They were just children with a love offering. It glinted in the ground and when picked up it glittered as a star in the sky. Of course it would be given to the one loved most! And with grimy hand and full heart it was. With words accompanying the gift, they spilled as starbeams through fingers.
It was met with laughter at the pieces of broken bottle swept in by the now polluted waters, with the love words washed with even more laughter. And the child ran and hid and forever found words choked in throat too tight to speak. And chatter found its way into conversation during lifetimes of too many words, none spoken ever with truth.
Devices soon replaced the human voice in pillow talk and words were shouted in derision, in hostility, in raucous laughter but seldom in measured voice which would take counsel with the sages.
Humans soon counted on one syllable words, incomplete thoughts and reverted to gestures when language which had taken thousands of centuries to master came to a halt. Even though in the beginning we were told that the word is god. . . . we took away the child’s most important tool for growth and smashed it with our jealousy at his innocence as ours had been smashed. And evolution stagnates.
once again we will dance,
through the night sky
and gather moonbeams
for our baskets. . . .
we will strew them
onto the paths of the children
who will pick them up and throw them
with joy to the night sky.
they will be stars again
to be gathered by a one
who recognizes stars
as beams of light. . .
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.
There are no more answers anywhere except those written within the individual on his heart. It is all there for him to discover and what he discovers will be adequate for this time. It works to cover tracks and to discover just one more truth which will enlighten what has already been learned. For one it will be fine. For another, it is not.
Everyone has a piece of the rock. A piece of the truth. This is correct. To be able to ensnare the entirety in one fell swoop would be to discourage and dismantle the psyche. It can be done but it would undo the Pilgrim. The psychological trauma would put the psyche on the shelf forever. For who would have the courage to attempt another try?
Our need determines our intent. And the caliber of teacher we require. The divine within is called into conference and the work begins. The journey only begins when the present becomes unbearable and the future unthinkable.
We Lift Our Heads . . . .
We lift our heads as we face our Source. We give thanks for these gifts beginning our day; a body without pain and heart that beats steadily and ears that hear clearly. For these gifts we are grateful.
Open us and allow not one bird to miss our thank you for his song and allow not the breeze to be without gratitude for its breath.
Take this day and use us for Thy purpose for we will be at a loss when time in space cannot be breached by thought and the abyss cannot be spanned by a leap.
Let our thoughts be more than a footnote in the story of this day
and our lives lived with compassion.
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.
There are others who have experience in matters not common. I have kept notes on dreams and researched my experiences. I could not speak openly and was cautioned much because of public circumstances. Times are different and I speak for the children who are different. There are babies now being born who have been mentored and if they are fortunate and have support they will teach the lot of us from where they come.
In the Dead Sea Scrolls a disciple asked Jesus where we go when we die and Jesus answered, why do you ask when you never wondered where you came from? He also said the ‘the twig is bent’ and religions don’t mention apriori, before we are born. Most assume that all is formed after birth but every parent knows each child comes already predisposed. My exasperated mother would gladly have told you about me.
As I look back on things, as we are apt to do when we wish to make sense out of a life that at times held little, I find more things connect. Yet small incidents were crucial for the larger events to play out. When I think back on the arguments that have taken my energy, I still have difficulty understanding where sacrificing one life so that another can live is fair or rational. Religions have been based on this principle.
No Place To Go. . .
Your words are strong my eldest says. . . and the road made accessible for the rest of us. No need I say, no need. You will do what is yours to do in your own way.
The road is closed with wooden horses barring the way, not for repair but because a new road is laid.
My mentor said what is done for one is done for all. . .so the heavens made bet it would never be done but it seems I was the surprise. It is done.
They say they give an inch and I take a mile. My verbiage is clear. My focus enables focus in boundary-less places as I weave in and out of black holes and wind drifts to find myself welcomed.
I have friends all over who wait except where I am. Here I am different and in this place to be different puts one outside looking in. They do not know where I am coming from. My vernacular is not theirs and
I have no place to go with what I know.
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.
There comes to mind that time warp where events leave their linear places and congregate in the place where we know that thunderous motions occur with the simplest actions. Or even with no action. Like the times my brother Stanley and I discussed what he saw along the road but knew immediately I knew the song. And he just resorted to, but you know, you know. . .
