obligation.  Also when knowledge roots and conscience is honed, options are fewer.  In some cases, options close.  (this is how saints are born on the job)

This is anathema to some because choice is a freedom and to say options close takes away that freedom.   Limited knowledge even then gives the favored ones many choices.  And looking at our world especially today, tells us that minorities are stripped of choices every day no matter their high credentials.

When reasons and explanations make the kind of sense that lead to understanding, it becomes knowledge.  Understanding does not necessarily make something easier to live with.  But when it roots and conscience is honed sharply, one sometimes sees an out but it is closed because that same knowledge sometimes presents fallout on innocent shoulders.  Conscience wishes not to wound.

And the only thing one can do is endure.

One is not abandoned because in the knowledge comes enlightenment which grants surcease from what grips in the dilemma.  Sometimes small comfort but in the broadening space given, this becomes the lifebuoy that keeps all afloat.  And in times like ours with so many devices blaring information 24/7 with no letup, a small comfort is acceptable with no argument.  And greedily grasped.

The Godfellows. . .

they crowd him, he who walks
the path like the pied piper.

the youngers follow like
so many puppies.

he bends to whisper the day good
into ears that hear his beating heart.

and their hearts beat with knowledge . . .
that they are both Divine. . . . .

(When it seems I flit with old and recent entries, it is because I finally understand  the quantum theory that all time is simultaneous.  Because I do, it is all happening now.  It is the only way to make sense out of my own why.  Work on it because otherwise the deep waters will entice.)

photo by John S. Hallissey

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Under One Name. . . .

 

 

Under One Name . . .  (Genesis. Chapter 1. Verse 26)

Even the big guys prayed,
the Kings, the Princes, the Presidents
and the Oligarchs with their buying billions,
in that part of the night;

the part that kept them all awake.
In that dark pit when even
the warm bodies beside them with
all the crevices and secret parts

shouting their places of comfort.
But none comfort, not one of them
stem the flow of wet panic
threatening to drown one even,

even with all their victories.
Because in that dark place
of the night when ghosts arise
threatening your extinction, you worry. . .

That not enough good
is in all of your Beings. . .
even parts you do not know who
might welcome you to the place you hunger for.

The place you came from
and have to get back but
do not know how; when we walked
and talked under the one name. . . God.

To become under the one name . . . Man.

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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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