Archive | Poetry

Many Truths. . .Many Worlds. . . .


A question arose when reading and I was ready to put down the book.   Coming to mind were thoughts I  had to make peace with.  I had been told . . .

‘there are many truths.  There is not just one truth and all else is false.  All things are true in some place at some time; many truths like many gods.  We must leave that place where there is just one of this and one of that.  There are many things that are good, just as there are many things that are not.  Yet for some reason, far from being the truth of us is that there is a preponderance of things people cling to simply because it is easier than trying to find room for all truth.

Why not put them aside when coming upon them and say,  this for now is a truth and tomorrow another  truth will be in its place?  You cannot, as you like, tie things up in parcels and put pretty bows on them.  Not to be done.  Everything cannot be in its precise place forever.  A truth can be right for this place and here, now.

Tomorrow there will be a place for another truth.  What will you do when you find yourself in a world where other truths will find their place and you will have to slide around to find your footing, slippery, yes?  Something always gives and it will be another world and altogether different approaches.  Not necessarily obliterating old truths, simply finding space for them in a different world where larger and broader frames of thinking will be necessary.

We must give space to larger frames where old truth will be integrated to broaden the still broader picture.  What will you do Veronica, when we will have to gain footing on even more uneven terrain? ‘

Many Worlds. . .

I wander about in many worlds
trying all on for size.
Walking timorously, fearful always
of a misstep.

Generously coping
with a plethora of ideas,
alien in context,
coming from sources I can only wonder.

Now a word,
a complete thought
fitting incongruously
into my world of now.

I surrender to a multi faceted existence.

photo by John Holmes

(the writing is from a journal entry in August, 2013 and the poem written in April, 1975.  All time is simultaneous. . Quantum physics)


Hope Enters With A Promise. . . .


Just do, she said and don’t ask why!  It was her mantra, her Om, her ominous threat!  This great, great grandmother of Emma E. with her brood of young held us all in check being a sergeant at arms.  We muttered our displeasure but we did what needed to be done.  We inherited what I call the jenny genes, inspired some of us and caused some of us heartache.  But we see in our progeny the results that give us hope.

And we know without doubt that hope is the factor that gives life meaning, for without it there is no tomorrow worth waking up to.  Emma E. with her fragile and precarious beginning at 1 lb 13 oz is the now charming and lovable child pictured here having just passed her first birthday.  She keeps on giving intangible gifts of love and laughter  that are priceless.

Thirty three years ago her father came into the world early as she and I thought determined to live as he was, he would have even if born in pioneer times on the prairie enroute.  His daughter is determined as he.  Being only familiar with my side of the family intimately, I see the jenny genes from the orphan my mother was, working yet through her progeny of grands and greats.

Having just come through a week of laying to rest a President of what  is called the Greatest Generation, I am reminded what the characteristics that were their legacy.  Commitment, frugality,  work and responsibility are the hardest things to teach the children.

The Depression years  took the laughter out of many lives but the birth of Emma E. has given all of us reason for joy and hope.  When the larger picture is kept in mind, we can cherry pick the legacies and keep what is fine and good and what gives life.  These are worth working for and keeping.

We always hope the best of who we are is born into our progeny.  I look upon this smiling face of Emma E. and am glad I hold onto that thought.  The thought that the jenny genes will be her strength to persevere but never to forget to laugh.

The Journey. . . a life. .

So we pitch our tents
on the side of the quiet river
and look for landmarks in the morning.

It has been a full day, rafting and
wandering through the rapids
hoping for a night of calm waters.

Still, we hope.  Christmas will
come knocking at the midnight door
and hope will enter.  And she will

be welcome for she enters with a promise.                                                                                          


Shared Silence

Shared Silence

In rereading a journal entry of many years ago I wrote with little editing, ‘that my husband of more than a half century went out the door this morning with little communication.  Though there was little talk, there was a communion of shared history in the house.

I think that has replaced talking, being more a feeling than anything.  Not preferable, but the status.

The feeling is that we are what we are and there is no changing at this time.   It was a matter of love me as I am for I can be no other.

It is not that communication would not be welcome.  But even that I really don’t know.  Growth is singular and individual, depending on the soul’s need and intent.

There comes a time that is past communication.  There is a time for silence.  Silence , I would suppose is a time for Being.’

(I add this thought today,  ‘a time for Being, not like in closing shop, but Out Of Time, meaning outside of Time.  Elsewhere.  A soon time.)

Shared Silence

It is a time
past the time of talk,
past the time of argues.

There is a time of silence,
a shared silence,
a time to accept,
a time to simply
slip into old slippers and Be.

No matter the world,
this time is ours.
Maybe not to fill
all the empty spaces
but given time, blends them

into a communion of shared silences.


artwork unknown





Does The World Stand Still For You?. . .


If memory serves me, the one thing I learned from what I have been told is that no one thinks like I do. Trust me,  it was never a compliment from the time I was a child.  When I first started this blog in 2011, I started with this poem.  I excerpt.

