Inadequate. They say I make them feel inadequate. I require something of them but they don’t know what. I tell them they do but they have misplaced the skill they had when they would grab thoughts and run with them.
It was an exciting high brought on by them mastering life and know they were equal to it. An exuberance within them that had them glad to be wholly alive. Why had they let it be stolen?
We struggle for balance. We are not of the ‘suffering servant’ school nor of the ‘life can be beautiful’ one. It need not be one or the other, but remember this is a classroom. Its purpose is unfolding and our potential is becoming. What is the wonder and will continue to be the surprise.
Prolonging life by avoiding life’s problems only casts them for another time. Emotional discomfort, physical infirmities and mental upheavals are those things one grows on. And growth in these areas are of prime necessity for human potential.
We were taught since early times that the purpose of life is to learn. It is not to be happy and to be in a perpetual la la land with no discomfort.
How and what we do with the problems that life in this physical state doles out simply because the pieces fall where they do and form a puzzle, is for our growth and maturity.
Life is not meant to be one big romp in bed or a continual buffet table. How we confront and use the common sense we were born with to meet problems and hopefully distill some good in our wake is the prime motive for life.
It appears common sense is not so common, do you think? Or prefer not to, think, that is.
Evolution I . . .
In my yesterday
a thought was born.
Suited to my self,
we were complete, whole.
Today I find the thought
sufficient only for my yesterdays.
Awakening now, the mind itself,
impregnated with yesterday’s truths,
finds the spirit eagerly embracing
tomorrow’s dreams.
By what means and by whose devices
are yesterday’s truths
made today’s realities?
Except . . . perhaps by man
living out his dreams?
Elusive substance, beclouding,
misting, penetrable only
by man’s eternal hunger.
Satisfied only
by man’s indomitable spirit.
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.
Sometimes one tires of treading lightly on psyches with cushioned feet. Perhaps there are times to wear what once were called old army boots.
*****
Power comes to those who are able to bow down the strong. And it happens at every level. When knowledge becomes the tool, then it is apparent where the weapons of war are used. It is called manipulation.
*****
Let others tend their own gardens. They planted the seeds and now are unhappy with the fruits?? Poor babies. . . .
*****
We all find eventually that every day is a day of generous offer. Need to say that again???
*****
Keep this thought in mind when complaints lace your language ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. There are lives lived beneath the furry evidential of every day life. That there are memories of past lifetimes, of lifetimes still in the process of completion. This is what is meant by the quantum theory that All Time Is Simultaneous. Just an example of the past is still happening.
*****
Our narrow focus keeps us zeroed in on what is our reality. And makes the lessons easier to learn. Best we get on with what is ours to do today before tomorrow’s needs make the burden heavier. Your language then might curl hair if heard.
*****
Words lacerate. A bite that breaks the skin by either a child or puppy requires a tetanus shot. It is too bad there is no tetanus shot for words that break hearts. An I’m sorry is not enough. Just doesn’t cut it.
*****
A change in values is the most difficult change to make. Change directed at a value system, injecting it with heart is the only change that makes the difference. A value system is how a life directs itself.
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 am so pleased to be writing this post to let you know that the paper back edition of Psalms of Love is now available in the Amazon.com store. I want to thank you for being so patient with the ambiguities of publishing and getting it altogether to match whatever the specifics were. In this day of state of the art devices, getting all factors working simultaneously and without conflict takes some doing.
I want to thank my family, all of them, for allowing this sometime not very state of the art mother and grandmother the idiosyncrasies commensurate with my lack of knowledge about how things work. It seems that a workable language should be understood but life today requires more than that. Aahh well, I try. I try. And they are good people to put with my foibles.
I am proud of this work and if I think about it for more than a minute I will make another ocean. There is something about a creative endeavor that brings on the tears, however much of it is a Given. I said that I reached very high for this work, so high and the cost was dear. But the result has been a peace that surpasses understanding with a knowledge that has no meaning except to me.
For this time and this place, it is done. In another place, another something will be demanded, and because this was accomplished, I may approach with trepidation, but I will approach the task. I have been gifted magnificently with our sons and the loves they have chosen. There is nothing this world could give that matches all of them.
