SamadhiMuse

                        On Sophie’s choice
         Let me look … let the light freeze just there
            on these love worn hands and new grayed hair
         softly now … go and see your child
            go … look … with your eyes that can feel and smile
         That your children, so loved, can die … its unbelievable
            their small coats still buttoned up.
         and your wife, with her warmth at night
            and all those photograph albums shared
               the cups she’s dried with care
                  and the small wrinkles that seem to run
                     where once was young and fair.
         Go, my friend, and walk the house and touch the wood
            and sit among it … your midnight kin
         and let the walls come round you … and the moments wait
            while you think how frail, …how frail is this love
         That a child, you’ve dressed for school
            can die, a bullet’s glove, on a concrete step
         and that the woman who’s shared all those years
            can become just a statistic in some foreigner’s newspaper
         Some day these all, the child, warm wife, and wood
            could be torn from your page of life
         and your cups go broken … their skin grow cold
            while pityless politicians
               vie for their intangible goods….
                                    Gallagher
                                    12 January 1983
                                       Dallas, TX

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

         I wonder, as I listen to Bhagwan’s words
         if the difference he defines
         between knowledge and knowing
         doesn’t have something to do
         with the difference between holistic
         and sequential modes of perception…
         sort of like an apparatus we control
         the F stop.
         Full open is holistic with full parallel processing
         the ego dead because nothing can exist
         separate from the process?
         letting the past, as memory or judgment
         come in is analogous to dividing the task
         forming alternatives or sequentiality into it
         closing the aperture…
            attenuating the sensitivity…
               biasing the wait….
                              01-13-83

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

               How much I’ve come about
                  these last few years
               my love for Rose and Danny and Chris
                  is never at issue
               it overflows at the slightest thought
                  where before were only dreams
                                 01-13-83

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

            So this Irish son of immigrants married
              the daughter of Norwegians
            and he from a line that ended faltering
              and she from the small Minnesota towns
                lost in dust.
            The years have passed, the wrinkles grown,
              the children strong.
            What are we…you, my love, and I
              but the fabric that has made my life a joy.
            I wish I could say my thoughts better
              my heart fills with so much
            and I turn to try to say
              how very much I care.
                              gallagher
                              13 Jan 83

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

               The Winds of War
      The winds of war and I can feel the sinews of time
         about to rip from their anchors
      children, customs, love, forms, history, memory
         torn thru every part, across every line
      Here a picture of Poland’s jews
         a wedding day the day before Germany invades
      I remember a museum… a few books… black and white photos
         of people in black clothes and funny hats
            all gone, all gone
      neighborhoods, blocks, buildings, families, marriages
         children, furniture, clothes, books, records, memories
            all gone
         but for these isolated pieces in the museum
                                 02-06-83
                                 SJC

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

                           Gerda’s Knife
      I watched ‘Winds of War’ on TV and then turned out the light
         And, on the stairs, in the dark, ascending
            I saw your father’s knife as it hung in your bedroom.
      Its white metal patient these many years
         since another sun shown on it
            in the days of the German Reich.
      I could hear flags whipping, red and black,
         against the green of trees
            and the gray of building stones
      and, for a moment, felt the eyes of countless men
         as their hands caressed its handle’s symbol
            and reveled in the power and purpose of a God given cause
      and then, these many years later, through chances too rare to say,
         I came and found it there in your room
            waiting patiently through all my childhood and travels
      A time machine from another land
         another time
            that almost changed my world
      I look at old photos, black and white,
         and so much time seems too stand between me and those images
            but with your father’s knife
      I could hear the flags whispering
         in the crisp air of that unique time
            and feel their dreams across the years
                                    GALLAGHER
                                    7 Feb 83
                                    San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

            Same concept in different context
               same concept as a subset of itself
            sometimes I glimpse strange ropes
               amid the tangle
                  arch forms thru the many
            extensibles, a calculus
               to the structure’s algebra
            I wonder what thought forms await us
               computer man
                              02-22-83
                              Irvine at Pick

