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.
Today I realized that when I watch certain television programs, I audit the class. It is fatiguing with my hearing problem, but with certain programs, I work it so that I use television as class time.
I realize my head is open, and by that I mean doors are open letting in activity of sound I am conscious of. I know this state because when it is absent, there is no fatigue, no sense of tired. Like now, it is an open forum with my consent, classtime.
When my world broke into pieces when I was 35, it was traumatic because in my head, there was a tsunami loosed, crashing against both sides of my skull. It was devastating.
The doctor when questioning what I saw when I walked down the street, whistled between his teeth when I was done and said you realize others do not see what you see. I was speechless, and he said, you don’t know that.
I mention this again because it is important to understand some real unseen differences. Some people actually see more than we do andhear often what is not said.
Not only our cultures are different in this world which contribute to our uniqueness. Our histories have contributed to each of us to form a definite lesson plan, a blueprint; also ancient agonies propel us into behaviors that are of genetic origins.
In many ways the oracles spoken in tribes tell of myths and gods and various habits of early mankind. These were links for us that told us we connect in various ways. When written word came to be, we then had printed stories which were proof that those oracles had a basis that were to guide our thinking to ferret out from where we came.
All religions speak of life previous to our thinking. If we are fortunate in having ancestors of good health, we come completely sealed so to speak with heads closed. One life at a time to deal with was sufficient work for man. But when religions took upon themselves in many ways to help man in his quest for good as he deemed it to be, they also took upon themselves the perpetuation of power that told mankind to go forth and multiply and they would take care of their souls.
The trade off began and today we are the result of that edict and also so is the Earth. In many ways man evolved in thought but stymied because of the toys of his thinking. Evolution was halted. And the hard work of thought, of thinking was dismissed and we are in the midst of where evolution transfers into devices and man has become the automaton of the devices which evolve.
It seems digression yet needs telling of this path taken. For the oracles were verbal, the printed word was real evidence of those stories of more than truth, where we were told that the twig is bent and continues to grow upon birth. It is bent because of a history. And that history if mankind is completely sealed and the birth normal has the one life to live and die.
If not completely sealed, and the doors are open to activity of worlds where sound vibrates, we have memories of previous times. Whether they are genetically banked in memory or our constitutions are the memory banks for each of us, is ours to uncover or unearth. And what we are courageous enough to face.
Completely sealed in good health demands an empathy, a compassion delivered to others regardless of condition or inabilities of their physical bodies. Incompletely sealed demands from us an acceptance of life within its structures rarely understood but of needs respected.
Acknowledging differences and making peace with what is recognized are steps and halting places in the process of evolution. Everyone is still a creature of potential growth and this we must honor.
We must reconcile the beliefs we carry with what our growth has shown by our sciences in all directions. And we must peace them.
We must be equal to the courage they will demand from each of us. If we are to want that acknowledgment of our acceptance when we appear in the world we consider our right to Be, but for which we may be incomplete.
artwork by
Lucinda Cathcart
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 love affair started when I was eight and laid upon the green grass and willed the clouds into playmates for my thoughts. I wished I told my sky that I wished to be wise. I am not sure I knew what wise meant other than just plain smart.
But then I grew and being part of a large family, I learned to work. But I think I learned that when I was born. I loved my brothers and said when I was just five that I would marry them and take care of them and even promised to polish their saddle shoes for a dime. I weeded around the roses my mother rooted in the ground and covered with tipped mason jars for little greenhouses and tried to keep the chickens in the back yard. I kept the junks separated from the garbage and loved the climbing roses papa planted in the alley behind the garage so that the garbage men had a bright spot as they picked up garbage.
And when we left the city to breathe clean air I marveled as a young girl going to the outdoor privy and stopped at the back door before going up to bed and dipped my heart to blend the night sky to drink of a million stars and wondered how rich could a 12 year old be with the night so private housing so many brothers? And the air circled my pajama legs and I gave thanks to the clean air and promised to be a caretaker of a place I loved. I would dip into my bucket of stars and reach for a nugget and it would translate my efforts and keep me fed.
I would teach everyone to take care of our land because it is our house and we live here. It gives us what we need to live and heals us when we ail and loves us as its children. It is our Mother and we must help her. And now after a lifetime, I am hampered by bones forgetting to bend, muscles forgetting to stretch and a heart that cannot forget how I have loved this parcel of a universe so generous with this gift.