I will continue to write until I know it is time to lay down the pen. To have a voice has been another gift that I do not take lightly. It is a responsibility as well as deeply satisfying to be able to state my views from a lifetime of thought and study.
I have no credentials, just accumulations of classes and books that fueled the beating of my heart. Even two cardiac arrests and two strokes convinced no one my work was finished, least of all the cosmic element. So we begin again. And again.
The daughter of one of my best friends asked to hear me read and said in a whisper, why do I think God is talking to me in your words? I don’t aspire to her beliefs but I reached for the highest and best in my belief system. I hope I help you to relate what is highest and best in yours.
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 much weather and all else happening that it is time for a light repast. It is time for a warm fire and a hot something with a bit of spice. It would be looked upon favorably. It is time for the head to rest and the body to recline. But only for a time. And then again we pick up the cudgel to make a new path. For that is our destiny. And we revel in it. With a large ahhhhMennn!
Upon Entry
Upon entry, we shed
the mufflers and the gloves,
the vests and boots,
ready as any warrior to fight the cold.
The hot tea is
a choice companion for us,
as we sit and warm ourselves
before the fire.
A promised relief
we find in each other,
as we no longer find the joy
in battling winter’s discontent.
We know our blood thins
and our patience ebbs
since we do not run and jump
with glee as snow inches up.
We remember though
this once held joy in things
not common to advancing age.
A straight shot of something
would not be unwelcome in the cup of hot tea.
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.
For whatever is not made peace with, will piece the person. It will break them into a million parts, never knowing it can be peaced, nor seeing how they contribute to it all, will leave the adult body still playing the child.
When one operates from a child’s reference point, one does not see one’s contribution to a problem. And there is nothing within a closed memory that would make us accept responsibility if we are not equal. It is a mess but how truly remarkable for the protection of the individual .
But how god-awful for those around.
Kindergarten. . . .
It is kindergarten
this place of play that tells us
that we are just boys
and girls and everyone
wants us to be happy.
And we vow again
like the tinker bell that
we play the girl at heart
and like the peter pan
we will not grow up.
And we are adored
to be just as we are.
Never growing up to do
those things of pain we see.
Never growing up
because to grow up means
to grow old and hurts not only bodies
but feelings we drown in.
There is no one to save us so
to grow old means we die.
We all know that song, don’t we?
There is no fun like ours
when we stay young to play
with the wind in our hair and
someone pushing the swings higher and higher.
Nothing is expected then, is there?
Everyday is a day to play.
And if we are lucky we will die
in our sleep and never have to think.
Where is the fault in that?
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.
are a wipe out. Only to do what one can. The Rabbi Teacher asked only one thing. ‘Feed the children.’ Sometimes the simplest command is shrouded by a complex system of thought. Think so?
The Bread Knows the Feel of my Hands. . .
I know the dust of the flower
as the bees skin the petals
and suck the juices off their spines. . .
I know the touch of your hand
on the shoulder of my tunic
as I bend to kiss
the child of our union. . .
And know, however much I know,
the feel of the heart
beating against mine and know
to whom it belongs. . .
I knead with no passion
but stir lovingly into
a loaf of wonder. . .
crisp to the knife blade
it will be as it slices. . .
It is with love
I fold the dough onto itself
and it melds selflessly
into a loaf. . .
knowing all the while
the touch of my hand
with love caters
to our natural heritage. . .
both of us part of All That Is, life itself.
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 times that call men to action and this is one of them. It is time to give way to new ideas that have been incubating for a long time within the hearts and minds of those given to thought. We are long delayed in giving space to different kinds of consciousness. Long delayed in giving space to those whose minds and physical brains have doors open to places the average person does not.
The quiet mind is a comfort zone for most. The comfort being in the place where the meals are hot and the days fall into a pattern that give little leeway for the eventful to happen unless taken into hands of those of ill intent.
Long past the time now we have gone expecting man to become zealous in his attitude to bring peace and growth to those of us on our Earth. The human is not only physical but is divine. The human had his beginning with the stars and is intent on claiming this innate knowledge.
With every event that comes to life in the human sphere seems to bring calamity in large doses. Wars are taken as common within the boundaries of the race that prolongs the anguish of ancients. And little reason lies behind the events except giving action to desires that look to give meaning to the life that has little in it.
Long has man looked for reason to add adventure to his day. And leaving the children and spouses behind to do so in the names of work or patriotism or to hunt seemed reason enough. We take to task these reasons. We take to task the lazy minds that look for physical adventure and not the considerate thoughtful work to give life meaning. Why the need to be entertained than for minds to look for answers that would give meaning to the purpose of life?
Long has man preferred to fight wars over boundaries instead of looking to what unites the human race. Instead of looking to what unites the spirit in manner to bind one to another. Is it so boring for man to look to what will prolong and give impetus to the progression of humankind? Is there so little love between man that there is no common ground?
From a cosmic view, other worlds must look to see what they can invest in the dailyness to spur man on to promote this planet to growth and progress. We look to see where we can inject some adrenalin to make the intensity work with fervor.
It is time long gone that the one god, the one world, the one man, the one consciousness be held onto with such religious fervor. It is time to expand the thinking to include the divine within each human giving access to the spiritual energy and psychic fulfillment which permeates and upholds the universe and universes. It makes for accountability of the each in his life with the knowledge that names are attached to actions that will demand restitution.
For too long man has reclined in his comforts with the god he created who will forgive and forget all his transgressions. That with forgiveness because his beginning was less than ideal and the burden was a heavy one to carry that he would be forgiven whatever transgressions he committed. The news now is that names are attached to these errors in judgments and these errors must be accounted for.
Misdemeanors are different than sins. Sins are different than psychological impairments. And impairments of judgments are still not dismissed but lessons must be learned so that progression in human lives will not be held in abeyance but will have time for full potential.
Babies born are wondering why they are in kindergarten when they have knowledge of worlds in attendance to the great god of wonder that is the rolling thunder of the universe. Why they are not part of the action that rules other worlds with motion and movement toward great progress. But are lost in the illusion of slow motion that seems to immerse the adults in such pleasures. They come to us as twigs already bent with a history ready to teach and we step on their heads.
We are in the midst of worlds looking at this planet and wondering the outcome of its wondrous elements. It should have been held as graduation for souls becoming stars again. Instead it is held as the playground of souls who have learned the sophistication of its accoutrements and given them a place to play forever.
Time is now that changes will be evident. Time is now that much will be demanded. And the young whose memories now of the violence that has taken their friends and innocence will demand restitution and behavior that comes with adulthood.
The children shall lead us. And force the children in adult bodies to grow up and let loose the behaviors that have kept this beautiful planet hostage. It is time and the children shall lead because they have memory. Of the worlds they have come from and where they exhibited behavior that showed accountability.
It is time for all of us to grow up.
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.
This poem is one in the Psalms of Love. The book is available now in Kindle and is in process also, almost ready for print in paper back on Amazon.com. In the midst of this winter, I wanted to share my love for this season and will always love it especially. The most impressive part of my life has been winter, possibly because it allowed time for things of Spirit. Without the pressing of the must do’s of good weather, winter has always allowed time to stand still. It has allowed breathing space for feelings to take form. Wood fires, good books and loving arms. They are worth remembering forever.
The Snow May Blind Us. . .
My feet are walking
into dusk and soon I will feel night
pulling at my ankles.
I will feel it creep about my knees
and like fingers clutching
the turned down blanket
and drawing it close to lay its warmth
on shivering shoulders.
I will pull up the night
to cover solid state illusions
and in the dream of the dreamer,
humble them.
Enough for the morrow
to make believe to believe,
to pretend to pretend
that the water will not
hold my walking frame
and my belief will not
move the mountain.
We will continue to share
a world of make believe
and in that world, the play onstage
will be the real thing
and the house we build
will shield us from the elements.
Snow my blind us,
may pile itself at our door
and the door may never open again.
But within,
the love we know
has tentacles that chase
illusive worlds into being
and as we created
this house of passion,
we will again gain space
for a love such as ours.
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.
This is the day I have long awaited. It is the day I can say to my family and friends that the book called Psalms of Love is available on Amazon. The Kindle is available now and within a few days, the paper back will be available if not already. It has been incubating for all of my life it seems but with me and my philosophy, it happened yesterday.
It could not be without my family. John and Lori provide a wonderful home for me with an awesome workroom without added pressures aging cannot handle nicely. Tresy, (Joe III) has formatted and done all the fine tooth combing that publishing requires and soothed my worries about being an irritation. And Claudia has again done her talent justice by her fine art in the midst of life intervening. All done while their lives continued with work and upheaval of construction, moving, changing addresses and Emma E. making her debut in the midst of the moving weekend for her parents. With civil liberties enhanced, chaos abated, Emma E. still came home to loving arms.
Psalms of Love readers will question the poetry according to what they hold as their philosophy or belief or their religion. Others will simply want to know what I smoke. I will have to say as those in the past have said, we live our reality. The habits of our days create the world we work at. When it is said that by their fruits you shall know them, it would be wise if we take that maxim to heart.
Because it is so. Those who have known me, or have been following my blog for the last seven years, know that I speak my truth. When I said I crashed the gates of heaven, it is so, metaphysically speaking. Otherwise life for me would have been impossibly difficult.
We come into the world as the twig already bent. There are those who wish to believe that we are a clean slate, but a history we already are. Some of us remember our history and others will say we have a vivid imagination. All it takes is to listen to the newborn as they master the language they are born into. They introduce a vivid history. The book no one ever reads but refers to with the question in the vernacular, what’s it all about Alfie, should ask the newborn as the good book says.
I truly hope that in reading this book of poetry, Psalms of Love, sweeping across your heart will be an awakening that you too are known. And with the journey begun, you will claim and be claimed. To what will be your surprise.
I am grateful that we are not abandoned. I am one of the fortunate ones knowing this. It has been with this support I have been a contribution instead of an impediment to life. My life drove me to study the why of man and led me to the why of who I am. A life of independent study is not lightly chosen. The rewards are seldom tangible but with hindsight, priceless. No dictionary on this Earth has words to tell what it is to be known. And to be of account. The gift is matchless.
illustrated by
Claudia Pontarelli-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.
I can remember thinking and finally saying out loud though I happened to be in the basement, I could tell who came in from outdoors by what swept over me. It could have been their vibes or their energy blanket or it could have been something else that I filed into my brain since time began.
But I would know before they took a step in just who it was; even as a child I knew when my brothers or sister or parents came in. It was only when our children were born that I realized that not all people were this way. When I met someone, sometimes for the first time, sweeping over me would be the feeling of them. I learned I was reacting to their emotional climate.
It is traumatic for the young child, the sensitive one, who complains of a stomach ache at the thought of school, to be away from the safe environs of home, afraid of being laughed at or throwing up, or the washroom being too far. How to explain this to parents? They cannot and unless there is a divergent path taken, they will simply say they have stomach problems and spend time in the bathroom. Never realizing they have become the emotional pit stop for the world’s ills.
Sometimes the sensitive one must simply vacate the room to protect himself from the slings of emotional flagrancy. They have to leave when emotions rampage or they will throw up. There is seldom a someone who understands to protect the child or the child in the adult body. There is no protection for others’ emotions crashing onto them. Even contained violent emotions can be deadly to the vulnerable.
The triggers for these occasions can be anything. When I was a child in grade school the sound of a siren going by would find me running home from school certain that calamity had befallen my family. Certain I was my mother would be dead or the house burned to the ground.
We were not spawned in a ditch. We are a holy beginning. We were before we are and we have a history. We are a history.
To the one who said I draw conclusions all over the place (it was not meant as a compliment) and make connections no one else does, I say to see all life connected is what Ancients did. And I do this here and now because of those who cavort on Olympus. But they worked their days on Earth as I now work mine.
(I was almost Sixty when the above was written. I am now almost Ninety. After years of therapy to accept the fact that my head was different but not mentally ill, the doctors and I formed relationships that supported me. I learned that there are those like me who are out of place in a world that has difficulty with ideals that work elsewhere. And the Elsewhere has many worlds. We embrace to different degrees values that can work here but at a very high cost. If we are fortunate our families gather to protect what soon becomes the isolated child. What is not realized is that mavericks contribute in ways necessary for human progress but not noted until they are absent. Embrace the obstinate child. They chose you as parents for special reasons.)
Photo by John Stanley 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.