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

         Sometimes small boy dreams float over me
            camping trips not taken, rocks not polished
         days spent walking around someone
            who will so quickly grow and move on
         someone whose young disappointments
            were only my laziness
         baseball, racquetball, model building, Mexico
            and he grows so well
               in spite of all I’ve forgotten
                  to do.
                              gallagher
                              02-28-83

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

                  My Great Aunt Nell
         I’m time tripping in a very different way tonight.
         My Great Aunt Nell McGee was over for dinner
         and I pulled out the old boxes of photographs
         that I was never able to face
         after my mother passed away.
         Mixed there were my mother’s collection
         and my Great Aunt Mame’s.
         Things that ran from Rose and I, three years ago,
         to my Great Grand Parents;
         Pennsylvania farmers and Irish immigrants.
         Even now I sit among these beautiful people’s
         pictures, long gone.
         But when my Aunt was here, it was different.
         Through her eyes, I saw my mother at 17,
            young and fresh and pretty,
         and my Grandfather as a young blade,
            with wit and intelligence
               engraved so clearly on his face.
         I followed brothers and sisters
            throughu births and deaths;
               through first-hand knowledge
                  and through things just heard.
         She put names to faces fifty years gone
            and I felt them as they were.
         I saw my Father, briefly,
            some ghost image who came into
         and out of my Mother’s life
            in a camera’s blink of time.
         I saw myself, as little Chris is today,
            when my Grandfather was old
         and I saw my Grandfather’s youth
            with a rebel’s spirit
               so clearly on his face.
                        12 Mar 1983
                        San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

                  My Great Aunt Nell
         I’m time tripping in a very different way tonight.
         My Great Aunt Nell McGee was over for dinner
         and I pulled out the old boxes of photographs
         that I was never able to face
         after my mother passed away.
         Mixed there were my mother’s collection
         and my Great Aunt Mame’s.
         Things that ran from Rose and I three years ago
         to my Great Grand Parents
         Pennsylvania farmers and Irish immigrants.
         Even now I sit among these beautiful people’s
         pictures, long gone.
         But when my Aunt was here it was different;
         Thru her eyes I saw my mother at 17
            young and fresh and pretty
         and my Grandfather as a young blade
            with wit and intelligence
               engraved so clearly on his face
         Followed brothers and sisters
            thru births and deaths
               thru first-hand knowledge
                  and things just heard
         She put names to faces fifty years gone
            and I felt them as they were
         I saw my Father, briefly,
            some ghost image who came into
         and out of my Mother’s life
            in a camera’s blink of time.
         I saw myself as little Chris is today
            when my Grandfather was old
         and I saw my Grandfather young
            with a rebel’s spirit
               clearly on his face
                        12 Mar 1983
                        San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

         All these photograph faces swimming bye
            moments captured forever
         then…now.
            They laughed at the camera
         so alive, and yet so frail
            compared to these paper traces
               they’ve left.
         Each one I throw away hurts.
            I think, that with a motion,
         I may be disconnecting the last memory
            of someone.
         Someone who loved,
            whose blood flows in mine
         a lifetime of experiences
            gone now
               because no one remembers their name.
         I threw away a weathered envelope,
            circa 1920, whose contents had been lost
               in the photograph box’s general melee
         and I remember there was written on it
            ‘Via con Dios’ is someone’s handwriting.
                              12 Mar 1983
                              San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

         All these photograph faces swimming bye
            moments captured forever
         then…now.
            They laughed at the camera
         so alive, and yet so frail
            compared to these paper traces
               they’ve left.
         Each one I throw away hurts.
            I think, that with a motion,
         I may be disconnecting the last memory
            of someone.
         Someone who loved,
            whose blood flows in mine
         a lifetime of experiences
            gone now
               because no one remembers their name.
         I threw away a weathered envelope,
            circa 1920, whose contents had been lost
               in the photograph box’s general melee
         and I remember there was written on it
            ‘Via con Dios’ is someone’s handwriting.
                              12 Mar 1983
                              San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

          - Rosemary, my mother’s sister -
         That all our small wishes and dreams
            be driven from the stage
               like sand before the storm.
         Should we hold the echos or
            let them go?
         I feel grief when I read this child’s card,
            whose dead forty years,
               when she writes
                  she’ll be home soon
                     in a child’s scrawl.
         Barely done … and when I drop the card
            washed away forever.
            I threw the card away three times
               and took it back again.
                              12 Mar 1983
                              San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