(and her words stay the way with me yet. . . )
Offer me this, the Earth Mother says
that you will raise your arms
only to surround another in love.
Promise me this, again she says,
that the swords will be laid
at the foot of the evergreens now
and a boot will never crush
an Other’s right to live.
And I will forever cherish your children.
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 had a dream where there was an old woman muttering over a young woman in a body cast with only eyes and mouth showing. I told the old woman to release her. I don’t know why she was punished, perhaps for prostitution. And a person throwing a baby gleefully in the air I told stop! Possible joint dislocation with that kind of rough play!)
I edited this journal entry of July 19, 1992 for posting, saying . . . .I am not confused. No, because I already know. I see where the past is still happening someplace. I see ways to rewrite history; to bring from here a portion of history that could help a segment of another. How do I know that or even think it? Imaging taking place where?
There can be no change unless there is a shifting in the mental capacities of the nitty gritty. Like soap and water in the health care system. Or change in forgiving one another in the revenge: punishment concept. You see, unless there are minute changes in even the genetic structure . . . here my hands stutter. . .
There are lots of ways to make changes, aren’t there? You step in and change a past in a world whose present reality would profit wisdom from our present reality. We change a past whose present welcomes our intrusion into their present with new facts.
In my dream with the old woman muttering over a young woman, releasing the young one put a pause in the genetic structure that would have taken centuries to overcome. Or the one tossing carelessly the child in the air and ordered to stop gave him pause in action. Joint dislocation was reason enough.
What is puzzling is that I grasp this. That somehow by altering the consciousness of the past, we are in turn altering the genetic line through which we pass. And speeding up the process of evolution which needs speed since we are running out of time, Earthwise and human wise. It is enough to put us all to sleep, permanently.
Genetic engineering can wipe out diseases but changes in thinking must be done on a level where time lines of knowledge and lack thereof would welcome intervention. And what better level than education in another dimension. DNA can be restructured and codes rewritten in cell structure are being learned.
Not lost on me is this 1931 farm girl giving credence to time warps, but education in time warps to boot. In primitive form was a germ of an idea in a dream with a lesson. Somehow lost is the validity of our connection to life. And also lost is our pride in learning. Everything teaches but we must be alert by feeding our minds humanity’s potential for good .
Life is everlasting and with encouragement we would also ensure humanity’s progress.
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.
Take to Heart This Earth Planet Classroom. . . . .
I have been in a few rooms when some beloveds have been preparing to transit this world. Some have been hospital rooms where it has been calmer when attention is focused on what was happening and not being diverted from the one leaving our world.
I am grateful to those who felt safe with me to share their experiences in leaving this world and trusted me to understand what they were saying. I have been there when information went against beliefs held by others present and the words were ‘it’s the medicine talking’ or some religious salves they felt necessary.
When our David said they were calling his name with his presence required for work on the Intergalactic Council for Peace. . . he was alert and not dreaming. It would have been cosmic shortsightedness not to avail his caliber of knowledge when the need was acute and the service on hand.
We have seen unqualified people in high places requiring expert and precise knowledge. We are living the results of such a calamitous journey now. And how we rejoice to see learned ones called upon again for what we hungered.
I took David’s statement as truth of the Council because I had heard the topic discussed years before his hospitalization. And never by him but by people well versed in stellar knowledge.
When my mentor, the Nazarene stood on the rock and said his famous much rendered I will build speech that the Romans took and ran with, he also said in plain words that here on Earth we are the reflection of heaven and heaven the reflection of Earth, the what is loosed segment seldom repeated.
Take those words seriously because they are meant to be serious. There is no better place than here right where we are. We are the reflection. We are it, sailors, we are it.
The only reason to make a difference in this world, altruism aside, (the true altruistic persons are few, if any) is with the difference we make in ourselves. When we come to this conclusion and know the reason, we will remember that the purpose of this Earth is to be a classroom.
Things are not going to change because the purpose for us is to change ourselves. And we hold that card. When we do, we are graduates to the Universe, where there are places needing work.
Places are many. . . planets and worlds with names and no names but workers are few. It’s like Ethics class where conscience line dries for public scrutiny. Nobody shows up. Will you?
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.