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.
So now I write about the entries and how they are verified. When we moved from Michigan, we were aged with health problems. I tired quickly accounting for sometimes sparse writings. I now spend more time reading the journals and making notes amazed at what was accomplished. The puzzling habit still baffles. . .why was I so disciplined in journal keeping with memos and hard copies? David’s ongoing question till the day he left us. . . how did you know to do it?
Like the mid 1980’s when we were in Munich and a VIP said I did not tell him when we talked in Paris last week that I would be in Germany for the conference. I told him he must confuse me with someone else and he became angry. His position in the travel arm of government was important because he remembered people and faces and where they talked. I was to learn how important in Tourism this ability was in hiring those who are talented in this respect. We had a wonderful conversation in Paris he said and he did not make mistakes of that nature.
I had never met him before and I have never been in Paris at least as this Veronica. But I read this note in an April 11, ’19 journal entry I had as a grandmother in Paris been invited to a granddaughter’s birthday party. That was in reference to a dream in my Veronica head I had had in Michigan. Is it a parallel life for me and was I also the younger woman the VIP talked to in Paris who was part of the travel affair years before?
There is also a dream of me as a monk in the year of 1790 I wrote about carrying my cross up a hill during the French Revolution. I wrote describing the boarded up houses and the dusty miller plantings along the dirt roads. I understand I fought for civil rights and took issue with the church. That dream in detail was the entry of August 21, ’83. There is the entry of August 25, ’85 where I awakened and sat up in bed speaking French. My husband pulled me back down and said go back to sleep. I was fluent in the language.
I limit my post words and yet hope to alert interest in the reader. This being one incident I am detailing research limited only because readers skim quickly. There are other incidents noted that corroborate each other. The term alternate realities is not new but I first came upon them in the late 60’s with the Seth books of Jane Roberts. Much was written about unknown worlds. It was like gulping water because I was dying of thirst. With no one to talk to and shunned because of the Salem, Massachusetts’ fears connected with whirling dervishes and dancing with devils, the Jane Roberts printed word saved me.
A psychic at a friend’s party in July of 1985 read cards and asked me whether I worked in civil rights. I did not but he detailed the monk incident and my arguments with the church. I rushed home to scour the journals and found the August of 1983 entry. Working, being a community worker’s wife, parent on premises of 3 sons and home and yard maintenance took all my time. Only when the house slept, had there been time for research and study.
I try to show where my studies have taken me with my ‘need to know’ as an ordinary person wanting not to be an inadequate parent to our children. When you feel that special commitment of conscience your whole world changes. Yours will too.
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 write again of my coats of many colors. Because I love and care for those in my life and love life itself, I will repeat those of my posts I feel urgent about. Since I have memories and dreams of lives lived and have written of them, apologetically lacking times, I rightfully attest to some knowledge. If it is so for me, then I assume for others it may be also.
My poetry is evidence and memory serves me partially. Perhaps only the humanity of them, but solidly enough. It answers my ‘why’ of who I am with an answer to how life is everlasting.
Only partially but Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms. My understanding now of simultaneous times is that parallel lives are lived and I have had dreams and experiences of those. And gives rise to thought of the Biblical Jacob giving the coat of many colors to his son Joseph because Joseph perhaps had memories of many lifetimes? And spoke of them?
My understanding has been broadened to how perspectives define dimensions which house our lives and give substance to our slim knowledge of who we are. It is said that some philosophers believe that human nature cannot grasp reality at all. Some parts of the world have a greater grasp of these concepts, but western civilization has been slow to even give it houseroom.
Planets discovered may support life that we yet cannot identify. There are many who flagrantly deny the intelligence of sentient life even when shown evidence. Evolution requires certain steps taken in understanding and integrating knowledge before entering a world necessary for more precise work. In essence you have to know what to look for.
Our world needs for our mind, body and spirit to integrate all we have learned. We will regret wasting valuable time our planet sorely needs before we replace her resources we take for granted..
I harbor the woman in the Arctic, the black woman with a basket on my head, the Arab man who is harvest for the flies, and the Polish woman kneading her bread. My gnarled fingers are on the hands knitting with smooth sticks in the tent house circling the firepit drinking a sour brew to keep warm.
I have to keep my focus right here and right now else I walk into a beloved time frame of who I am. It becomes a problem for those like me and harder for those who love me to find me.
‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’ the teacher
All Who I Am. . .
I feel the pull of the Polish one bent over her bread board, pounding, kneading, smoothing the egg dough into a satiny mound. Raisins, like eyes, half buried in the fleshy loaf, stare at me, daring me to absorb her rhythm into my blood.
Her aching restlessness I breathe already. Her utter frustration to make new whips me to a working frenzy, a woman possessed. She delivers me to my bed in agony. With memory splintered, glinting off the corners of my eyes, I find me. And awake again to a morning promising me no relief from her visions.
