Humility

With great effort ,
we influence outcomes
but * finally * we control nothing ,
except for our own
conduct .

From “Seeds of Self Fulfilment Work of Love” by PWChaltas

Samuel on Leadership
___________________
 
Keep your word.
Honour your covenant with G_d  
and humanity.
Reward loyalty with loyalty.
Defeat fear and uncertainty
by faith and bold acts.
Keep the lines of communication open.
Things are often not as
they appear; exercise common sense.
Seek the counsel of the
wise and the experienced.
Give others their due and
you will receive yours.
In the face of adversity
follow the moral course
no matter how difficult.
Protect your interests
and remain just .
Excessive pride leads
to downfall . Practice Humility.
Retreat in situations of
overwhelming odds but
keep close to your adversary
and continually re-assess.
Admit your mistakes.
 
From “Seeds of Self Fulfilment Work of Love” PWChaltas

A Word About Words

The spoken word has the colour of the voice and breath to
intimate meaning. It makes the oral tradition of storytelling,
singing, and teaching so much more immediate and present in
groups.  The writer knows the written word is different. Visually
on the page the written word can make an impression that the
spoken word cannot

The written word allows the reader to make his or her
interpretations alone and differently on his/her own terms. The
words themselves can be interpreted differently as they become
pregnant and wait to give birth to the possibilities. Even the
letters, the word’s component parts, have their own individual
meanings: Whether it is alpha , aleph, or “A” the letter we know
as “a” connotes the beginning or the start or the first or the single
or solitary one, The science of genetics recently, as well as the
teachings of the mystics hundreds of years ago, have shown us
that when letters are  combined and linked  in different ways they
bring about different possibilities and different outcomes. The
same is true with words
Pulled all together in a certain way, words may have a literal
interpretation(s). *Read* and interpreted differently they can
have a symbolic or metaphoric interpretation(s)

Words can have different meanings at different times and in
different circumstances.  When they are reread over and over
again in different ways the same words can yield different fruit.

Taking it one step further, the words may combine in ways that
suggest deeper meanings that may defy logical interpretation, to
give us an intuitive perception of ourselves as some part of a
greater, unfathomable and interconnected whole.

Preface from “Seeds of Self Fulfilment Work of Love” by PWChaltas

Come with Me.

Come with me
Come with me
to the Garden of Gethsemane.
Come with me ,
and take my hand .
Here in the Garden of Gethsemane
we will walk
hand in hand .
Come with me ,
Come with me,
to the Garden of Gethsemane
I ask of you: donʼt close your eyes
to sleep .
There is no need to speak
I only need
the simple willingness
of feet ,
and in your heart
I will give you rest.
Just come with me ,
come with me ,
to the Garden of Gethsemane
and I will give you
soothing lather,
of child’s balm

Come with me
Come with me
for the midnight prayer
in the stillness
of the midnight air ,
as moonlight
illuminates our silhouettes
in the Garden of Gethsemane .
Come with me
Come with me ,
each other ,
letʼs not forsake ,
till the early morning breaks.
Come with me .

In the Garden of Gethsemane,  thereʼs a tree
that opens blossoms,
red and white ,
only once at night,
and its’ pods
open down
towards the ground.
I will bring you there
and we will water it
you and I
with my blood,
and with all
of our eternal love .

Come with me,
Come with me,
to the Garden of Gethsemane
and we will travel
to the Gardens of the Tuleries,
and back
to the hanging gardens
of Babylon,
and to that Garden
kept in by walls
of cedar planks,
where we can rest
and finally be free,
And we will wrap our robes
around  the fragrant
cedars that are
crowned with doves,
there, where passionʼs
in the ground,
and itʼs simply
you and I
in purest love .

Come with me
Come with me
to the Garden of Gethsemane
my Love ,
and perhaps
we will also see
Jerusalem bathed in moonlight
and we will water olive trees ,
on mountain slopes ,
with bitter tears ,
while resting on
a sacrificial altar stone.
Come with me
Come with me
for this night I am alone.

Come with me
Come with me
to contemplate
and finally embrace
the Love that flows here
in the Gardens of Gethsemane
my Love.

And when the time comes near ,
that we must part ,
remember
I will always be
residing in your heart ,
here in the stillness
of the Garden of Gethsemane ,
my love .