It was simply a matter of realizing we shared a history, with a weight to language which we worshiped. We knew that the words we used the other used also and respected. We were not loose with words but used them with sacred dispensation.
It was a relationship we shared with his wife also. And both of them were an important part of these particular visits we had and where the poem above was born. It holds great meaning for me because of the tender feelings we shared. It made the visits to the Farm a recreation of who we were and continued to be.
That the children shared in this family in their own ways I was not fully aware until long after they became adult. In talking about who we as their parents wanted as guardians in case of our demise (and often argued) while they needed family, our eldest asked why did we not ask them?
I said because we wanted to agree on the ones we asked. And he continued, ‘well you should have asked because we had already decided that Uncle Stan was the one we would go to.’ When did you decide all this I asked. ‘Oh long ago, he said. We already knew who we wanted.’
It was all decided within the sanctity of that relationship. And I never asked, but probably they had already researched the Court and who was the approachable judge. I just never asked.
If We Sing To The Children. . .
I wear these memories as a cloak to ward off the chill. Emotions forgotten, but like new now ripping along my arms, settling bumps in straight rows to my heart.
Kindred hearts, matching my own heartbeat, with eyes like mine and reflecting our souls. Music in voices saying, ‘and when I look at weeds beside the road. . . . but you know, you know. . . .’ And I do, I do and we look with eyes that see and ears that hear the song of the bird before his sounds have escaped his throat. . . . and the music rumbles in our blood, coursing through our hearts and gives life only to those who are ready to listen.
Not many to be sure, not many, but if we sing to the children perhaps, just perhaps, the earth’s cacophony will one day be in harmony.
It is our heritage; from where it is we come. From the farm country I was given a substance that does not spoil, that does not turn sour even in the residue of life. It is not dregs that I drink. It is the cream rising to the top of the milk.
I needed to see a skyline with no obstruction and with no words
you laid your hearts on 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.
July 8, 2021 . . I need to put this down before it goes into the forget pile. As most things do nowadays. But this I think is most important because we as a nation are becoming most distrustful as well as unforgiving about differences within even our families. It is a despairing situation, and I worry about the children growing up within families that don’t allow even for the genetic mayhem happening randomly.
My favorite philosopher, Ashleigh Brilliant, would no doubt label my perspective and me as God’s Mistake. And the psychiatrist whispers that I am lucky to be alive. But you see, I think this country is the most magnificent Rehab Unit in the world. We are all here because of courage to vacate situations which were the death of all of us. Whether the conditions were familial, or country, or monetary or healthwise; no matter. They were not life giving but life taking.
I read I had awakened from a teaching dream taking most of the night and written down all the memorable elements. And ended with these last words my brother Stanley saying ‘it is enough for here and now. Let’s just get this life, this world, right.’
And following that segment, I wrote. . . (there were faces that passed by me, from handsome and beautiful to strange and weird and then to beautiful again. It was a most fluid scene. Now the thought occurs that this is what it is about. That fluidity, the ability to see change and not be averse to it, not be repulsed by what life is in all of its worlds.)
I scribed the teachers April 17, 2018. . . It would seem that repulsion should be part and parcel of what you saw. Yet the introduction is given where you are and the majority of people have their favorite prejudices. They avoid what it is that is not like them. Whether color or patterns of behavior, etc. Yet we realize that for civil life to go on unobstructed there must be a mean behavior attended to. There must be a behavior which will not obstruct human justice or civil life, mannerly life. Else as you say, civilization goes down the tube. What must be allowed in civil life must also be accepted within the individual.
Because there are more problems adherent to the new norms one will encounter in other dimensions. Whether burn victims, handicapped or malformed individuals can be seen as spirits and soul on a pilgrimage, will commend the viewer to a better understanding when the other dimensions come into view. It seems a small way to begin, but begin we must at all levels.
So simple yet it seems like arguing by the high church as to how many angels can dance on the head of a pin! Pointless yet similar to the descriptions by Frank Herbert of the Dune Face Dancers. And the world dimensions of the Shikasta by Doris Lessing.
