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.

 

0

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

0

Papa, I Plead Now. . . or the dream will go begging. . . .

It is long past the time for all people to stand and demand of themselves to be infused with a steel core to uphold their wobbly selves.

We have stood by and watched the principles upon which we have built our lives and our children’s heritage broken and by pieces swept away.  It is long past the time now for all to take stock and question ourselves and ask upon what is it we stand.

All of us can go far back and some new ones, not so far, to see that we all come from distant shores.  We became Americans no matter our beginnings.  So many nations, so many cultures have formed what we consider to be these United States.  How long can we be satisfied to be less than we once were, faults and all?

Lest we expect less from ourselves, we must all work in what ways we can to restore our respect for our heritage which includes all peoples.  There is no partisanship when it comes to bestowing honor and trust and courtesies upon those who differ from us.

Less is demeaning what we are; lowering ourselves to what has taken centuries to build to make our country a leader among  people whose ambitions were to emulate what the United States symbolized.

It took dreams that took hard work and thought toward becoming a haven that the statue of liberty was gifted.  The world watched us and marveled.  And we became the heaven possible upon which people built their lives in this country.

We work now to restore those dreams not only for those seeking to flee despotism but for ourselves now to guard what we have known to be our country.  Or our dream will go begging.

The Strange Bequest. . .

There was a man, a slim man,
whose head was bedecked with a white cloud,
and whose eyes saw dreams
he could not articulate.

He sat one day staring into space and
when I questioned him, he said,
‘I am sitting and watching the grass grow.’
I hesitated far too long and have lived to regret it.

I wish the courage had been mine
to have asked him to share his dreams with me.
For he bequeathed to me a mind that does not rest.
I have the thought that his father and father before him

wrestled the same misty vision
which now is mine to set in motion.
I question this strange bequest for I have not
the staunch heart required to lay to rest

my ancestor’s  anguish.  Papa, I plead now,
to replace my heart with hot ore, inject me with a vial
of celestial courage  and fuse my spine with
with tempered steel. . . .

There is so little time. . . .                                                        

 

0

Found Courage. . . .

There came a  time when man decided to forget his Source and do life on his own.  Since then it has been a game of catch up.  Our progress has been nothing to shout about but there would be those who would argue with me about that.

But for me it has been a matter of chasing down the first ‘why’ ever uttered by the child in search of a palatable reason for someone insisting he do something.  I don’t think it ever is a matter of courage though in retrospect it certainly is.  No one knows who will pursue that first ‘why’ and where the  journey leads.  And I tell you this, sometimes it is not pretty.

Those who observe know that it is a something, but they don’t know what.  They realize awesomely,  that it takes courage, a kind not familiar.  I say it mostly becomes a stubbornness to not falter and be a stumbling block.

Courage is not garnered overnight nor is it stored for all time.  It is fought for every morning in bathrooms and bushes around the world.  It is worn, with conviction man hopes, into  breakfast.  I know this and everyone who nurtures and is responsible for others know this.  We hope to present ourselves to the new day and convince our loves it is a day worth the living.

The following poem was written in 2013 and is a favorite of mine realizing that courage takes practice.

Found Courage. . .

I ask,

where did you find your courage?

On what tree was it hanging
that you could reach up
and pluck it from its hiding place
to wear as epaulettes
on your shoulders?

The children whisper during the night,
saying their Ave’s to each other,
hoping they will grow into courage
with a red badge to wear.

You say,

they are blinded.

They cannot see their milky courage
like cream rising to the top;
one day to merge
through alerted senses
that call for unthinkable strength.

They have been practicing every day
since they were born.
They will learn that courage
comes with each breath taken
and like the freedom they take for granted
must be won every day.
One day they will find it wears

like a second coat of paint.

0

Forever Is Happening Now. . .

The miracle of life is that though we all hold different perspectives on everything,  each of us, beast or human,  we seem to hold an anchoring desire which is survival.  And that desire somehow is enough to keep us afloat for however long. 

