The hunger for knowledge knows no bounds and the kind of acceptance which bespeaks the heart which no longer cares enough to fight for its own existence nor the existence of an Other will soon lose the fight altogether.
Caring is in style. Nurturing is in style one way or another. What is needed is the educated mind which will carry the argument complete with commitment and put priority on that which will sustain the life for humankind.
The greater picture is paramount to survival. The importance of the microscopic family is only a version of the larger family of man. The survival of the larger unit depends handily on the survival of the smaller one. And our own action will depend on the latter. And there are those for whom even this knowledge is evaded or hidden.
And they who know how much there is to learn are well on their way toward the beginning where mind is All.
Who I Am. . .
I am the dream
that came to awaken
the sleeper that was me.
And now I take
the utmost care
in harnessing the glimpses
of a soul in motion.
Somewhat tardy, I think
and I say in this case,
quite late.
I’ve waited too long.
And the dream
is no longer about
who I was but is now
about who I am.
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.
Taking It Personally . . . (we were having breakfast with a young friend)
From a journal entry after the breakfast. . . . the Teacher speaks . . . Your justification of man at the breakfast table yesterday proved a point. The mate said that Jacob was not what you thought him to be. And you had said that you could only take your frame of reference and apply it to other people. And if you endowed them with the highest and best that you knew and the depth, then that was not such a bad thing to do. If you generalized in such a manner then you indeed endowed them. The young friend was surprised and his eyebrows shot up. A nice gesture. You are familiar with it.
You justified all men and hoped that someone would be around for your justification when you needed it. Will you need to be justified? You think all men do. But will you? Have you done to the best of your ability what you know to do? Have you swept every corner of your mind? Is there that which yet must be brushed clean?
Only you will know this in the days to come. Only you will know it when you are pressed by emotions still to be filtered. You think what yet?
Only what is ours to choose. And if you choose nothing more, nothing more is required.
It is not an easy route you have chosen to do. Nor is it one that most would find themselves on. You take it all and then apply it to yourself. You are said to take it all personally. And personally is the only way to process information for any meaning to be applied. It must be personal. It must be meant for you. If it is not personal, you are a passer through. . .
From The Beginning. . .
Except in the quiet of the night
when the demons plague
the early hours and the babies
cannot sleep that the pleadings
are ignored.
It is when the ghosts trip the light
and hide beneath the covers with
the bodies that sweat. And shake
and rattle the headboards. . .
It is when the praying begins and
the begging does not stop.
You know that as well as I. . .
We have heard it since
the beginning of time.
And advantages taken and innocents
pay to assuage the egos that cry
for their mamas. What to do. . . what to do?
The fathers will not leave their warm beds
to hug their sons and lay waste
to their fears. And tell them that the love
they left will always be there for them,
for the fathers do not know.
They still cry for the warm arms
they know and the pain does not let up.
One day every inlet of the sea
and in every cove of the dunes
beside the sea we will see that life
is fair and sweet and good.
And in every imaginable
hiding place life will prosper
as it was meant to from the beginning.
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.
If you are not gun shy after being shot, then you don’t understand the purpose of a gun.
*****
The soul tries on all attitudes to see which one fits the present world one lives in.
*****
All conditions can lend to growth because all conditions contain lessons. Mankind’s wish to be taught by osmosis without effort would further enhance his physical playground. Fun and games would lead to the top of the class? For sure.
*****
Enough times told, even the body begins to change its habits. It matches the words the mouth spills.
*****
Any degree of questioning leading to any degree of study lends a higher quality to a life which beggars.
*****
We lose sight of the dream when we forget that we had dreamed it.
*****
Within is the treasure, and without the within, there is no without.
*****
What was not fulfilled at the time needed will be sought for in every corner except within the person himself. And another generation to shoulder the search for ancestor’s anguish.
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.
I lock up the room
and pocket the last remnants
of words laying about
unattended.
Fearful that pieces
of my heart may be found
scattered among them.
And why not?
Times such as these
leaves us with little salve
to heal the open wounds
which once were hearts.