‘How heavy is a spider’s web
on a butterfly’s wing?

Since everything is balanced,
the question is proportional.
A friend said to me, only you
had eyes to see it.

Does the world stand still for you?’

This morning I was at the kitchen window looking at the orange tree and thinking creatures are eating the oranges by gouging large chunks and eating them still on the branch.  And I saw then a tiny bird sitting on an orange and pecking into the gouge and having his morning juice.  He was barely seen in the leaves.  But certainly too little to break the tough peel of the orange?  A minute later he flew off.  I gave my thank you for this sight.

Just as I thought my Maudie Dove blinked but was uncertain,  the next morning I watched her and sent my question out and sitting on her nest, she blinked.  Several times.  I had been told after I noticed that when I acknowledged the bird song one morning that the song halted momentarily, that indeed the thought was accepted and appreciated because the song begun again.

This connection to my Earth is one that I cherish.  It will be in my memory bank forever.  We are unique in our perspectives  and each step in our evolution puts us ever closer to what our potential is.  There is no ultimate, there is only growth.

I excerpt another poem called ‘The Moment The Star Fell’ which shows the ongoing quest for answers that have fueled my life.  The question could be anyone’s question and it matters not, but the journey does.  This was a Given and you will see your thinking in it.

(Excerpt from The Moment The Star Fell. . )

I see you search the southern sky
closest to your bed and against your will,
hope a star will fall, just for you.
You think you will know then.
But you will not.

For in the morning you will hear
of a meteor or a similar explanation
to salve the mind of man who thinks
only his world is truth.  And you will doubt.

Yet you will think, ‘ but only I knew what my heart
required at that moment the star fell’. . . .
and then you will doubt again, for they argue
their arguments to convince.
But within the place of rest,

how could you not know?


Standard for Common Measure. . . .


This is one of those times when life calls for a time out to let the eternal hold sway to be appreciated.  We let loose the hold that events have on us and just let life have its way.  Our mental balance demands it and our relationships require it.  It is enough to catch our breaths and rest our eyes. 

We deal with the living we must do but give obeisance to the divine within that molds and creates who we are.  Pray that we show this divine side to all who depend on us, visible and invisible.  We will then contribute to the progress peaceably of our Earth Planet to the Universe at large.

Common Measure. . .

Your fingers chase
the outline of my face, racing to catch
the smile climbing to my eyes, you say. . .

Where the corners crinkle with laugh lines
but how could they not?  Such love
bestowed by a heart matched to mine,

with thoughts commingling gently.
No argument there, you say, for how can you
argue with love filling the crevices of mind,

filling the void with hope; setting a standard
for all to measure against?  As with  all bars
set high, it will one day be common

with love serving the All as standard measure.


photo by Joe Hallissey Sr.


No Place To Go. . .


I was told that what is done for one will be done for all.  Meaning for me that when one does something unusual or different, the potential exists then for all.  And this is how progress becomes a sure thing for civilization.  Evolution takes a step, sometimes a baby step, but it is forward.

There are others who have experience in matters not common.  I have kept notes on dreams and researched my experiences.  I could not speak openly and was cautioned much because of public circumstances.  Times are different and I speak for the children who are different. 

There are babies now being born who have been mentored and if they are fortunate and have support they will teach the lot of us from where they come.  In the Dead Sea Scrolls a disciple asked Jesus where we go when we die and Jesus answered, why do you ask when you never wondered where you came from?  He also said the ‘the twig is bent’  and religions don’t mention apriori, before we are born.

Most assume that all is formed after birth but every parent knows each child comes already predisposed.   My exasperated mother would gladly have told you about me.

No Place To Go. . .

Your words are strong my eldest says. . . .
and the road made accessible
for the rest of us.  No need I say, no need.
You will do what is yours to do
in your own way.

The road is closed with wooden horses
barring the way, not for repair
but because a new road is laid.

My Mentor said what is done for one
is done for all. . .so the heavens made bet
it would never be done but it seems
there was the surprise.  It is done.

They say they give an inch and I take a mile.
My verbiage is clear.  My focus enables focus
in boundary-less places as I weave
in and out of black holes and wind drifts
to find myself welcomed.

I have friends all over who wait
except where I am.  Here I am different
and in this place to be different puts one
on the outside looking in.  They do not know
where I am coming from.
My vernacular is not theirs and

I have no place to go with what I know.



In Thanksgiving. . .Because it is. . .

Sometimes I look upon past work and see a new perspective, a new meaning.  And sometimes I cannot remember the person I was who wrote the poem or prose.  It is someone who has made up a portion of who I am and I bring her to the work I read today.  And I am all who I am, what I was and who I am becoming.  That someone I become will surprise me I am sure.

There will be more differences noted not only the physical ones all see.  The subtle changes may seem minute but large to me.  Glimpses are given embracing memories long faded but now gaining form.  Life lived with dedication to commitments leaves few regrets.  And what were considered obstacles now become mountains that have been climbed successfully. 

We are in the midst of a vast universe.  Vast.  And we are more than what we appear.  Our connection to All That Is is real and wondrous.  I bend at the knees easily.  In Thanksgiving.

Because It Is. . .

You cannot dream things that never were
for in a sometime and a somewhere
they’ve taken place and left their indelible memory
on your mind.

Only to be remembered when a slim shadow
casts its spell across your life
and causes you to bring forth a relic,
a piece of the dream that had its substance
in a far time when love was pocketed
near your heart and brought forth to heal
a wound, to make life complete.

Never to question why or why not.
Simply because it is.


I Will Speak. . . .

I Will Speak. . .

I sometimes envy those who chose to come to this Earth having adopted a religion or a way of life to concentrate on what lessons needed to be learned or just to enjoy life.  It is only delaying what must be done eventually, and that is to confront the history either chosen or mandated.  It will need to be done sometime and I give what blessing we each have, and give profusely.  It is a damnably hard work.

This poem, ‘I will speak’ was a Given, as much of my work has been.  The footwork was mine, every step of the way.  It was not my intent to post this particular one, but when my eyes saw it this morning, immediately was given the artwork done possibly 35 or 40 years ago when I was deep into the journey augmented by Claudia’s art work from about two years ago.  I could see the two pieces spoke the meaning of the poem. 

I leave the meaning to the reader bringing his or her own history.  My explanation would need explanations profuse.  We all are more than we appear and I have used up whatever bundles of energy lying about unclaimed.  I have picked these bundles up like an alley picker to bring me to this time crowding a century.  It’s your turn.

I Will Speak. . .

I will speak of the membrane
covering tightly the beginning
where memories are housed.

It is with comfort I see
in my head and feel in my heart,
spaces where I walked and talked
and hungered for Light.

It is a thin film covering
the foetus of memories
rolled up with bony knees
pressing my heart.  From where?

Except that place or places
I was cautioned about for being out too far.
I brought them with me, dressed
in pulverized skin that became coats for us
always too loose,

but garments we grew into as man.                                          


poem written in May 2013
Claudia Hallissey heart art
(my infant on wood plaque )


Full Circle. . . .

I at first thought that everyone can do anything.  But later realized that somewhere, someone has to show by example something that strikes home with another.  A something that is meaningful to another.

That will be of value to him or her.  Then when something comes up there will be an instant where there will be only one course of action and it will be the correct one for them.  And that will be the beginning of a value system that will guide all action.

And then you will have the beginning of a philosophy being built.  And then we go for home.

The Farm Woman. . .

Woman of the Earth, you are loved.
You gather the fruits of your labors
to your bosom and feed the children.

You’ve inched your way along the dusty path
with back bent in great fatigue
and cultivated the rows yielding wise fruit.

You would feed out of your mouth
those you think hungry and then beyond measure.
The fruits are the heart of your labors,
the harvest of your mind’s philosophy,
spilling indiscriminately.

Who is left to feed you, farm woman?
What commissary is left open
to feed your hungry soul after hours?

What bookstall will house the words
between stiff covers to increase your harvest?
Labor, till the sun closes its blinds on the day.
Restless legs will speed you through the night

to find the bins ever full.


Imagine. . .the godmen. . . .


Not many understand the full meaning of unconditional love.  By being kind and thoughtful, loving and caring, can these be given without ulterior motive?  To many these things given unconditionally speak of a people eater.  To some this loving seems conditional because by loving so you intentionally will demand some kind of response. 

This is a big lesson to learn.  That someone could love you because of who you are and not demand a piece of you.  Unconditional love is given from abundance.  Conditional love is an oxymoron.  You cannot give what you cannot spare.

If spoken from what cannot be spared, it will demand a piece of you.  Like a pound of flesh.

Love is not earned by physical acts.  There is nothing required from unconditional love but much given.  For the just reason that love is not earned by doing something but because you see in the individual what he himself does not.

You give from what you are.  From abundance.  You give from what you have because it was  a Given to you at some time.  Someone you respected saw you for whom you were and loved you.   All that was required was to accept it. 

Most do not know how to accept unconditional love.  A catch to it?  The only catch is feeling worthy of this gift.  Who first told us we were not worthy?

Conditional love shifts.  Unconditional love remains steady.   And benefits all whom you come in contact.  Imagine a world where love is an evolutionary step.  Just imagine the godmen.  Imagine.

Abundance. . .

In my abundance, I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
This love shackles you not
nor binds you tightly in chains.
It gives you freedom to soar
where your spirit wills
and in the same abundance
finds you winging back to me.

Run quickly from a love
which possesses by need.
Its momentary satisfactions
bind you to a life of servitude.
Its very negation of freedom
murders the giver and the recipient.
Love beckons not out of desperation,
but out of abundance.
It is life, calling to life.
It is life, begetting life.

Come to me,
when in your abundance
you would find annihilation in not giving.
When in your joy of living
you would find death in not loving.

Come to me then.
For in my abundance I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
And in our communion,

the Spirit lives.


art by Claudia Hallissey
Poem Abundance in Psalms of Love
available on Amazon



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