II
My brow furrows, forming ledges to shield my eyes from a sun that beats unmercifully. Sweat pours to drench my body and nausea routes its way flooding an overloaded circuitry.
The wandering tribesman leading the camel favors one foot. Calluses shoot pain into the moon calf of his leg and I limp. The tart taste of yogurt in his mouth washes clean the sand out of mine.
Each step becomes a mile in length and his laborious effort throbs in my temples. I will be harvest for the flies. I cannot bear the heat anymore.
III
The air, sharp as a cut lemon, washes me. The children race in their overlarge sweaters with roses painted on their faces smooth as milk legs. Lace fringe curtains entertain the visitors agape at the starkness, the simplicity, the square picture. I am at home.
The arctic terrain beats my blood to a froth with exuberance. My sturdy body matches my earth. My love shields me, woos me and I am as cherished as a milch cow in a land of sparse grasses. To each other we are the heavy cream poured on a dish of skyr .
IV
How far back do I dare reach to uncover all who I am? Is part of me racing, black skinned and hot, basket overflowing, precariously balanced on my head and heart beating outside my skin? My loose breasts clap-clap in pain against my rib cage as I hurry to make up time spent chatting with my sisters, fearful of the masculine outrage brewing?
I sit at my desk, surrounded by the present essences of today’s people, today’s commitments. The air is spicy with fomenting earth. My brow does not furrow from the heat yet. Summer’s dog days will arrive too soon.
I ‘ve reached backwards and sideways and tasted portions of lives both palatable and unpalatable. But altogether rich. Is my fatigue of genetic empathy, perhaps imagination gone wild or an accumulation of too many lives lived, too many sorrows sorrowed, too many dreams dreamed?
V
The answer will be mine. With my departure I will take the sum of my days, the loves loved, the dreams unfulfilled and all who I am and walk again the cosmos. And because of my love for me I will create another world. Due to my cumulative sense of loss. . . .
There will be no more loves aborted.
photo by John Hallissey
artwork by veronica
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.
You have often thought if it was written, it was meant to be understood. Only you know now that it is the hardest thing to do. If the frame of reference is not large enough for the topic, then no understanding ever will come from the words even when the desire is there. The footwork has to be done. The boundaries of knowledge must be broadened and then the reading will have meaning because the frame of reference will have been enlarged.
We will talk of philosophy
and we will talk of poetry.
We will talk of people and Beings
and we will again
grace the lovely work
of the Great God and say
we walk beneath the wings of him
who holds us together.
photo by John Holmes
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 guess one could call me legitimately broken as a human being this morning. I sit here with my headband made of 1 inch elastic stretched to the measurement of my head covered with a casing of fabric to look a bit fashionable. It helps a head that hurts with no side effects like pharmaceuticals.
With a neck support with Velcro closures to keep a head upright and not collapsing. And I just found a box the right height to elevate my leg. In their right mind the patient should head for bed? Certainly.
But in me is a story about recycling. And how when television came into our homes with a promise of showing us how to do creative things, what it did too many times was to give leverage to the envious to murder the creative impulse in the young at heart.
The first attempts were not professional as the viewed painters and sewers and builders. But the dreamers had the burgeoning desires to do and all that was needed was a ‘good try!’ or keep doing!
Too often the words heard were leave the work to the professionals who are paid to do it. And the desire dies with the young and they are relegated to the growing list of spectators who are entertained.
Or the desire dies with the adults who never attempt and never know the deep satisfaction of creating something out of a raw idea.
I do not know how to inject the desire, or how to infect one with a virus for learning. I sit on the edge of the bed and urge my body to begin the day for there are things to be done. I want to try them before my name is called with an offer I cannot refuse.
I recently learned how to make useful yardage with bits of fabric fused onto web and cut into shapes such as the flowers in the vase. Exciting! Nothing wasted! Useful as it for me to do that. Just for you.well as beautiful! And fun. I can make fun quilts and pretty wall hangings to catch the sun and bring smiles to the children as they race to catch up to the mornings.
And they in turn will see possibilities that will take courage and perseverance to try and in the face of the Do Nothings who discourage them go ahead and make a difference and the classroom goes forward another day. And maybe that is all that is required.
Holding it all together just for another day. You would be worth it for me to do that. Just for 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.
All knowledge is applicable to the self. If it is used to manipulate and maneuver Others it then becomes a game. ***** Insight implies sight to be applied inward. ***** Genuine laughter cleanses the toxic waste from swollen glands. ***** Only the secure one can afford to laugh at oneself. ***** To laugh at oneself displays a growth not to be measured in local currency. ***** The individual who has gone the route and places things in their proper perspective, knows that life is not a death matter. ***** Selfhood does not depend on the trends of the moment and our lives do not depend on what the world currently deems, but on personal premises. ***** Faith is blind of necessity. The individual chooses an immunity necessary to quiet the questions which might delay other imperative lessons. ***** The framework we choose to inhabit is the security blanket covering emergencies that need to comfort the mind. ***** The treasure chest within each individual opens with the word ‘why?’ ***** The word ‘why?’ will either start the journey or close it. ***** The camouflage system we use serves us well. When a crack appears in the walls of mind where a stray thought might enter, we run for the emotional plaster or caulking to seal the crevasses. ***** 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. If limited, time yet to change limited to broad.
