I will drink this cup of gall, swallowing the bitterness setting fire to earth’s waste.
But first I caress this chalice. Its depth mirrors my heart, shaking the foundations of my very own selves.
Now splendid trepidation challenge the ultimatums by which the earth rocks.
Challenge me, o gods, not to see the outside that has no bounds, nor the inside that does not
set feel to the outside, nor the depth which encapsulates other worlds.
Winds that know me by my name,| sunlight that weeps with my tears and the night sky which covers my brittle bones with the white moon will continue to call me . . .and remember.
I will drink of this cup and set loose the forces that muddle the minds of men.
In chaos they will seek order. . .and there is none. In the written word they will seek understanding. . .and there is none. In the marriage bed they will seek delight. . . and there is none.
Cross the stars. Challenge the arch angels. Banish the gods. And quickly I will drink of this cup. But tell me. . . .
Who will teach the 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.
How Not To Attach The Fabric Of The Global House. . .
They say. .
You have to keep it singular. . . You have to keep it nuclear. . . You have to keep it private. . . and remembering different in any way is not good.
I tell you. . .
You have to keep out the likes of the stable boy who was my grandfather. And keep out the likes of my grandmother who could speak seven languages and and the likes of me from being born.
For, I, in a sometime life blazoned with the year of 1790 walked up a hill in a country called France. As a monk in a robe of brown burlap with a heavy cross across my shoulders led a group of people past boarded windows with dust flying to save human rights. The time was the French Revolution.
We would be immigrants vying for freedom from a world of oppression; seeking liberation for a chance to breathe fresh air. Rich with history, making a small difference to be sure, infected only with Earth’s virus called learning. Our need to know life’s passions helped to escalate human evolution.
Was this to be called a criminal act and we the criminals?
a small difference?
(photo of the healed bird of my brother Stanley taken by Diane)
(photo taken of birds by son John with camera in hand)
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 ears cleaved to the door frame of the dining room. Her whisper was hoarse, were there many?
Lots, he said, lots, as he held the letter that told him what they saw. They pushed for space, women and children and their men for best viewing. They wanted to see. My people saw he said.
Their words burned my brain as I strained to listen, afraid I wouldn’t catch a sorrow hushed. It didn’t last long he said, because they fell into the pits. Matko Bosko she said. They killed our God he said, remember that.
And I knew the god they called upon to save us from whatever they feared their kids would do. They killed him, he whispered again, somehow making this horrid time an all right matter. My people saw them, he kept saying.
And I loved those two who were our parents who made things seem right when my heart knew was evil and my head fought them
and argued till I would vomit.
We would go into holy week and pray
just as my cousins who saw what was done
went back to their tables and had lunch
and dinner as if nothing had happened.
These were friends and relatives whose prayers were different and that made them different than us.
And the us that I was born into made me sick to my stomach and I kneeled in front of the hopper and emptied my shame washed with the tears of I am so sorry and threw up all of my ten years
and so went my trust.
January 18, 2018
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
May 13,2024. . . (I remember watching this particular morning show with concern because I take things personally. A dear friend said to me that was a hard way to live. If one does not take life personally, one then is a ‘walk through’. Where then is the meaning in life? And whose meaning would I accept? And isn’t that a thought worth the work?)
With pen and tablet I watched Morning Joe and felt I was auditing a class with Joe Scarborough and Jon Meacham, both knowledgeable speaking about the fragility of our democracy. And the lasting words of Professor Meacham were the thunderous grievances of our previous leaders that cannot thought to be ended.
But in fullness and strength it is but an ebbing and flowing throughout our democracy that will require constant vigilance to contain. It is not ever over though we like to think so.
I understand more fully this day because this is a classroom deemed to be so, we cannot be fooled that we are done with class. There is more to learn and we must assume student postures to learn what we must.
Lawyer Scarborough mentioned we must acknowledge the strength of our Federal Judges and Courts to not allow the denigration of our laws because of grievances held by anyone. Professor Meacham pointed out the sublime respect and strength of the court system of our trinity government to the Constitution of these United States.
Though part of Congress was enjoined politically with the Administration, it was our courts of law with federal judges who were the stalwart support of our Democracy.
We will know by name the ones who attempted to overthrow the very fragile structure of the faultless idea of democracy that all men are created equalin their humanity. Not in their gifts and talents, but in their humanity. This therefore being the democratic basis of universal living with potential in good governance, universal living means all worlds.
