It is nearing midnight and I am going to announce the winner of The Last Bird Sings. To accommodate my readers from across the waters and those who work nights, the winner is Laura Libby Jones. I will be contacting her for essential information and the book will be on its way. I want to thank all who entered for their interesting and gracious reasons for wanting the book I hope all of you will subscribe to my blog because I will be doing this more often. It is great fun for me and I hope it was for you.
Maria Wulf is to be thanked again for her support. Full Moon Fiber Art is a wonderful blog and I have learned much from Maria’s venture into Gee quilting. She has interesting ideas to share with us and she shines as the true artist and wonderful person that she is. I am glad to call her friend.
Again, thank you for entering and making this a most interesting week.
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Felix is the Elder, the mentor and Marshall is his student, needing Felix to teach him what Marshall needs to know. They are out in the field with the huge machine, lovingly dubbed by the Brothers as The Hemingway. It is hot and Marshall is fidgeting.
“Why do you say that evening can be felt when the sun is still high and so hot?”
And Felix looked at him with a delight that only the teacher feels when words take to the mind and light it like the sun itself.
“When the sun is heading for its resting place, it makes a movement in the sky. At
a particular time in its journey, faster than the eye can see, you can feel its path. The touch of the air on your face will alert you to the evening coming upon us. You will not see it but you will feel it. And now that you are aware of its journey, you will watch for it. Some things are felt long before they are seen. And in due time, you will know that all things, even that as slight as the breath given by the sun in motion will have a substance. And you will tell about all things by the feel of all things.”
Felix turned the Hemingway around at the end of the field. He pointed it in the direction of the mountain and cut the motor. He made motion for Marshall to take the wheel. But this time he removed himself and walked around the machine. He climbed into the seat that Marshall had vacated and sat there a moment.
Marshall looked at him with excitement as well as apprehension. His voice was almost a whisper. In fact when he opened his mouth, the words could be heard as a croak of a frog.
“You mean to let me drive this by myself? I don’t think I can do it, Felix. Not by myself.”
“You can do it Marshall. You can do it. Just remember to lift the plough if you do
not intend to look back. But You decide. I will close my eyes and rest them a bit. But you can do it, I know.”
And Felix laid his head back on the shoulder of the seat and closed his eyes. A light
twinkled around the corners of his eyes but his mouth did not betray him. He gave a deep sigh, and settled himself.
Marshall sat there for awhile wondering at this turn of events. The sweat beaded on his upper lip and his hands shook. With an effort that duplicated his inner quaking he turned the ignition on the Hemingway and with a roar, the machine answered. He decided after a minute that this first time behind the wheel, he best lift the plough. And with a movement which spoke a trust of his budding confidence, he grasped the wheel and announced to Felix,
“Just this first time I lift the plough. Tomorrow I will be able to look back at the
furrows I make and guide the Hemingway, too. Today I get the feel of the machine but tomorrow I will be able to look back and go forward too.”
Felix lifted his hand in acknowledgement and wanting Marshall to note his approval, with his hand in motion he wiped the smile off his face.
Leave your name and a comment for the blind drawing of The Last Bird Sings. The winner of the drawing will be announced Friday morning the 14th of March. I look forward to hearing from you!
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
The Last Bird Sings is a story within a story and the form is much loved in European Literature. It contains excerpts of my life along with my understanding of these events in the long scope of my life; how they have shaped me into who it is I am. How and why I view my Self with what I consider All That Is. It is about my need to build a philosophy that would hold me up no matter what the events of my life would be . I write of our connection as human beings to All That Is. It is my view of our humanity and our divinity.
The book drawing will be from Monday the 10th through Thursday evening the 13th of March. The winner will be announced Friday morning the 14th of March. And then the book will be in the mail as of the next week. It will be a blind drawing and all that is required is that you leave your comment on my blog. Your e mail address will not appear on my blog. You may comment on a post that I have done on my blog or why you would like to have a copy of The Last Bird Sings. I will welcome your comments. And I hope you think it is fun that you might be the winner!
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Not quite 50 when I wrote the following one Saturday night in a September journal entry.