From “Dreams for a Saturday Morning” by PWChaltas

Great Soul

Great soul
with skin wrapped
tightly on your bones
and loincloth
wound around
your hips ,
you walk to the sea
staff in hand
to make salt.
You spin
to make cloth.
You fast and mediate
and receive .
Great soul you’ve
been thrown off trains,
yet your peace remains,
and to you
violence
becomes
an intellectual
and spiritual refrain .
You make requests
that enemies
trust and
care well
for each other.
Great soul
even you
were tempted
by lust,
by your very blood,
and naked
you slept
with young girls

in great embrace
attempting to tame
the beast within,
which sometimes
simply
refused to behave .
Great soul
your thoughtful sins
were all forgiven,
the instant
the bullet
went
point blank
through your skin ,
and you became
Mahatma.
From “No Subject Here Just Light ” by PWChaltas

Fireworks

Under the stars
exploding flash of light.
Thunder of explosion
echoing loudly off
crumbling
building walls.
Terrifying roar of
black shining metal
riding bombing low
across the sky.
Force of military might.
Show of terrifying lit up beauty,
power ,
in the night.
Spectacle of CNN.
Splattered decoration
of blood and limb
in decimated streets.
Stars and stripes,
moons or crosses
lions , birds and beasts
swords or scimitars flying in the storms.
Fireworks exploding
In the sky
for the kings
and queens
mimicking the bombs
without the horror,
just the pride .
Hand over heart,
arm stretched out,
capped
with outstretched hand,
or fist saluting sky.
Spirit of Rome .
all the same .
Oh hallowed
hall of burdened
Glory!
Oh gosh
gee dynamics
of the win!
Oh litany of systems,
all ruling the horizons !
Oh all encompassing
general electricity
that covers
all the world .
Oh darlings of the
Wall street and financial wizards,
all eating their gâteaus .

Let us walk through
fields of blood red
poppies,
locked arm in arm,
and forming lines.

Our detectors ,
left at home
are all locked away
in closets
in the halls
as we wander
spending ,
the hours passing,
losing time,
in malls .

The corporals
and the privates
are headed home,
highway heroes,
silent  and returning
in their boxes
from fighting far away.
Hollywood spectacle
of the works
and world
we’re In
and of star studded
rationalizations
disguising all
the baser instincts
of women and of men .
Oh persistent
sweetly proudly
sung
illusions of the win.
What is this bloody
thing we’re in ?
Is it called Democracy ,
or theaters of war?
Iʼm confused.

 From “Next Steps to Paradise ” by PWChaltas

10:34 Am. Somewhere in the Pacific

The thunder
light and heat
rains down
on our backs.
Our limbs melt,
brains liquify,
heads crack,
and all pour
into the ground.
Two pillars
support
the cloud.
The earth
and our
boneʼs ashes
disintegrate
into a swirling
circular cloud,
of the brutality
of men .
They are
little boys,
sending little boys ,
and causing little boys
to die.

 From “Next Steps to Paradise ” by PWChaltas

Thanks Giving
We give thanks
for your gifts granted,
for all the gifts
that nourish us
and sustain us daily.
Likewise we thank you
for your mercy ,
and lovingkindness
that sustains us at each
and every moment
whether it be those
now sitting at your table,
or those now departed,
who we love .
For what are we ,
each one of us
finally ,
but a single
and simple
reflection
of your love,
and most especially now.

From “Seeds of Self Fulfillment Work of Love” by PWChaltas

03/27/11

February  Song

This song is in me and comes out
like a slow whisper and a solemn prayer.

February is a cruel month
when tender mercies make an end,
when the cold and the darkness crush the frail
and break the strong.
The time when those who seek the sun
and warmth are humbled .

February is the month when the air runs cold,
when it  no longer heals or nourishes
no matter how forced, warmed  or moistened .
It is the month when all artifice fails.

February is the month when life givers die
and when the scent of tender lilies
sweetens the stale air at midnight.

It is the month that the faithful falter
and prayers go unanswered,
except for a blink .
February is the month of mothers
and fathers ,
and of endings,
It is a month of veils and candles,
and overturned clumps of frozen earth ,
when hearts are broken
and made better
by the unbearable burden
of sadness
and its’ heavy weight ;

The month when the lamb,
saved from slaughter,
is escorted into dusk
by the dark knight.

A month of drinking bitter cups
with trembling hands
and numbing cups of myrrh mingled wine ,
those reluctant small and sweet cups
of Greek brandy  .

The month where all the ledgers revert to zero
and the cup is empty,
as the earth shifts by a single breath
and time changes  .

The poet says: “April is the cruelest month,
breeding lilacs out of the dead land,
mixing memory and desire,
stirring dull roots with spring rain.***
April is when the cherished “was” yields
and becomes  the new and unknown future              *** TS Eliot The Wasteland

From “Seeds Of Self Fulfilment Work of Love” by PWChaltas

Poems are written sometimes with a sense of joy, or a sense of amusement ,sometimes starting high up on a given line to take flight , and often times with tears spilling inside or out. “February Song”  is the only poem that I have ever  written where each line dropped out of my heart like a heavy stone, except of course for the stones that were Eliot’s lines. Some days after my mother passed away in February of 2011 Eliot’s “Wasteland” came to mind and specifically those lines incorporated into the poem above . After writing the poem  i visited my mother’s grave one day . I noticed a very small grave plaque next to her’s under a tree , a memorial for A Toronto Star journalist & writer that  quoted Eliot’s verse . (see below ) T.S. Eliot was a great visionary poet that I truly admire. This poem became my memorial , a homage , to him as well as to both of my parents and to a dear cousin who all passed away in February .

T.S. Eliot’s verse