Hard as life is in the various aspects of living, as in the simultaneous essence of time and the reflections of worlds in conflict that we also reflect, we are the promising experiment of diverse cultural living on our planet. We began our birthing as the land of diversity with the world’s demeaned and our birthing as the land of diversity with the world’s demeaned and dismissed seeking life in this new land.
We are still learning to see how our humanity binds us and what physical differences might blend to unite us in peaceful coexistence and progress. The enhancing of all life forms and goodness innate even in newborns, begins the teaching in this best of all classrooms.
Because I have lived long enough to see changes come and see how much we have been given, I conclude still we are hereto learn. With moments of light and laughter yes, but as students with concern forgreater universal life we all aspire to.
We all get to the place where we tire of games, but the real problem is our Earth running out of resources and may not be able to support the games much longer. Take it straight to heart. It is a truth and we run out of time.
We must beg for help from those still needing to be convinced that we are in real trouble. We are in calamities together, with global warfare, autocratic warlords, and climate problems never before encountered. We have learned calamities are not pretty.
Did we not have someone stand on a rock and say to us all, earth is a reflection of heaven and heaven a reflection of earth? How did we not hear that?
Where can we go?
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.
Part of a whole, yet wholly here. Slowly as I watched the silence was encompassing.
Piece by blessed piece, each tree, each entity slowly folded upon itself and laid itself down.
The screen protecting vanished as it bent itself into nothing, a wisp of an idea no longer useful.
Trees, one by one, bent over themselves and laid themselves down and disappeared onto the forest floor.
And I thought how neat! No evidence, no residue of debris to litter the surroundings.
I murmured his name as I watched the scene disappear and he said to me, don’t move.
And time collapsed for me and events catapulted me again into the frame of reference I know as mine. . . .
And again the journey continued and I sit and wonder and marvel
at this multifaceted existence I know as life.
In October of 2016, I went into cardiac dysfunction and was on the way out of this life. On multilevels life was playing itself out. I was on the patio and watched as I let loose hold on life and watched as the trees lay down themselves, as did everything else in my view. That we create our reality I read many times and I was seeing this world of mine dismiss itself neatly. Not a crumb left on the table. My son John had already called the ambulance and we waited.
More than a half century ago I had begun an independent study program on a daily basis. One’s passionate choice will reveal in time its path and destiny. Footwork is determined by ones’ cut of cloth. And how deep the passion will yield some light on the length of study.
I throw cold water on the idea of romance or secrets or magic. Heavy boots are the order for the hard work of evolution. It all will become mundane and tiresome with lack of progress to which we all are contributors.
The I am sorries have to be more than perfunctory to gain sympathy. We may find remedial classes awaiting and also surprise to find our names attached to gargantuan faults besides the wayside progeny on whom we have granted no attention as history has shown.
How to convert the human psyche from one expecting entertainment to one pursued by the need to know and learn? Except to show the results that our passion has fashioned us into persons we are happy to meet for the very first time. And want to know better. We wish also for our sons and daughters introductions to these selves they have not met.
5/07/24–Sometimes I need to repeat a post for new readers and sometimes for myself. Sometimes I need to anchor myself unto this dimension before I find my wings not broken and remember I soar. Still tethered by those unsure of their wings, I may need convincing they are their own project. I find too many days of sorrow remembered and my wanting to embrace loves of long standing. . .because of life everlasting. What will we do when our lifetimes include coats of many colors? And memories in our progeny hold their examples high and with honor? My love affair for my earth does not fade. When I was 12 I stood in the dark doorway and new I was the richest girl in the world. At nearing 100 years, I know I have not been abandoned but simply realized that no birds of my feather chose this time. There will be time yet for them. Amen and amen.
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.
Her grey hair was tied up in a knot with an elastic band with wisps circling her face.
Not neat in any way but ends swinging as if the haircut was long overdue but her smile was now and the joy present. Her long coat swung, circling her ankles. His coat also swirled close to the ground; his beret rakishly setting low on one brow.
His smile matched the rakish set of his beret and their hands linked to each other swung happily between them.
I want to grow old like that, I said and knew you saw them as I did. You grinned. Like that you said and saw they were happy, joy filled.
We shed our stifling cocoons for a time that day but we did not grow old as what we saw could be.
It could not anymore be yours than mine. If we had, and truth be known,
I would have walked on water for you.
Heart art 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.
We have put so much faith in the medical profession and they do not deliver us from death which of course is what we want in our final go round. In fact, the agonies are prolonged for just one more minute of breath before our departure. And our departure is fraught with negatives. The biggest being our inability to leave with dignity.
For then we are stripped of our freedoms, the largest one being the freedom to leave with a mind intact. What we see is a person stripped of a mind still functioning. Is this the purpose of a life? Is death so ominous that a breathing body vacant of spirit is preferable?
Is the memory of a wretched, unthinking cell consciousness preferable to a vibrant picture of a loving personality? Has medical science made it easier for leavetaking when what we as a body are no longer recognizable with a spirit far from the beloved we knew? Does it truly help when our memories of the beloved are trampled with the last months and sometimes years of pain distorting the image of the one we held dear? And leaves us with a distaste and a revulsion for the whole process of dying to make us more skeptical of the medicine which we have asked for?
One more day of what? Of a wretchedness that negates all we tried to do in life? When the body is programmed for long life, it would be best if we also programmed the mind. With so much emphasis on the body, we have left no time to fill the mind with nourishment that would befit a body determined for immortality. The spirit makes the break.
Little by little in the process of dying, the time spent away from the body is longer and longer. The tenuous thread, the linkage to the body for we are responsible for our creations, is held until the heart in desperation stops. And by that time, who we were can no longer be recognized. The civilities, the niceties that we encouraged through our lifetimes have departed with the spirit intact. These are the things that moth and rust do not destroy.
These are what makes us humane, civilized and what is left is Cro-Magnon. A wonder we cannot be recognized but are despised. And are we not then a wonder of medical science? The mind that has been fed, that has been nourished, has the right to what medical science offers. But this mind will also call a halt to procedures that no longer give sustenance but instead steals from it its dignity.
The population at large has not availed itself to study man’s place in the universe. Has not availed itself to what has been offered as guidelines, as nourishment for the spirit. It has not taken what we all should know from the time of birth. That death too is part of the living process, the earth process. And if we have accorded dignity to life itself, then death must be included.
To program a body for long life but starve a mind is criminal. Yet we do it all the time. We are deluged with information as to what to do to keep the body active, to keep it healthy. We are a world of proof that a healthy body, one told that to eat such and such will result in a body that fights diseases, that will be able to withstand everything.
And yet we will meet death, if not in our youth by misfortune, then in our dotage with a body so well taught that it will continue to do what it is we taught it to from day one. Yet the mind, the spirit has subsisted on kindergarten fare. On pablum. And we are left to wonder why mother or papa are not the person we knew and if we loved them so much yesterday, how could they change so fast to being so mean and ugly today?
And where the peace and resolve of the unresolves that are suppose to occur at the bedside? Where the reconciliations when the unable in body are also unable and absent in mind? And where the spirit of the beloved who has nurtured us in ages past, the linkage to what was, as our children are the link to the future of what they were?
The last memories will be the only memories for some and for the others, the last memories will be wiped out as not being part of life. And both are damaged, for unless we rearrange our priorities, reprogram ourselves, rewrite the lesson plans, the last memories will continue to be part and parcel of life in this twenty first century.
What to do? Feed the mind as well as the body. As we stretch the body, we must also stretch the mind. New concepts, old ideas made relevant, religions made vital for those with vested interest, philosophers resurrected and visionary poetry made mandatory.
The desire to learn must be fed to the child along with the graham crackers and milk. It must be made exciting and a vital part of life so that it becomes secondary to breathing.
The why question must be followed by research and never dismissed. There is a lesson in everything and we must be eager to learn. Literature needs to be taught and understood with today’s technology; in today’s high tech world, literature has application in the dailyness of each of us.
Along with the mind’s ability to compute anything and everything, it should also include the mind’s ability to grasp spiritual concepts to enrich the person. It will prove to be practical in the long run. And the result will be characters of substance befitting the body programmed for life everlasting.
Our children should grow up seeing us with an open book in our hands.
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.
(4/11/24. . . please keep in mind that I have used the male gender as my subject with understanding of this evolutionary leap of humanity because little is understood of what we females responsible with children and aspects of quality to ensure the family in civil community life with compassion when we are leveled with this. Yes, school is in session, and the garbage must go out Monday morning and we will mow the lawn today, so we won’t look shabby. And are we not lucky the supermarket is open round the clock and your uniforms will be clean for gymnastics. My appointments are covered, and I get to see Dr. Heinz today and yes, of course I am fine. With pot-roast for dinner. Amen and Amen.)
March 19, ’81
Five of the hardest days I have encountered had no one about. I look about me and see VIP’s and wonder how they could have grown so large and so unapproachable? The whole process of honest self-examination is painful. The key word is honest. One carries everything to its ultimate conclusion. But why punish oneself? They fill lives with good works and activities and think that physical speed denotes progression. It is easier to blame others for one’s misery.
As a child I made the error in thinking that I was like everyone else. In adulthood the error was in thinking that everyone was like me. Arrogance? Hardly. Doubt sits beside me and questions my every word. Since the time the top of my head was seared off and I walked for days in a world that had no beginning and no end, and I felt that I was one with the universe and there was no mystery, no evil, no beginning, and no end. Just love . . . sustaining and supportive. That year of cosmic consciousness stays with me. The impact dulled for a time when I shouted after my breakdown close up my head! Close up my head. . . . Why me?
Still, I have to ask why not me. But those who have experienced this, and they write mostly about men who do not have the daily care of young children. I continued with my responsibilities under stress and broke up in a million pieces. To whom did I say close up my head and how did I know that my brain was opened to a greater degree than the average person?
A minister friend could only say I had a mountain top experience. He said he has read of it and wished for it. I envy you he said. The men of this experience took off for the hills, or the privacy of the forests and contemplation. Even the biblical Paul took a year off to accommodate this experience and was attended to. When one is born with a brain working at 7 percent instead of the average 5, the 2 percent difference is unbelievable.
As a child one learns to accommodate oneself. What of the adult who because of stress or injury finds himself open to more than was ever imagined, who to go to for guidance? The physicists who sit in their laboratories and play mental games with the idea of impinging universes are lauded for their mental agility. Yet what of those of us who are visiting and have visited other worlds and see and hear and are labeled insane?
My heart breaks for those who lock themselves away and cannot participate wholly for fear of giving themselves away. And those sedated beyond reach who cannot say it is all for real and I am not imagining all this.
How can the Powers That Be measure the scope of the operational brain and unlimited mind? Unless they themselves have experienced any of it , they cannot do ought but label abnormal what is outside their frame of reference. The instability of the emotional creature who has been opened up still remains a constant source of worry to himself. Will I break up again, he says. What are my limits and how much stress can I handle?
And the questions themselves are enough to make him tremble as he reaches for medication. He yearns for flight and there is no place that quiets him. Like being seasick in the bow of the ship during a storm which appears unending. Dulling the brain to ensure that the full impact of events will not undo him is the only way he can see to function. Because the full impact is what he feels and sees Others do not. And this is the problem.
He continues to blame himself for what he considers his weakness and inability to cope when his specialness is his problem. And even that he finds difficult to assimilate. To be special means to be different. And who of us can comfortably accept the fact that we are not like everyone else? The very fact that he has come through such a trauma is to his credit but who will grant him that? Who will sustain his belief in himself and his ability to survive?
Where is the doctor or help for him to reestablish his individuality and yet allow him to feel part of humankind in evolution? The books are not closed yet on us. Something is very wrong in the way we treat those who appear to be different. We should be asking ourselves to reexamine our philosophies. Man will grant to his gods eternal life and the powers to influence for good or ill.
At the same time, they deny the eternal life for themselves and the abilities to do the same. There is a large gap in man’s ability or inability to go beyond physical death. He would allow himself the grace to go somewhere and basking in a large cloud forever seems to be the extent of his imagining. That we go to other worlds and these worlds are peopled for want of better words, like intelligent beings, does not occur to them. That there are those of us who can be attuned to other than the physical automatically puts us in an abnormal category.
The physicist gains applause for his musings. The individual who experiences these worlds and can give substance to them, does not.
There is a depth, a width, a breadth that escapes many of us. And those who are aware are shaken to an inch of their very selves. The spirit continues to teach, often with taking dictation. Joyce Carol Oates in an interview stated she sits at her typewriter table with a ream of paper and begins to write what is mentally dictated. And for such a prolific writer, those of us who know how it is done, understand. For all of us, it is still a mystery how our human brains operate. No doubt the public acceptance of her work has bridged whatever trepidation she feels, if she does.
And others, who put out mountains of work, or even minor works, do it the same way, though few speak of it for fear of being thought odd. The question to be confronted is, who does the dictating if anyone does, or is the mind such that it dictates to itself? Both premises are unsettling if one actually confronts them. Or the individual is especially secure and has put to rest all the questions arising. I go back and reread and find the material fresh.
