“Tis folly” he said.
“to write a word,
for all words mean all things
to all men,
and some words mean no thing
to some men,
even when they mean
everything to me.
I have weighed each carefully
in my heart,
using my feelings
as a scale.
I labeled things
only when I became a namer.
I loved only when I became
a lover
and I made life only
when I became a creator.
So I now write
to communicate
and find that man no longer reads.
Perhaps I will make marks on sand again.”
Primitive art by Veronica
Click on artwork 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.
From a journal entry September 25, 2000. . . . .”I meant to come down and write this story last week when it happened but again I did not. Whether I am becoming lazy or whether just tired, I don’t know. But when I was unloading the car of groceries in front of the house, a car came by with a young woman in it. She pulled up in front of the house next door and parked. She got out of the car and approached me with a slip of paper. She was looking for a street address which she had written on it. I told her this was the seven hundred block and she would do well to go down the next block to the East. She was a little thing, probably in her thirties or so and she said in broken English that she had come to a garage sale a few days ago and when she got home she realized that she did not pay the woman enough for whatever she bought.
I said well, that is awfully good of you to come back with your money and I know the woman would appreciate this act of honesty. No, no, she said, my God sees me. My God sees me. And that is why she was coming back. I said, thank you, thank you. For I had fueled my body with resentment to get my errands done and had forgotten momentarily what I was all about. I was grateful to be reminded that when I am at a loss for a good reason to do things, the one reason should be reason enough. My God sees me.
I brought the groceries into the house and was coming out to put the car away. I saw a car slow down in front of me and the window slid down. It was the young woman from before and she said thank you to me again for she had found the woman and returned the money. No, I said, thank you. She smiled and waved herself away. I think about her and can see that face with her scarf binding her hair and the smile crumpling a dignified demeanor. And I am grateful again for being reminded that even with feelings not seen by the outside world, my God sees me. Anything that corrodes my Spirit needs to be worked on immediately.”
(And today with so much flooding our circuitry, it is easy to forget the basic lessons. I am grateful for the written word.)
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.
One of the responders to my latest post on ‘Differing Perspectives’ is an established young writer with a contract with a publishing house for a book of poetry whose name is Ruth Hill. She sent the poem, ‘Felicia’ and gave permission for me to print it since she said we are both Felicias. There are many of us who wish to remain silent as to how their work comes and many who have names for their muses. And many whose work is their own. Ruth says, “Sight and sound are not enough. Poetry has to have philosophy too. I have noticed poets I am most attracted to have pleasing philosophies. They make me feel like I belong on Earth, not an alien in a foreign country. If someone likes something that I wrote, I feel as if I were invisible and am now seen, silent and can now speak, exiled but am now welcome. A reader on the same wavelength is the most important validation. If I met you in person I would be looking down and shifting my feet, but in a poem I can be the real me.” Ruth Hill’s quote from Heart Magazine (Nostalgia Press) when she won an award.
Felicia
Felicia was swinging in her sparkly jeans,
cellphone abandoned in the sand.
Who was that speaking to her from the trees?
She heard her army brother, stoic.
He always appeared as in his photo,
white hat and gloves.
Who was that singing? Gramma-fuzzy-slippers.
Who walked beside the swing set with her,
in blue gingham from the 1800’s?
And who stepped out from the wall to dance?
The one they told her had died of polio.
How was it she learned algebra?
With no one at home to teach her?
Her father was an engineer;
she never met him.
How was it her gardens grew,
better than Mary Contrary’s?
Whispers, whispers, in the wind,
there was a knowing,
a sureness moving her fingers.
There was a feeling she had been here before.
A feeling she had companions.
A feeling she had inherited
everything she needed to know,
and comfort with it.
She would be a very lucky girl, indeed,
as long as she never. . . . revealed her sources.
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.
Years ago I found the word pewambic on a note on my bedside table. I called a friend and asked her if she was familiar with the word. She thought it had something to do with pottery. I told her that in a dream snippet, I was on my haunches and doing something in front of me. I have since learned about the Native Americans of the Pewabic tribe (correct spelling) for whom pottery in the Midwest was named and I also learned that when dreaming I visit alternate realities. My study has taught me that all worlds are simultaneous. Even now I find my thoughts stuttering because though I know this is so for my memos bear me out, for all of us to live peacefully we must give space to different perspectives, i.e. what a person sees.
Here I step aside and the Teachers’ notes take over. “You were working with the hands on a piece of pottery that stemmed from the area where you were. The ancient civilizations were using the tiles borrowed from the more modern ones. You were seen working with the tiles and with the pottery from a distant past. The materials were not as ancient as you depict simply because they were of borrowed times. When we speak of borrowed times we say that within the past and present or within the past and future, there is a melding that defies the linear description common to where you are. If for instance you took the computer to another time, it would not have the functions, but the rudiments would be the same. The ability to work with the hands would be utilized but the time differential would be such that the illusions would be different, i.e. the materials.
The seepage, (bleed through from other times) would be there in the form of the machine. What presents so much difficulty is your kaleidoscopic view bringing into focus bits and pieces of several dimensions (perspectives). You can utilize this state by taking a more comprehensive look with eyes that work a bit differently. It would seem from a distance to be all of a piece but what is really created is a new dimension. What you see are many dimensions and the differing perspectives enhances the ability of others to understand those things needing a larger premise.”