For whom do we weep?
The children whose siblings
will no longer come to the table
to convey with no doubt
the events which took their innocence?
Or the parents
whose hearts were transplanted
when word came
that these unspent stars
were already breathing the rarified air
as heaven’s most blessed?
Look at us here.
Pleading that our children
will be safe as they try to understand
what we in our dotage
have not learned.
To resort to arms
means death in any country.
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 written. . . ) I really need some one to listen to my words and consider them and tell me there is rest and love and ultimate design in all this. That I can look at the morning and not feel it will be snatched by high noon. That I can walk through the day, at ease with my surroundings and not feel the butterflies nesting in my gut.
I want not to feel Emerson’s under-riding bitterness trying to make good out of despair, (or is it my despair I read into it?) which borders on the arms flailing and saying, what is the use?
I want to be the one who looks and does not wonder at the immense goodness and does not feel it is a throw of the dice. Make sense? I want to make sense. I want to make a whole lot of sense. I want to rid myself of the feeling that I make no difference while I make a difference. I want to know that my order in this particular place is of importance in a world of no order.
I want to know that my attempt at understanding is noted in a world of innocents playing with rotten toys. I want to stop hurting. I want, I want. What I want is a must be in this natural existence and what is needed to maintain equilibrium in this precise classroom. Nature requires it. It means I love my Earth enough to hold on to her tightly.
(This could have been written yesterday and I suppose it was since all time is simultaneous. But I was just 52 and struggling with the injustices and insults of the world I saw centered. It was a silent struggle as most inner journeys are when commitments and conscience are shouldered. We don’t know it is a journey nor are we aware of options. For some, there are no options; life simply Is.)
I Come Bearing Gifts. . .
I come bearing gifts,
an open heart,
an open mind
and open arms.
Love is the currency
used to procure these.
Yours given unsparingly
and mine given
in gratitude
for the constancy of a similar heart.
(this poem was a Given at same time as the above was written.)
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.
June 17, 1984 journal. entry edited only for space . . I was sitting in my chair at the dining room table reading the paper when glancing out the north windows I caught sight of Michael emerging out of his green truck. He was drinking water out of a peanut butter jar and the setting sun shone on his curly head.
I yelled to him as I heard the gate slam and told him to wait while I put Princess in the basement. I then went to the kitchen door and found him standing and looking at the paint job on the house. He came in for a minute still drinking his water and I showed him the drawing of the patio cover we wanted.
He then had a call from his daughter to come home because there was someone to see him. He left and walked down the back yard walk. I yelled to him that he parked his truck in front and he said his truck was in the alley in front of the garage. And he knew where he parked his truck! I followed him to the back gate and sure enough, his blue, blue! truck was there. The new flat bed.
I heard the words simultaneous worlds in my head. And knew that for every aspect of my world here there is another impinging in identity on it. Though sometimes not up to date as with Michael’s blue truck which was only two weeks old. But it was in his green truck I saw him pull up front and talked to him at the gate.
Later that evening family friend John stopped by. I raced to put Princess again in the basement and went to open the front door only to find John not there. Ten minutes later he drove up and I asked him where he had gone. He just left home because he had been packing but according to my vision, he had already arrived which was why I put Princess in the basement.
It was not until 2015 that I read Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe and realized that all my life I had walked with one foot in other worlds. Quantum theory talks of time being simultaneous. The past is still happening and the future has already happened as we race in this present to catch up to it. It is a difficult concept for most people. Linear measurement makes it easier to learn when things appear stable. That they are not is the reality. We do ourselves and the worlds at large a huge favor when we push the boundaries out to allow beggar’s room for our Spirits to expand. We are different but our intent is to do good.
It would have been a comfort in my life to have a hand to hold that understood this concept.
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.
No matter the outcome of any event, the process of integrating is uppermost within the chest of treasures. It is not that all things are diverse, but that all things are connected in a way that is concealed and discernment is required for enlightenment.