I wrote a poem in the meantime.. . . .no title yet. And an Amen.
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.
Mar 10, 2024. . . it seems I repeat and repeat. We are not a stupid people, yet why do we act so? I received an email from a daughter which was written on my forehead. (it seems so anyway because I remembered it immediately. words were thus. . . no matter how broad the hammer nor how hard we pound, we cannot put common sense in stupid people!!! ) To say humans disappoint me has me wondering what I saw as their potential to alibi them so long? To say I need a psychiatrist? I have had them for half my life. My beloved Dr. Heinz told me he had met a patient like me 4 or 5 times in his life but only in medical books. He corrected himself when he said Europe was the only place to accept me, because he said he was conscious of too many changes even in his Vienna.
He was conscious acutely of character and would not hesitate to shout BETRAYAL when told of contradictory behavior. Behavior changes are only as good as observable changes with no remorse and regret when the bar for change is deliberately lowered with an I’m only human excuse. It doesn’t hold water, sorry. Please don’t take my time. I have so little left.
Will our daughters who become mothers of sons need to shout that the behavior of a rotter wordly high official does not give an okay to their son to behave like him! Because I said so! And I am YOUR MOTHER!
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 with no ill intent.
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 life 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.
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.
(I was awash this morning with no peer to call because I have outlived the handfull of heart friends and felt isolated. No one to share my thoughts in mind that rose to show that within our lives have been peers saying sure things requiring no ancient researching. I had in my notes the following which I found quickly. I compare my head often to a computer hard drive in my propensity for stored information. Keeping notes in steno notebooks later put in journals was establishing ease in retrieving the notes. It seems I have notes that have hard copies in poetry, in journals, in stenos; meaning the backups have backups. I guess I made up for not remembering what I said to whom.)
Perhaps Doris Lessing and I would not be close friends because of conscience. But I can and do admire her brilliance with the written word and some of her ideas. Two things of value stand out. The first is of long standing and I spent hours locating this source only to find it at midnight in a steno book I happened to pick up before closing shop.
From her book Sirius. . . Laws are not made. They are inherent in the nature of the galaxy. .of the universe.. . . After a lifetime of independent study, another of my conclusions is that laws are inherent in the nature of all life. It is folded into a conclusion I had reached early on that man is basically good because man is basically god, (divine). If this were not so we long would have gone down the tube and stayed dead never to rise.
There is the thought that good can be derailed for a time, but to dismiss and be murdered forever cannot happen; because of the inherent good, basic good in life itself. As the saying goes, god don’t make no junk. Because of our narrow focus, our conclusions are not fully realized . When the larger picture is ours, different conclusions will also be ours.
Standing where we are, whether the terms are God or Life, Yahweh, or Father or Science it all yields truth as far as we can acknowledge, especially if our actions show that our lives bear witness to what we espouse. And when our actions enhance humanity, there is little argument.
The next quote I found last night in my researching Lessing. “Very few people really care about freedom, about liberty, about the truth, very few. Very few people have guts, the kind of guts on which a real democracy has to depend. Without people with that sort of guts a free society dies or cannot be born.” ((3.5.24 hear that supreme court after yesterday’s ruling?. ))
This is a loaded statement because most people live lives nested in fear. And the fear takes form in job loss, prestige, threats, money, and whatever turns us immobile when our buttons are pushed.
It takes a courage unbelievable to have the knowledge of how to correct a problem and yet to work around the known frailties of humans involved to prevent an eternity of more anguish to shovel. One’s own integrated knowledge can be managed and democracy chooses heroines and heroes.
We see a congress of able bodies leveled and paying homage to a whiny loud voice. For shame.
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.
A Sorrow Hushed. . .
Mar 10, 2024. . . it seems I repeat and repeat. We are not a stupid people, yet why do we act so? I received an email from a daughter which was written on my forehead. (it seems so anyway because I remembered it immediately. words were thus. . . no matter how broad the hammer nor how hard we pound, we cannot put common sense in stupid people!!! ) To say humans disappoint me has me wondering what I saw as their potential to alibi them so long? To say I need a psychiatrist? I have had them for half my life. My beloved Dr. Heinz told me he had met a patient like me 4 or 5 times in his life but only in medical books. He corrected himself when he said Europe was the only place to accept me, because he said he was conscious of too many changes even in his Vienna. 