Yet looking at the haunting videos of the January 6 Insurrectionists of our Capitol Building, revealing the aged faces and bodies not having learned the respect nor knowledge for the nobility of the building housing the revered character of our Constitution, devastates the thinking mind.
I still write the truth that what we teach within the walls of our homes to the first years of our young, will determine the sacredness of the prophet’s peace on earth and what will be eaten at mankind’s tables. Whatever language we speak,
the heart will shout its validity.
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.
We are not the product of one lifetime, but many lifetimes and many frameworks. And we are a reference point to other frameworks. ***** The Ego which needs continual stroking becomes unwieldly and obscures divine passage. ***** ‘I am only human’ is an excuse that has been overworked. ***** To dismantle another’s world demands that we stay around long enough to help build another one. ***** Within is the rest and without is the charm. ***** We need to see things as they more nearly are. ***** To create a reality is everyone’s business and cooperation is necessary. It is a communal endeavor. ***** To build a philosophy to fit a perspective and includes our commitments has a high cost. ***** The highest framework we can choose is the one by which the heart is healed. ***** Heaven rushes to the side of our cradle to give proof that we are not abandoned. ***** To ask presumes the divine presence in the Other. It is a love affair of the greatest kind. ***** We aim to educate the heart. And the condition of the heart will determine the cost of tuition. ***** If by our presence we signify criticism, we lecture without opening our mouths.
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 seems going through my head are many things connecting to all things. Nothing stands alone. I am not sure where to begin, if there is a beginning. Perhaps that is what we have to learn, that there is no beginning and no end. It can start anywhere for me and therefore anywhere for you. And that is a big, a huge morsel to swallow.
For me a big deal. Because with every thought, I am hesitating with even telling or sharing anything without a prelude. And if I don’t explain, then what I say has to stand alone and make some sense. Otherwise we are reduced to groans and hums. The question then should be, does it matter?
If you care enough to question why? then it matters. If not, take it from where you stand and run with what you have in hand and head. It will be enough for now. Later may require something more.
I read last night a scribing of June 27, 1991 (yesterday quantum time) that the purpose of life is not meant to be happy. It was meant to be lived and learned from. I came to Earth with that knowledge, dragging a foot from my last world. It was not meant to be a comfort ride through life.
Already there was confirmation that the twig was already bent and would continue to grow. That’s what I mean about connections. The Nazarene said ‘as the twig is bent, so shall it grow.’
Too many think we are a clean slate to be written on. Some are and they are newbies to this classroom. Too many problems are created by thinking we all are newbies. For those of us with histories, each lesson with synergism, integrates. We are the hair pulling parent claiming ‘I treat them all the same!’ And followed by ‘I don’t know where she/he learns that’!
I look at the national scenes of the insurrection against our democracy and the souls who trampled our Constitution, breaking the windows of our governmental house, searing the eyes of the child holding the book telling us how humanity is special. I hear the child question his mother asking why daddy is mad and what means elite? . . .
Pictures easily show what we are not part of and demand little from us. Words demand work from us. Undeniably we have seen our devices of entertainment evolve to become weapons of war. Devices evolve but not the human hands holding them unless the hard work of thinking be done.
When thought has us asking heart questions, the Divine Within already nudges us with answers. Our children are reading the books giving them the right words to ask the right questions.
Please be the right parents for them. They chose you by heart.
Family Photo
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.
On May 14, 2021, I posted Time’s Gleanings. It is a collection of paradigms as a brief respite in diets of heavy lessons. My last maxim of that post reads like this. . .
‘Like a dancer learning the discipline of a new score, we have rehearsed minute by minute to come to this place, this place of understanding where we are now.’
I received an email from Merideth, mother of the sisters saying . . . Emma E. told me today that she was a dancer before she was a baby. Perhaps that is why she stands on the tip of her toes so often. It is a habit she learned before she even arrived. . . .
I told Merideth that I am glad our girl babies have her as a mother and I am glad Mer does what she does. Emma E. will start her formal schooling soon. The altogether most important elements started when she chose her parents. Safe is such a simple word and as many letters as fear. To be able to freely connect her tip toeing as a dancer before being born as a baby told us how high she will reach.
Children come from a sacred some place to grow and teach. When they ask that first ‘why?’ we should kneel and embrace the child and search their minds for what they remember. And we should talk to each other freely about earliest memories.
Memories are a good foundation to support growth and integrate new sustainable knowledge. In this wild and wooly forest I comfort myself that memories can be our mother tree like that of the forest gods. . .with space to embrace us all.
Little Ballerina . . .
Dance for me, little girl Dance your dance and show the gods why you dance.
In the garden I see you, toes dug into the earth, head tilted to catch the glint of the sun filtering through the leaves.
You nod in assent to breezes whispering your name. Your lips move in intonation of the om which separates you, momentarily.
You pirouette perfectly, swayed by forces caressing you to homage of all who you are.
I long to kneel before the image of you. At one with your own music, when your arms grace sweepingly in the silent moment and you take all that is yours and
pray the garden into a sanctuary.
artwork by Claudia Hallissey
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.
In the beginning, in the place where I came from, there was a veil covering the foetus, the skin of man. I remember the place and the one who sent me here. He said it was because he loved me, and all those who would be part of me.
I could not believe that someone who loved me would send me to a place that had no running water, no rivers to drink from, no sky to rise to. . .
How could love hurt so much?
I am here now, have finished my work but found in my new world, old loves, not new. . .
These old loves I will see again and again. They have made me beautiful in this place where I am. . .
Should I go home to the place where my heart beat so fast that lights were lit in far away places? Where the beat of my heart sent souls scurrying to hide abouts because they were afraid I would reveal them, but lo, here we go again. . .
I hear. . .Look always to the side of the world that needs what you are. It will be your home for this next time. And you have to believe
it was only for love it was done. . ..
PS Two questions I must ask. . . would you think it worth it and how certain are you your judgment is on target?
Especially after overhearing . . . All it took was some sweet talk. . .
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 always is a struggle between the correct thing and the right thing, no matter the subject or the action. The correct thing is not always comforting nor comfortable. And it generally is confrontational. Too much on our plate and we already want to hit delete. But whooooaaa!!! We are decent people and we need to hear the correct/right thing. . .we need to hear once in awhile, ‘we done good’. . . . .
That was our intention when we ask to be born to make a difference. You can argue the point, but we ask, yeah we do. . .
With what goes on the politically global scenes as well as our national one, coupled with the aberrant pandemic globally, everyone can see us/our planet going down the tube again and again and forever.
Except we have been loved into conscience and so loving our children, we also have siblings and nieces and nephews. We are the Earthgods. . . their mothergods and fathergods and godmothers and godfathers and godaunts and goduncles. And behold we now are their grandmothersgreat and grandfathersgreat and all who have been loved into Conscience with a capital C, lest we forget.
And we cannot forget. We just cannot. We must do what we can and work and study to enlarge our picture, widen our horizons and add depth to our being. We must learn about ourselves and learn about each other. We must see where we are alike, where we agree, especially on what we love as our democracy and whom we love and resolve to heal our difficulties and mend our rips and tears. We must vow not to allow others to expound on our differences and make profit on us and make deep pits where there are none.
Troublemakers feast on a diet of havoc. And creating havoc in their best friends means the troublemakers sleep happily. We will not give them that pleasure.
Our days make a certain shaped something of us. Let that something teach an Other. That we are not only civil but kind, that we are not only decent people but loving people, who care about each other. Even though we disagree with someone’s arguments, we are polite and listen. We would want them to listen with courtesy to us.
Thus we teach. No longer silent because silence has wrongfully signaled we don’t care but care we do. We speak to voice our conclusions to show we give thought, but our humanity still demands courtesy and not violence.
Life is good, not easy, but good, in every dimension. The only alternative to life everlasting is no life anywhere. And never having the privilege to do good. All worlds have problems. I love my life as you do yours. I have your back. Thank you for having mine.
Excerpt from Life Everlasting. . .
Through all we slide,
like peeled comfrey, slick and smooth,
the oiled parts of a machinery;
deus in machina. Still we slow,
the burden burdensome, noises polluting
our hearing and events boggling our eternal eye.
Out of the arena testing our mettle,
out of a life holding neutral for no man,
to a new world testing our mettle yet,
to a life in neutral only for a moment,
to a love gripping anew our pulses.
It is a universe of no retire. . . and life everlasting. . .
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.