The window is open where I sit and it is black outdoors. The dampness is coming in and I am almost transported to my youth and it is once again life on The Farm. The crickets are making their own kind of noise, certainly peculiar to crickets but the night itself has its own kind of sound. Does stillness have its own sound and can you hear it? The muffle of the daylight brings on the darkness and it pulsates with its own vitality. I wish I had the words to tell it. It is almost as if I can flow right through the screen and become a part of the night and disappear into it. With not even a ripple to disturb the night. The poem said it long ago that somewhere the night has a thousand songs waiting to be sung. But never enough time. Never enough time.
Is there a point in life where if you lived just one day longer, you would find a difference in your perspective and it would convince you that your entire life had been lived with the incorrect premises? I wonder. . . . .And what would that do to you? Would that one day more convince you that it was not necessary to repeat another life or make you more determined to come back to earth and try again? And who has the time in physical life to take on the enormous task of searching for the gods? Can you squeeze it in between the work life and home life and million details of just plain living that boggle the mind? Or will you find it at 11 o’clock on Sunday morning? The search is all encompassing and consuming for those of that persuasion. It amazes me that there are those who give it no thought at all. Can you live a life without searching for some meaning, any meaning? Or is it enough simply to get through it? I wonder what sort of contracts are written before birth to enable one to move through earth life with no complications. Some ground rules must be laid and if so, by whom. Except no doubt by the people involved.
(As the mother of 3 I innately knew and told them as often as I could and always on birthdays that I am glad they chose me as their mother because I chose them. And it was a ready answer for the often adolescent retort which invariably stated. . . .I didn’t ask to be born! Ahhhhh but you did!)
Photo by Joshua Hallissey
click on photo to magnify
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
The heads of state
sat studiously brooding over
the new confrontation;
perchance an answer lay buried,
obscured.
Why should we, they pondered,
be for all things and all people
always a hundred per cent?
Only because
Conscience told them,
when you see it to be done,
it is yours to do.
The how and why of it
Discipline will determine.
Otherwise it remains undone
and the situation
will come back to bite you.
It has always been thus
to those who are well endowed,
with virtue unclaimed.
The obvious is a source of power
to the one who sees,
resting amongst a world still
waiting to be born anew.
There is always that hope.
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
My friends thought I was obsessed with connecting the dots. This is the process by which I see an event and see its consequences while the event incubates. I have a lifetime behind me where I was a veritable Sherlock. They were unable to see the connections between people or events even when pointed out.
I find the most disconcerting phrase being ‘live in the moment.’ Everything is in the moment. Whether it is love, (STD’s or who will take care of the baby disregarded) or a war being declared. These things are real but their roots are not in the moment but in the many yesterdays. The moment has no meaning without a yesterday. If we have no yesterday, today is sterile, impotent, without meaning. It is a well thought out and lived in yesterday that gives this moment its meaning. Why do I press this? If our yesterday was not filled with events that were thought filled, that were fulfilled, then yesterday will make this moment null and void. And those who see dots and make connections are sometimes quick to take advantage of those who do not.
Socrates was filled with advice about putting meaning into our days. He said that the unexamined life is not worth living. It is only by remembering the past and chasing our memories that we begin to know who we are and from where we come. It is only by understanding the past that the present, the now, will not have to repeat the past.
Oftentimes and too often it seems, when it comes to our Earth’s resources, we mortgage our children’s futures. We must sit and think about the past, not only ours but our ancestors. We must take time to reflect on our behavior and how we contribute to our problems as well as the Earth’s. What can we do to make the present more commendable? We make our present richer when we glean from the past those lessons and times that are good memories. And we learn from the bitter failures what we do not wish to repeat. Let us thoughtfully include them. The present moment only has meaning because of what we bring to it. And if we find our Now empty, it is best we look within. We take who we are into tomorrow and find we have within us basis for a future with meaning because we root our present.
We are the gold that shows.
Double click on the photo. This plaque was a gift from my sister who read The Last Bird Sings and surprised me with this gift. She read the first manuscript and this impressed her thinking. It has much meaning for me.