Rubies are connected to stones are connected to moss if the thinker in contemplation can see that man and fish, that donkey and gods are one of kind. You cannot see the connection unless the oneness of all of life and the concomitants of the each have an undecipherable basis and that their ultimate function depends on their being what they are and where they are.
And the what can be anything and their where can be anywhere. This is the unalterable basis of God. That the being of what is predisposed to the being in whom. The lesson understood is that the basic concomitant is equality in basis and in presence.
Understood also is that the outward is but an unrefined still beautiful expression of the great godhead within. And to exercise firm control over the criticism of the godhead no matter the dislike or the revulsion of the outward signs of human behavior. It is by example we learn and by example we teach.
(excerpt from The Word Is God. . . .)
Can it be said in truth
that the word be god?
It is.
For within its power to create
it moves with desperation to voice feelings,
to give breath to visions and to heal.
The word created creatures and dynasties,
wars and rebellions, held peace in abeyance
and brought us to life.
So speak softly when speaking.
Words carry the weight of the heart
with intent to topple empires
and worlds and men.
In the catalytic movement
of the word, the world’s heart beats,
years are gifted
and man’s future secured.
It is all we have.
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.
Again, I am here with pictures, primitive to be sure, that I drew of what I encountered in the dream world written on September 9, 1991. Previously I had shown the pictures I had drawn of the gentle fishes in the post on this blog called Worlds I know. . .to speak of. . . which was on September 3, 2017. I wrote then that as I continued working on cross referencing my journals with other work which corroborates them, I would share the pictures and the journals.
I came across the notes I had taken when rereading the journals of the pictures you see here. I knew I had the sketches and showed them to my son John. He said I was ahead of my time. This week we activated solar panels on our home after much protocol. There obviously are worlds where other forms of energy are utilized to a greater extent. I share a part of the journal of that date. While I was not fully awake and the dream was fresh, I drew the sketches you see. My input to the dialogue taking place was . .
(The energy on the mountain. What I thought were trees in the vision, shaped like trees, were not were they? They somehow brought in energy to run houses without chimneys. And from those strange shaped trees I thought on the mountain. From a distance I thought them trees, but they were energy sources, weren’t they? I wish there were credentials to back me up, but then I wouldn’t have taken this seriously but just a powerful play . )
I could not have envisioned this on my own nor have thought one day to be living here in California where solar panels would be discussed to offset the high cost of electricity. But almost 30 years ago I had sketched other worlds where gentle fishes and houses without chimneys were evidenced. I had heard of Rachel Carson and her worries for this planet. My concerns were immediate and I was the person on the premises needing to deal with why my world was wobbly when I tried so hard.
I told my sons I needed a Hazmat suit when I entered my workroom. The emotional vibes are hard on this aged frame from a life of memories relived. Memory is both joyous and painful and always entwined.
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 the poet and writer needs a good talking to.)
There Is Still Time. . .
I say. . . . What more can I do? I am
tired and I am old.
You say. . You are still breathing. And as long
as there is breath, you can still create.
I say. . . . It has all been said. How many different
ways to instill the will to make a difference?
You say. . . As many ways as there are people who awaken
before the sun decides to make an appearance.
And I say. . Already too many times for me. . .
And you say. . I have not heard your name called, which means, rise and do,
and you will be shown how. I have journeyed with you and
do not abandon.
And I say. . You are a hard task master. . .
You say. . . When we walked the heavens and decided to explore our talents
we wanted to do good. The world awaits. . .
I ask. . . For how long?
Your answer. . . There is still time to take harp lessons. It’s been too long since
you used that talent. We need to refresh your memory. . .
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.
Give me the space
in which a few minutes rest
and tell me the color
of your eyes.
I know the direction
your mind would take you,
the roads upon which you go.
I hear your songs
of liberation from a self
holding you prisoner too long.
The songs reach my heart
and together we sing of freedom.
But the space
in which you move this time,
has color and form
and a life apart.
I push through seemingly heavy doors
to reach you and do,
that portion of heart and mind
I know as you.
Locked within a crystalline gaze,
I search my palette
for the emotion with which
to fill in your eyes.
Tell me,
what color are tears?
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.