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.
Younger sisters should play by the rules and allow the elder to leave first. But my sister stayed as long as she was able and left us this week abruptly.
This poem is personal in that love abounds. I whispered it in reading again with great love in our coming together as adults after a tumultuous adolescence. What were to be fun times in dotage never materialized.
There will be times to recall because life is everlasting. Her mantra was always to do ‘something constructive’ which she did all her life. I will remind her of the times we laughed together. Those were memorable. I will withdraw those times often from my Memory Bank to refresh myself. And to remind our progeny what really makes us rich even though we cry.
Throw a kiss to the stars. . . .
Take a moment . . . .
and inhale deeply the night,
so that you will remember
the freshness that comes
with the beckoning dark.
And the stars leading you
to a place of warm retreat.
Go and begone into the night
where the heart rests.
Melancholy soul, even the heavens
pale beneath your fatigue. . .
Before you call it a day,
step out the door into the night
and say hello to the moon and
ask its secrets for the night.
Breathe your thank you for the day
and your part in it and in passing
throw a kiss to the stars.
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.
(where the bread knows the feel of my hands. .) I have been in cook’s heaven and I need to get my fill of it. Son John and in law daughter Lori have given me a taste of that paradisal place every cook knows exists but never to have; a kitchen with enough space to make Thanksgiving dinner all the time and a place to put every washed plate and pan afterwards.
It has been my contention that people shy from preparing food simply because of the cleanup. Enthusiasm will have us begin and put together exciting dishes but to think of clean up is dismaying. It will undo every good intention when picturing putting everything back.
When I was pulled into kitchen duty on the Farm because of my inability to withstand the sun and heat, it put my mother in the field to help and me in her kitchen to feed the farm workers. My quiet brother gave me an encyclopedic cookbook and at 12 years my passion for cooking erupted. My heavy as lead cakes were loved by my brothers and my quick breakfast scones were indeed my sister’s favorites.
And as I grew in experience with every aspect, even the cleaning up, I still loved the art requiring passion. Experimenting was crucial to learning and fortunately there were appetites without worries about weight that only came with city life, not farmers.
I learned to love the kneading of breads and eventually the no knead bread of my dotage. And the English muffin bread and the baking of dog biscuits that dogs crave by their waving tails.
I found a love of Lorna Doone cookies followed by my own version of pretend Doones that truthfully I love more. Because I can make them myself when I crave them and it takes little time and 4 ingredients.
Right now the bread making, the spice cookies I call windmills without the molds, and my pretend Doones have me happy with my specialties. But satisfied because the kitchen is a dream for me with a place for everything.
Lori’s vision planned the kitchen and John’s love of craftmanship with his hands, made it. I never thought talent for feeding who I loved to be taken to such a height by a well planned kitchen. I wonder how many meals are thrown together by our lack of prioritizing what should be prime for all families, a solidifying and celebration of times together every day.
The last time I saw my mother she apologized for not knowing how to show love. Being an orphan, she said no one ever taught her how. Thoughtfully she did every day with putting love into every meal she cooked. Her kitchens were not state of the art, but the results in the kitchen were. I remember.
My kitchen times are love conscious and I wish those remembered.
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 keep on hand stenographer tablets to jot down notes I think important in rereading the journal entries. I came across this poem thoughts. I do not know when I wrote it nor what entry prompted it. I may have been deeply focused in thought with someone. I remember the first line glimpse I had, but not the rest of the poem. I share this with you who do some serious work on yourselves wondering your place in the skein of things.
It is good to keep a tablet for quiet times also. Noting always what you remember of your journey in thought. Thinking is the hardest work we do. It is why it is avoided. It will be an interesting resume to read one day and with whom you cavort. It will be noted how much fragile handling one gives oneself.
The Sages Kick Start. . .
I caught a glimpse of one I thought lecturing except a black robe and cap she wore and then disappeared.
Only once, a glimpse, except the wonder of why it stays. I wish to bury it and rest. . .please.
I find the lessons I repeat over and over and I tire of them. Why can they not sleep? I have gleaned what this brain can accommodate and it is not pretty.
The Sages ask the teachers to continue teaching because they do not remember the passion this Earth requires to make real the lessons..
The passion was mine as it rumbled the belly of me through almost a hundred years of family and friends and values.
What better way to present life’s reasons to kick start the wheel of progress called Evolution from stagnant ruts?
We leave it to you, they say, to tell them to not step on their kinders’ heads and take their knees off the necks of the different ones because they are afraid often only because. . . because . . .
The different ones make them afraid when the world thinks of the different ones, as having courage.
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.
