Author Archive | Veronica Hallissey

Midnight Blue

My version of a card in fabric.

My version of a card in fabric.

 

 

When we first received this card I knew I wanted to do my fabric version of it.   At the moment it is my favorite.   It will be on display for the February 10th exhibit at the Oak Park Arms.  There will also be a reception.   I hope those in the area will allow time on Sunday to join us.   I look forward to meeting you.   The quote on the quilt is mine. ‘My heart races to the brink now;  to the edge of the winter snows. ‘ Do come.  You are cordially invited.

4

Conundrums

A miserable constitution should send one to class rather than to the doctor.

The true child of the universe walks in confidence.  It is the child held captive in the adult body who flounders helplessly.

There is no profit in knowing anything if it is not also a given.

Urchin is the adult in process.

If man does not do it right, how many more times will the earth be hospitable?

Any violation of a personal right, even the right to be unhappy or ill, carries a great penalty.

Relationships become more honed toward that which is left behind.

Pity has no place in a life so rich.

Pity is no friend.   He is the enemy who takes life.

It is quite a horrendous matter when we confront our own inadequacies and see our children have outscoped us in growth and awareness.

When stress becomes unbearable, we are then pressed to broaden our understanding and learn.

When man truly wants to learn he will.   Spirit discerns the well intentioned and the readiness of the student.

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Refuge In Dreams

 

In the beginning
when I was young
and when I was very cold,
I took my mammoth skin
and drew it closer about me
and found refuge in dreams.

Like a tourniquet
it stopped the flow of life
out of me.

Now I am old
and I huddle
still deeper in my woolen wrap.
Closing my eyes,
I discover refuge again in my dreams.
And find it stops

the flow of life out of me.  Again.

2

A God Work

When we write our own personal ambitions out of the picture, we kill
all illusions.   I feel kindly toward illusions and see them for what they
are.   They are the finery with which we dress all the dailyness, all the
scullery to make it not only bearable but to elevate it also.  That is a
noble endeavor.   It is a god work.

There is much work for both men and women that I call scullery.  It
is the scut work that keeps civilizations from crawling on their
bellies.   I often thought that heaven was on the side of public utilities
for just that reason.   It was the only way to contain the diseases from
killing off humankind.

A lifetime of working with illusion can produce great results.   They
can add impressively to the record of man.   What we do is think a
problem through many times to come to some conclusions, strictly
by effort.   When that effort is noticeable, other elements contribute
and can be either visible or invisible.   When we think we can make a
difference and see positive results, it can be and often is illusion that
drives us.   When we see the results in the here and now it is a
reinforcing factor.   We must take into consideration that even when
our efforts are not visible,  we cannot discount them.   What are not
visible of course are the parallel worlds that the physicists as well as
mystics speak of.   When we think of thoughts as things, as having a
weight and a substance to them, they can be of use in many worlds.
It is not a far stretch from ‘my father’s house has many rooms.’   In
the Dead Sea Scrolls it was found in the gospel of Thomas where the
disciples questioned Jesus as to where they would go when they died,
convinced there was a place.   And he replied that they never
questioned where they had come from so why worry where they will
be going.   Since this has been an independent study for many years
with me,  I find the knowledge of many worlds comfortable.   It makes one clean up one’s thoughts a bit and maybe some might think it adds to my illusions.   But when we give weight to illusions and life to them, we also add to the richness of physical life.   No one knows for certain where our thoughts settle.   I hope that what I think will make my light brighter and our universe(s) all inclusive.

What I am certain of is a dim bulb soon goes out.

1

The Homecoming

My warm breath makes a circle of clear space
on the frosted pane.  I gaze at empty horizons
willing your outline to appear
to give this day extra measure.

You move into view with water pails swinging,
from shoulders whose strength I know by heart,
with strides cleanly cutting
the knee high snow, effortlessly.

I move within the circle and my warm world,
eagerly awaiting your shout and stamp of feet
on the threshold, feeling already
your cold face along the line of my throat.
The woolen nap of your winter shirt
is rougher even than my hands.

It’s been too long you say since you left.
And I laugh.  Hardly time enough to clean the barn
for barely were you gone an hour.
And here already.  My day has taken shape.

                                   *****

The stamp of feet, the key turns
and the door clicks open.
My hands press the smooth fabric of your
well tailored coat and do not catch.
I take the leather briefcase from your hands
and lift my head for the homecoming.
It’s been so long that you are gone, I say, and you laugh.
I’ve only been gone a week this time, you say.

I turn again to the window to find it frosted over.
And know that worlds have died
and been reborn in less time.

And today, another one.

2

My Exhibit And Reception

FEBRUARY 10th  AT 2 P.M.
An exhibit of my work
at the Oak Park Arms in Oak Park,  IL.  60302
408 S. Oak Park Ave.

I will have my wall quilts on exhibit in the hall gallery for purchase and also my books, Kiss The Moon and The Last Bird Sings will be available also for purchase.   The exhibition will feature a series of `want to be touched 18th and 19th century’ winter scenes.   I hope to meet those of you who have been readers of my blog and all who would be interested in seeing my work.

This exhibit has been in the planning stages for several months now and I want to give enough time for those who are planning a trip to the Chicago area to make room in their schedules to come to Oak Park to see my work.   I would love to see old friends as well as meet you who know me through my work.   I look forward to seeing you.

I will mention this exhibit several times between now and the 10th of February so plans can be made to include me in your mid winter trip to Chicago.   There will be refreshments served during the reception.   Please come.   You are cordially invited.

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A Fable and A Lark

Adam arrived and called Eve
to join him for dinner.
She did and they feasted well
in the beginning of the great deep.
Together they cavorted and played
and made love while merry.
Cain and Abel arrived
and the merriment ceased.

They bickered and fought and competed
for their place in the sun.
The gods who made them fought and bickered
for Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel
were what their gods had made.

Together, altogether the merriment stopped
and serious business was on the agenda.
Serious business like power games and
competition and who was going to be king of the mountain.
For in a new kingdom with no memory of home,
they did not remember who they were.

Altogether now, altogether,
we follow the prophets as they wrote history
from memory, eliminating curious details such as
why?  when?  and what for?
Nowhere do we find the fact that Adam
aged and became paunchy while his liver became swollen
with the fruits of the vine made soluble.

Nowhere do we scan the real dilemma for Lady Eve.
The voices shouted her guilt
in eating the forbidden fruit of knowledge,
for all hell broke loose when the woman claimed
her innate intelligence.    Lady Eve, of course,
assumed the guilt because of course they all said
she was guilty.  Did her god speak to her?
Was she told `not!  not!  Eve, bad!  bad!?

Or did she simply see that food was needed
for dinner and what was at hand was easier
than getting a basket and going marketing in the woods.
Since everything was good in the world where she was,
‘not good’ was outside her frame of reference.

The apple tree was there so Eve picked a ripe apple
and shared it with Adam.    Since Adam wanted
to get on with other things, we must chalk up one
for woman’s practicality.    Only now we realize
that Adam could have rejected her offer.

Had there been an ordinance against eating apples,
perhaps it would have been easier to understand.
With no memory of home, it was with enormous courage
Eve came to earth where her god was not.
The no!  no! she possibly heard
stopped her long enough one would suppose
to take responsibility for a decision
which proved delicious to the palate.
They ate the apple with gusto.
The `why?’ went unanswered to satisfaction
and the `because I said so!’ has been heard
by every child ‘s query since.

And that started the gods speaking the parts
and the players rehearsing their own methods
so they could become gods on their own.
And a potpourri of too many words still unclear
cluttered the air waves and chaos ensued.
For who was bright enough to discern all the yodeling?

Except maybe Eve.

So knowledge was born and the ability to test
first hand all things on earth, uncontaminated.
It was unspoiled, unpolluted and all good
for the human species.    Eve was the originator
of the hands on policy.   She taught us
that the exigency of the moment is best met
with what we possess and the moment of decision
will announce who we are.

So Eve’s god had a hard time with her,
for a woman of knowledge claimed her right.
She had the ability to make a judgment which
was to become valid.

We still eat apples, don’t we?

0

Let Us Vow

Let us vow. . .
that when we cannot share
our brother’s Light.
we will hold the candle
as he makes his way up.

Let us vow. . .
to embed love
within our four walls
so that our children
will be instruments of Peace.

Let us vow. . .
to love one another
so that Peace is not a promise
but a fact.

Let us vow. . .
a noble vigil
in the Names of All we hold dear.

Amen.  And Amen.

3

December Confirms The June Woman

It is June and I stand poised on the landing of the half circular staircase.  I am hearing the strains of the Canon not heard in this, my lifetime.  Shocked still, caught in the shadows of half remembering and yet reluctant to confront the shaded memories,  I wait.

She is visible, the young woman gliding with joy to the music which carried her down the long hall.   She curtsies to the throngs lining the great walls.

I stand, not moving.   Her joy is mine, translating to an emptiness in my heart.  The tears scald my cheeks and the rest solidify in a mass in my throat.   I cannot swallow.   I am in danger of drowning from within and without.

II

It is now December.   I am before an ancient building in a city bearing her years gracefully.  The snow is circling my feet and the wind is freezing my eyes.  I am rooted to this spot.   The air is ringing with the sounds of holiday; lights flicker their ritualistic colors in harmony.   Yet I stand immobile.

On the second floor of the ancient building, caught in the winter  of my memories, I see the long hall stretching before me.  The strain and refrains of the Canon carry the young one still, waltzing yet.  The violins smooth the way for her memories to be built.  The red vests of the rotund violinists complement in contrast their black, slicked hair.  They bend and bow in homage.  Their music locks her destiny forever.

My eyes are again in danger, this time of freezing in their sockets with the salted tears that cannot stop.   The memory does not move,  not to one side nor the other.  My will forces my eyes to play again what can only be seen in my throbbing head.  Courted through centuries with great care to remain hidden,  I unwittingly jarred the box housing those memories.

In retrospect,  I was ready.  It was my time.   I turned away shaken and knowing

                                                           the past is still happening.

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Christmases Past

Lifetimes lived secreted
behind the wooly frames of memory.

We jog the frames
of Christmases past.

Scents of
pine boughs and holly berries,
mince pies and cranberries.

Sounds of
apple crisp snow and crackling fires,
and laughter.

And the sound of silence,
as love stretches through all dimensions
to encircle Thee and Me.

As real, as tangible,
as the star beams
on the evergreen.

A promise given and kept.

Do you hear the angels?

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