And I say only if others are willing to give time to listen and space to be. It is not easy when what you see is different than what others see. We cannot climb behind an other’s eyes to see the world. The child or adult in back of you, in front or to the side of you is seeing our world perhaps differently. Inside differences are sometimes harder to live with than outside differences. As one wise child said, ‘some of us have birth marks on the inside and some on the outside.’ We must listen to their words. We must allow space for other perspectives because we don’t grow in understanding unless we draw a larger circle to include those who are different.
We must broaden our premises if we and our planet are to survive.
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 change my life
things will be better
for I will be smarter.
I will have learned
to be nice to myself
and tell me how good I am
and then I can tell you
how good you are.
And together we will make
the world better.
When I change my life
and I am smarter
I will know my gifts
were given for me to use
and if I choose to use them
to make life better,
it is not a waste.
When I change my life
for a new one,
I will have another chance
to love, to feel, to laugh
and to stretch my psychic bones
and shout to the world
a hello again.
When I change my life,
I will remember
what made my life sad
and not to do it again
and what made me glad,
remember to do that again.
I will remember
why you cried
and why you went hungry.
I will remember
we are two haves
and I will share what I have
and you will too.
It will be a better world
for my body will be new
and will not hurt.
I can say that because I know
if daffodils get many chances
to come up new
and mushrooms, too,
am I not worthy of another chance?
Sept. 1999
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 new man emerges
casting his light
which only intensifies
the old man’s sterility.
No more can dogmas
that gave unsubstantial testimony
to the old man prevail.
No more need
the old man’s impotence
be the young man’s burden.
The threatening shadows
have dissipated, revealing
the old man’s vulnerability.
Out of the sunlight
emerges the new man,
clothed and beautiful
in his utter nakedness;
prepared to run like the wind
toward his truth.
Shackled no longer
by what the old man has eaten,
the new man joyously assumes
his course, already chosen.
Confident in his immortality,
the new man emerges,
spiritually elevated and elevating.
Sculpture : Ironworks by Stanley Rybacki
click on the photo to bring it front and center and click again for details
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.
It sometimes is very hard to convince someone that what you see is really so. What I have seen are icicles on the pines. We are in Florida so this was difficult for those close to me to believe . This morning I ran for my cell phone which I do not clearly understand and took several photos like this one. In awe of this morning’s sun dance, I bend at the knees easily. There was nothing else to do. Click on the photo several times to get different views of the sparklers. And you can guess the Christmas Card for this year.
If you click on the photo once it will come front and center. Click on it again while front and center and it will fill your screen. If you scroll up and down you will get different views. This will work for almost all of my photos. It will be great fun.
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 nymph within
took the hand
of my divine self
and lifted me
high in the pines.
Straight toward the place
my heart does rest.
So high, she said,
so high and out too far.
Did you see them
I asked
and I took hold
of my divine image
and plowed the clouds.
I wait until
my name is written
in the songs of the birds
and carried
among the ravens
who hold me higher
than the eyes can see
and higher still till the mind
in pieces lay
at the foot of the Mount.
December, 2013
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.
Do I have more minutes to finish? There was no time for answers because the little one with a dash was out of sight. In a few minutes he was back and announced, I finish. Having learned to wait while private things were finished, I waited again while he proceeded to his room.
I followed him shortly to find him in pajamas and ready to crawl into the high bed. Well, should it be a story to tell or a story to read I asked. I am ready for you to choose. Tell me what it is we should do to get you ready for sleep? And I waited. Minutes ticked away while the choice was being made. Patiently, again, what will it be?
His face took on a faraway look as if searching for a memory. I recognized the look and wondered where he would go for that memory to take shape. I knew it well. It was a look that had been on my face many times with voices telling me to stop dreaming. I needed to pay attention to what was at hand and not waste so much time dreaming. So because of those reprimanding voices, I knew to wait.
He asked if I would sing the one I singed when I singed with other voices. He knowed that song!
What song is that? I wondered. There was no time for me to sing with other voices that he would have heard. Like this, he said and in his high soprano he sang his Gllloooooooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaand I knew. Unbelievably I knew. The music hung on his tongue and in his throat as if he were tasting a delicate sweet.
When did you ever hear me sing that? I asked. Before I came to you, he said. Before I came. I heard you singed and my heart singed with you. I knowed I could tell you some time if I just ‘membered it. I promised I would ‘member so I could hear it again and again. I knowed that you would ‘member if I singed it. And you do! he said, you do!
And I believed him because I gave up choir when he was due to be born. I took this child into my arms and sang the song he so wondrously remembered. And when I came to the part he remembered his voice faithfully shadowed mine. And another posit was added to the Memory Bank but who would believe it? Who?????? Except the many someones who entered their place of belief every time they bent their knees.
Those are the who. . . . . . .
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.
I would fairly shout
to the world that we sit
in the lap of eternity,
the mother lode of time.
Eternity has held us close
and whispered in our ear
the soothing sounds of love.
Eternity promises us peace
at the altar of hard work
and much prayer.
It will give us what we ask
and what we dream.
It is the place for those
whose thirst for learning
is never satisfied and
whose hunger for solid food
begins at birth.
Heaven approves the menu
and the lesson plans.
And heaven approves
constructive behavior.
It even threatens to withdraw
the rewards and
put the babies to bed
until they grow up.
So grow up world, grow up!
Or you will lose your toys.
Life in eternity is not a walk in the park.
photo by John Hallissey (click on photo for larger view)
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.