             Rosemary, my mother’s sister
         That all our small wishes and dreams
            be driven from the stage
               like sand before the storm.
         Should we hold the echoes or
            let them go?
         I feel grief when I read this child’s card,
            whose dead forty years,
               when she writes
                  she’ll be home soon
                     in a child’s scrawl.
         Barely done … and when I drop the card
            washed away forever.
            I threw the card away three times
               and took it back again.
                              12 Mar 1983
                              San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

                  For Chris
         Chris’ small shoes
            He says, ‘Read my book, Daddy.’.
         Hold me, tickle me….
            Where else have I seen
               those child’s eyes?
         1913, 1930, 1950, …
         He’s so precious
            the moment so brief
         I want to cry and read him
            his book
         before we all become photographs
         God, life is beautiful
            and so short
         and we are such utter fools
            in the midst of it most times.
                           12 Mar 1983
                           San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

                  For Chris
         Chris’ small shoes
            He says, ‘Read my book, Daddy.’.
         Hold me, tickle me….
            Where else have I seen
               those child’s eyes?
         1913, 1930, 1950, …
         He’s so precious
            the moment so brief
         I want to cry and read him
            his book
         before we all become photographs
         God, life is beautiful
            and so short
         and we are such utter fools
            in the midst of it most times.
                           12 Mar 1983
                           San Juan Capistrano

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

            We talked about Bhagwan and religion today.
               She thinks I’m crazy but without malice.
            I tried to make the point that he is to religion
               what ‘One World’ is to nationalism
            Somehow its only the Rolls Royces everyone sees
               and I had to confess I don’t understand
                  that part myself.
            I told her that if I couldn’t get time off
               I would quit my job to go this summer
            and she couldn’t fathom how something
               I’m so inactive in
                  could be so important to me.
            I said that in my priorities only she
               and the kids came higher.
            I tried to ask her how she would feel
               if somehow she had come to believe
                  that Christ had returned…
               would it change her life,
                  that He was existing, available,
                     in our society?
            Would it change mine?
               I’m still trying to find out.
            I’m going to go again in July and
               join the Buddhafield.
            Open my heart and eyes to the storm
               of history around this man.
                           Gallagher
                           3 April 83
                           S.J.C.

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

      Lying there beside her, I smell her skin, the warmth of her
         I see, or imagine, in the gray light, the wrinkles
            I’ve put there and I feel the storm of our lives
      She’s told me her period’s wrong and that her breasts hurt.
         For months we’ve tried to conceive
            and come to this.
      I put my hand on her back beneath the covers
         intimate against her sleeping
            I would know her skin anywhere.
      I begin to feel age and our mortality.
         Even now my body says I press too hard
            that I cannot become what I once was.
      And she who grows more precious to me each year
         grow more ripe for He who reaps us all.
            I touch her back and feel her breath … this moment.
                              Gallagher
                              3 April 83, SJC

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

                              586
      So we choose what we want to decorate our lives
         and then find ourselves in empty rooms
            with mocking mirrors and the riddle
      of how everything can be just as we wanted it
         and yet so utterly empty and unfulfilling
      I walk these rooms and wait the clock
         twist against frustration and strive to see the truth
      but I carry weapons against the deadness;
         love and memories, pictures and words
            faces and touches, family names
      they can’t break me on their pressures
         though sometimes they send me out
            to stumble blank-eyed
               from the wicked press of incomprehension
      as long as there are children’s smiles
         and a woman’s love
            I can survive
                           04-04-83
                           Irvine at Pick

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

   We erode against our experiences.
      In the end we have nothing but our name
         and our memories
            All the things we were going to do
            All those things we believed in
            All that we thought we had become
   Is washed from us by our own historical dialectic.
      We give birth to ourselves, but do not survive.
   I try in the mornings to focus my intent
      but in the evenings seldom have more
         than just the memories of where I’ve been
         These paper scraps, the only trail I leave.
                              Gallagher
                              11 April 83, Irvine

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —