Rose, it gave me such a pleasure— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
to help with the children when you were sick today.
I know I wasn’t as much help as I could have been
fussing with the phone and the newspaper
but it made me realize what you do with them
like a farmer who digs his hands
deep into the soil that is his life.
You see them as life brimming, raw with promise.
A treasure of people just beginning.
A future world you can mother and comfort.
It was such simple pleasure to smile and hold them.
They saw my feelings and responded to me.
But you had already made that place
where I came to visit and open to them.
It was a day well spent and badly needed.
Somethings cut deeper than others
and you’ve found one, my lover, wife, and friend.
You nurture them and me in the sunshine
of your love and cherishing
and I see now
how you let God work through you.
gallagher
1/20/86 #2
Archive for the ‘Catalyst’ Category
1986-01-20
Monday, January 20th, 19861986-03-10
Monday, March 10th, 1986
Like a tear in the sky
that lets heaven come shining through
I opened up today
and nothing could hide the flame I felt.
Deep joy burning my heart down.
I went for a run, music in my ears,
God's creation in my eyes
and a deep feeling filling me
that I was tapped into something deeper
than the everyday shows.
Sometimes, like a lens, I just come focused.
Like a crystal, when the light comes on through,
I am for a moment showered with grace and clarity.
Full of the conjunction of my will
and my life and God's purpose.
As if all the warm hands of love and meaning
have come at once to press me
and I to feel through them
the fabric of life.
gallagher
10 Mar 86
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
1987-02-10
Tuesday, February 10th, 1987
People just 'making' things to validate themselves...
dancing to give expression to technique,
making funny faces in the mirrors which reflect us,
as if art was technique and fad was prediction.
When you begin to close your hands on her waist, then you know.
When you fingers press and feel her give of warmth and nakedness
and you begin to smell her hair....
She is not marble or manikin nor is she abstraction or posed.
Your hands tell you she is real and your feelings sing of it.
And what you feel fills and emptys you like the wheat-fields and the seasons.
This is the music of mortality and the whisper of infinite mystery.
Let them paint their rocks, dance their techniques and worship idols,
I will drink at this fount.
Gallagher
10 Feb 1987
— Copyright 1965-2010 by Dennis Gallagher —