When we fail, we all fail and go down the tube together.  And pick ourselves up and begin again.

The differing perspective is matched every once in awhile by another in part or whole and when it happens is met with a startled ‘we know each other don’t we’?  thought. 

The heavens do not look kindly on such alliances because little work would get done when relief comes with much fun.   Which is why isolation is often the state of the differing souls and loneliness the condition. 

Once recognized as a chosen state,  life becomes a dedicated ceremony.  And the celebration often at the end becomes the enlightenment knowing the party just begins. 

 

Forever is Happening Now. . . 

Was it a thousand years ago
or just yesterday when you stood
at my front door as a guest for dinner?

My eyes caught your
brown wing tipped shoes that
I recognized from another time.

I followed the path to your face
and there was an electric moment of recognition.
I wanted to say I know you, don’t I?

Followed of course would be to say
good to see you again, yet knowing
we were new to each other.

It was another time in a place
of no name now but it was a time
locked in forever.  I knew then as I do now

that time is a happening for this place
with the Earth names we’ve memorized for ourselves.
But it is a happening still

as all things are all the time.  We do not escape
who we are.  A quantum leap into the present
is our stance for this moment

but forever it is all happening now.

 

0

Guess Who Came To Dinner???. . . .

Guess who came to dinner. . . .

She was in the neighborhood and stopped by she hoped in time for dinner.  She heard there would be pot roast.  This angel in disguise wearing a different costume than what we are used to angels wearing!

Emma E. came in smiling and gave me the biggest grin.   My heart needed to be warmed by her and my arms were hungry to hold her.  Which she obliged doing for a very short time.  Cuddled she was and nestled nicely.

After a night’s sleep she was anxious to be up and doing.  She likes being in an upright position.  And is determined to stand as much as the adult holding her has energy.  But soon she will be pulling herself up and if I am correct in sighting the jenny gene syndrome,  she will be out the door as fast as her legs will carry her.

Her parents are active and the lines on our side of the family, except for me, have been walkers and runners.  The fun thing about being old, and still with fairly good eyesight and a memory that does not quit,  is to see what genetically is passed along with each generation.  From my side of the family I spot the jenny gene syndrome which is perseverance.

Those things which puzzled and perplexed and gave me heartburn and dyspepsia throughout my life with the question looming always with ‘how could they????’ whatever it was,  now seems obvious with the explanation, ‘they really cannot help it’.  It is in the genes and time now to accept and laugh.

And Emma E. has a smile that is infectious.  I have a feeling she laughs at all of us with a knowledge close to her Source yet.  Fun and games ahead for the joyous parents.   I remember questioning her father when he became an arguing preschooler and asked,  what happened to the happy boy I knew?  Tersely he answered ‘he left.’

I have great gratitude for doctors who devoted lifetimes to learning and  keeping those like Emma E. striving and thriving and those like me breathing long enough to see and hold once again new life.  It is with hope I look to the future that much will be gained and lives benefit.  Her beginning was fraught with worry, but today she brings great promise.  I am indeed grateful.

 

7

Gods Searching For an Enduring Peace. . . .

Life:  a many faceted phenomenon. . .

It is possible that what is called hardening of the arteries is given the dreaded name of Alzheimers or dementia is the brain’s evolution brought about by aging or psychological trauma.  Either of those would be reason enough for portions of the brain closing.  But what happens should portions open?

If there has been no thought or education in the possibility of other worlds and times, what happens when inserted in the processes are unfamiliar sounds and glimpses?  And behavior not commensurate with these incidences that now are perceived as abnormal?  Can confinement now be not only a possibility but a surety?

There is science saying that we use only five percent of our brains.  One or two percent more puts us in the category of the question ‘why are you different?’  Just 2 percent.

It has people whispering about you as an adult and your peers shunning you as a child.  Yet being born with more of one’s brain opened means you will be seeing life differently than anyone else.

We focus on a narrow band of self created reality.  How much other is there to see?  I am really not certain.  I have lived with my view of the world, so it is what I know.  My details are not what others see the doctor said.  What do you see?  Only you know.

Oftentimes psychological shock will spring open doors that bring sounds into one’s consciousness never before experienced.  Yet the science doctors have stormed us with the information that only what is measurable in the laboratories is what is normal.

When one is presented with these sounds they have us off and running to the medics to reassure us that we are not going mad and are not crazy.  Yet when I asked a beloved why she went to church she told me that she hoped that what Jesus said is true.  That life is everlasting and seeing we will see and hearing we will hear.

And yet, yet, when presented by experience (she was a nurse) almost daily with evidence of it, she questioned what she was observing.

Her experience with spontaneous remission and unexpected deaths were not enough to convince her innate knowledge that all was not tied up in the pills and protocol.

When the tsunami broke through the sea wall of my skull and the sounds of moral outrage reigned in my head I shouted to the heavens to close up my head whatever that was supposed to mean.  Those were my shouted words.  Close up my head because  I was wide open to universal consciousness.  Psychological trauma was reason enough for my diminished self esteem to crumble.

Worlds penetrate and overlap boundaries with levels below and above what we focus on.  Earth is the classroom for learning.  Linear measures make learning easier.  Evolution is a many faceted phenomenon and we must broaden our premise to be able to deal with it effectively.

Otherwise all will eventually be running down the street  in our altogether being chased by white coats.

(excerpt from Universal Watch)

Worlds looming as non entities,
not proven by the laboratories
of the Science Gods, is life in other forms;
as intelligent, viable, thoughtful,
as intent on living within the realm
of their possibilities as we on Earth. . .

Searching as we do as gods for an enduring Peace..

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

 

1

All Things Will Be New Again. . .

It has been a productive week and I nicely surprised myself that I have not forgotten how to do something I learned over a half century ago.

I had a neighbor who was an interesting, eclectic man who knew a whole lot about a number of things.  And he was a scrounger who watched for estate sales and came up with good buys.  He learned also how to refinish things to rehab them.  And when I came up with a cherry table and 5 chairs for 25 dollars he said I had a find.

He said the chairs were nothing exceptional (they were like new) but the table was an antique which opened with a leaf built in.  He said whew!  Worth 300 dollars!  That was about 60 years ago.  He crossed the yard to his house to get materials  and proceeded to rehab the top.

In awe I watched him clean, sand, dust, stain and wax the table and in less time than writing this,  he was finished and the table stood beloved.  Now you have a piece of furniture he said.  I had each step indelibly leaded into my brain and the coffee table I photographed is an example of what I did this week.

Three pieces of furniture I nurtured back to nearly new the other day  but with a history.  During the past few years in the midst of many events and upheaval I had little energy and time for remedial measures.  No longer could I look at what I have been remiss doing so decided to bite the bullet.

It took much effort to get on my knees (and UP!!) but Jack Montgomery was a good teacher.  He is long gone from this sphere but ever in my heart for teaching what he knew so well.  Normally in our history when lessons take the teacher is forgotten.  But we were in this world together and good friends. So in gratitude for teaching so well,  I proudly look upon my work and think how fortunate I was to be their friend.

In over sixty years of family living with three boys and roughhousing we still use many first pieces of furniture.  The dining table photographed still wears its first finish though almost new by my standards of 40 years.   Caring for something does not hamper enjoyment of it and our modest means meant things must last.

I feed my eyes on my work of what I remembered in furniture rehabilitation.  I am quite proud and again grateful for good friends who not only loved me but also took the time to teach what they knew and generously shared their knowledge.   I eagerly supped.

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.

‘Twas 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.                                                                                           

0

To The Table Of Thought. . . Beggar’s Prayer. . . again

To The Table Of Thought. . .

I talk of the Essence of God because in Quantum Physics becoming is the key word for all of us in the present stages of Is, Am, Are.  Some of us freshly wrought,  others centuries in the harvest.

I plead to my god within to see the way to go, because I stutter my way with words and thoughts and do not dismantle but perhaps nudge into some evolutionary progress that my mentor, the Nazarene spoke.  What we do for one, he said, we do for all. 

We need help for this planet.  And for worlds watching what happens with us that we do not contaminate the rest of the planetary systems.  It is more than just us.  Or we will be walking the Cosmos again and soon finding ourselves with boots on in dry ash.

Beggar’s Prayer. . .

I come with the Grace
of all those I beseech, quietly.
In all names holy.

My work done with love,
in prayerful attendance to Life,
to acknowledge the birdsong
extolling the morning and awakening
the sun in triumph over night.

Sending the mist to dissipate
over the Mount, to nudge
the sleeping sages into activity,
to secure the earth’s roving
in this sea of tranquility.

I acknowledge my blessings where I am,
but I beg,

extinguish the desires of the old who miss
their spoils of war, and if allowed would
set fire to the hearts of the young
to do their bidding, negating the work
of the parents who taught their children
to love one another from the first time
a sibling invaded their space.

I beg for lives to be spared
so families can again sup together,
that children will again
have parents on the premises.
Begging you again to hone the values
that would have us carrying one another.

I beg this beggar’s prayer that man
who denies his own godliness will one day see

the common ground of his divinity.

 

0

Adam, where art thou? . .

(In transferring data into subject titles from my journals for easy reference into the computer, I come across discussions which answer some questions I am now asked.  Some of the discussions have been with our sons whom I have mentioned in my posts.  They have been my best teachers.  In philosophy questions I have bowed to our philosopher lawyer son David who had the patience with me to clarify issues needing light.  In quantum theory all time is simultaneous and because I was born knowing that, (not easy way to live)  it is with no discomfort I speak as if it was yesterday. It will be everyone’s one day.   When I wrote the following in 1981 I was fifty.  Bear with me.)

Adam, where art thou?. . .

When the New Testament talked of the sins of the fathers being visited on the children, we now talk of psychological inequities.  The burden is far more than one generation bearing the problems.  We talk here of generations propounding the original guilt of even having been born.

What did we do to make ourselves walking clinics of all the psychological infirmities ever known to man?  I am not just one bearing witness to my own difficulties.  There are those who sit next to me and across and who have walked before me and still to come.  There is always  one who bluntly says I never needed to see a professional therapist and yet cannot see himself because of the log in his eye.

We are quick to see  the inadequacies in the other and are protected from seeing our own?  We know they would undo us if we probe too deeply our hearts and beneath our skin.  How long dare we blame our mothers and fathers and be blind to seeing how we continue the worn paths walked before?  Yet we do the only thing we know to do with the construction of our minds and bodies.

To change ourselves we must first have an idea of what we want to be.  And then it must be part of every waking moment, hammering at it with no rest.  Who has the time, energy or desire for that?  Our culture and society eagerly sanctions one’s desire to something material or concrete.  Who is going to sanction one’s aspiring, as David says, to sainthood?  But why  saintly to aspire to what is noble and human?

I want to be the most noble human being I can.  If it means putting myself through agonizing times trying to discern my inner motives and feeling about conditional and unconditional love, then so be it.  I need not aspire to sainthood because my godhood is intact.  It always was.  Somewhere along the line we lost our way.  Why, how, I don’t know.  I only surmise.

At the end I want them to say she gave it her best shot.  She learned who her god was and who mine is, loved herself and everyone else.  He (my mentor) did not say how hard it would be to love oneself.  Especially when the world was ready to condemn man en masse.  But he knew man could not love  his neighbor as himself until he saw  his god within himself.  What I granted to me I must grant to the Other.  Holds true for all of us.  If we dismiss others as we dismiss ourselves, it doesn’t say much for our feelings or behavior.

Ye are gods! The scripture says.  Did I not tell you  you are gods he said.  Where stands man who in his heart of hearts would deny his own divinity.  As god stands, man is.  As man stands, god is, I wrote in one of my poems.  Adam, where art thou?

0

Powered by WordPress. Designed by WooThemes