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
(When I published the journal entry called Hidden Lessons, I was nudged to go through my files because I thought there might be a poem I had forgotten about. After much searching I found it and thought I would follow the Lessons essay with what I had written March 08, 1998. It explains to me why I was so moved and grateful to the young woman who stopped that day in September in the year 2000.)
My God Watches Me
Over and over I create
and recreate situations and wars
with symbolic enemies
but sometimes not.
I must watch my responses,
my actions and motives
lest my God think less of me.
So I spare my God further annoyance
by monitoring my Self.
The situations and ordeals
are best kept in mind.
I articulate my position
to establish myself several times
in the course of a day.
The wars and arguments
are pacified, but only after words
become too tiresome to continue.
Peace becomes the only option.
I work toward perfection
and a hard work it is as anyone
who knows me would agree.
It is necessary though, you see,
for my God watches me.
I watch-dog my actions
and harness my tongue and change
hurtful thoughts with labored caring.
It means I reconsider
my earnest evaluations of mine enemies
and present the other cheek.
I pretend I prepare myself for sainthood
while I breathe the rarefied air
of my benign earth.
And watch my Self
as my God watches me.
Not so easy to do this
monumental work of sanctification.
Of my internal warts and grievous errors,
I am deeply conscious.
But perhaps I prevent them
from penetrating my soul
as long as I keep close the knowledge
that my God watches me.
Photo by Veronica
click on photo to see icicles on pine trees
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
May I ask you a question? He was sitting at the window and looking out as if he could will the sun to come out so he could play outdoors. Why you ask? Because I want you to know that if you don’t want to answer, you can say no to me. But you always answer my question and never say no, he said. I woun’t say no to you, he said. I maybe not know the answer but I woun’t say no. I tried to frame my question simply.
I wonder, I said, if you can remember what it was like before you came here to live. I waited. He continued looking at me and I thought past me and then asked, which time before? I drew breath and then said the one you remember best. And he smiled at me and said the one where we were together before? Where was that I asked. He said, you know, you know. That’s why I choosed you this time. We were bestest friends and I knowed how much you could help because we were bestest friends.
Where was that I asked again. He said in that cold place where we had to hold hands so our fingers could be warm. Who was there with us I asked and he searched my face. He was reading me I thought and then wondered why. He said it was a hard time and this time would be better. Why was it a hard time I asked and he said because our bodies were broked and sick. This time he said we are not broke so we can go outside and play. We were too old and broked last time and the cold hurt when we breathhhhddd. How do you remember that I asked and why do you remember.
Because here I can breathhhedddd and it don’ hurt. My throat burn in that place when things ‘ploded ’cause they fighted all the time. You ‘member he said, you ‘member. And he became silent and his eyes clouded. And he said, we say to each other, never ‘gain, never ‘gain. I pulled him to me and hugged him and said never again. We will try to stay where it doesn’t hurt to breathe. And I wished I could promise there would always be a place where it didn’t hurt to breathe, but I could not make that promise. For this time only, I could hug him and keep him where the air did not burn his throat. But how long before all places would be safe?
Until life in all forms vowed not to inflict such terror in worlds where to draw breath just to live would hurt, we would continue to work. That is a promise.
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
snow cover reflects
unto the bed of day,
like the white lilac
on a summer night.
radiance expected
with the dawn
will discover itself in the light.
it is a damask world
of white on white.
when the thaw comes
there will be no trace
of the winter things
nor the magic grappling
on the other side of the door.
earth lifted up itself
and raised the host. . . .
or did heaven bend to eat?
Photo by Joseph Hallissey Sr.
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Uneventful is a merciful condition and that in itself is a large blessing.
Why do children require no lessons on being naughty but many on how to be good?
What is the meaning of ice cream and why does it warm the heart?
Why are the hardest lessons learned tied directly to the heart?
Some things at length are no more a matter of forgiveness but of humanity.
Life was meant to be lived and learned from and only of recent times was added the pursuit of happiness.
As long as the eye beholds and another heart receives, there will be reason to keep breathing and not give up.
The unfed Spirit is just as hungry as the unfed body.
To insert the cosmic into the mundane is what we must do even if it means one must make vacuuming a spiritual exercise.
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.