As the sparrow falls it is noted
and the quality of life
is diminished by one.
Long ago the feathers were counted.
The color of the downy beast
was subtly painted into the rainbow.
A child is born
in the forgotten regions
of a world too busy to take note.
The borning is observed however,
by the cosmic populace.
Its growth watched and shepherded
and when the child cries,
the heavens lament.
There is no least in quality or number.
Each healing heart is calculated
to keep a world intact.
Each blink of an eyelid, reason enough
for the sun to keep itself alive.
The coming together and the going apart
is through a door opening and closing
onto a portion of life, indissoluble.
Now it is here, now gone from here,
now it is here. Disappearing from
this place, it takes form in another.
The sparrow sings in another tree
and his song is heard by one
who left the here and followed.
Where can we go and not be found?
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 was an oppressed people.
I wandered long
and became very tired of wandering.
I hugged the banks
of the green river and
shredded lives of high caliber.
Crying hard and loud
I voiced irritation
that rubbed edges raw.
And soon I walked
into the promised land.
Even before, even before I died.
It was green and fertile
and without enmity.
Without rancor I tended gardens.
And in the wide calm of doing
I knew of Being.
Ah it was so. It was so.
Tending the cabbages
I found the young fruit sweet.
Tending the orchards, I found the hearts tender.
It was in the doing that I found beauty.
And I know it has never been done this way.
And I have done it before.
Each time fresh, each time new,
but the promise and the land even
more beautiful than I had remembered.
But even now, new eyes approach mine
and I whisper. . . search for it,
search for it.
It is real and when you find it,
you will know it never was a place
but a time in the heart.
art 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.
Come, we walk.
Take my hand.
Lean on me for a time
to gain a respite
for a work unending.
I stand by you,
ready to catch you
if you fall.
My arms are steady
and ready.
I will not stumble,
so do not be afraid.
It has been a hard journey
and you tire.
I’ve stood the watch
and marveled
at your tenacity,
your perseverance.
Though you faltered,
you stood upright
without hesitation.
Now breathe easy
for a job well done.
No one could have done it better.
Welcome to the winner’s circle.
It was worth the run, don’t you think?
photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.
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 head swiveled when I heard the elder blurt out, ‘but you are lucky you like to pull weeds!’ I stared openmouthed because she was serious! I thought of the past hot week where the sun did not blink and the temperature and humidity hovered at ninety.
Upon her arrival for dinner she marveled at the lush lawn and neat garden. It wasn’t by magic but by adherence to a vision in my head of other lawns and gardens. A vision so firmly held that my hands worked while my mind was in dialogue.
Property to me was as far down as I dared to think and as high up as I could see. Large enough to raise children and then one day too large to keep as I desired. But that Sunday afternoon the conversation turned to those poor people she said who only had one or two interests.
I ventured to say that was what libraries were for and fields and parks and many things free. Parents were supposed to expose children to these things so that interests would expand.
‘Not everyone is lucky enough to like to pull weeds’ she reiterated. Across my mind were the hot summers growing up where our livelihood demanded that we work together to cultivate cucumbers, vegetables weeded if there was to be produce for the market. And I thought of my mother who listened to us harangue about friends who went to the beach while we worked!
But early on secretly of course, we enjoyed our siblings. We learned what it meant to contribute to everyone’s well being; our contribution was meaningful. We had fun with each other but our hands did something of value.
I followed suit with our children as my siblings did with theirs; an added dimension to life that sustained us all. Taught we were to learn to do useful things. Preceding beautiful was useful. In time we found a certain comfort in what our hands could do. In trials and crises when Spirit needs comforting, we turn to those things learned with hands that were practical and creative. Mother’s patience endowed her children to a degree she could not have imagined.
A priceless gift was bestowed. Our confidence was affirmed though I am sure the initial attempts were more bother for her than help. She could not foresee the carpentry or the iron sculpting, the artistry in her children’s lives.
Our minds paint pictures for us. Some dismiss them without thought. Others of us try to duplicate what we see in our heads. As I walked and saw early attempts in the first balmy days of spring the efforts to make beautiful, I wonder the people’s early teachers. Who loved them enough to stay the early pains to set the example.
The elder relative perhaps was right. I was lucky I liked to pull weeds. To go beyond the sweat to see the beauty in labor, the virtue in making beautiful. I have been lucky to be able to appreciate the wonders of life and the great good luck in helping to keep it beautiful.
photo by
Kathy Qualiana
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 tell you true.
You were known
before you came here
to this vast land.
A waste for some,
a paradise for others,
for one a dim place and
for another the sun shines.
You took upon your Spirit
a work, a job,
looking to make a difference.
You said to send you
where your heart could
change the world . . .
And you were given
your wish, hard as it seems.
You have not failed.
Your ripples are felt
on unnamed shores
and even the unborn
know your thoughts well. . .
Come, be kind to one
the heavens sing praises for.
Your work is virtuous
and your talents creative.
We make bet on
the one winning the trifecta.
The roses are yours. For keeps.
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 is comfort
in the simple things. . .
the cup of hot coffee
in a favorite cup,
the warm bathrobe,
threadbare though it is,
the slippers, warm and high
around the ankles,
the fire in the grate lit by a device
with a flick of the wrist.
Quickly now,
because energy is at a premium
with appreciation immense;
nothing is taken for granted.
But with gratitude
for the minds at work that make
the gracious present.
Memory serves to enhance
the joy incumbent in the tangible.
What was, once served its purpose
and fleshed out a life or many simply to live.
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.
When I understood the meaning of the words begat and borne and unearth and wrote this, I wept. It was then I realized that for me the poignancy of creating life was not so for everyone. The school of thought then was that it was all biology. Until we get to this time where to hold life sacred not only in hand but in thought, will we see brotherhood of man come to Be. We must teach our young that all of life has a sacred leaning.
NOT A BORNING. . .
It was not a borning.
It was a begetting.
They did not borne sons and daughters,
because they could not.
The Earth gods begat
brothers and sisters like themselves.
The fathers could not father
and the mothers could not mother.
The fathers begat brothers and
the mothers begat sisters.
There was not time for sons
and daughters to be borne.
Not time to teach the lessons procured
to bring about the enrichment of the desire.
Not time to search the elements to note
the tie that could not be untied.
No time to nurture the splendor
of the each to the each,
to borne to the Earth sons destined
for the name of their father,
and daughters destined for
the name of their mother.
There was not time.
Intricately the webs spun out
of desire inadvertently.
Caught in the web were principles,
long standing and well tested.
And dismissed.
Having no application amidst the fruits
of pleasures turned silken, they died.
And in their place came dogmas,
fully entrenched and circling
the heads of innocents.
Laboring to bring forth a beloved,
the woman labors.
And finds not a daughter
but another like her, well versed
by her own lessons.
Laboring to bring forth a son,
she finds another like her,
dressed in male skin.
She knows both well.
For already the lessons are well knit
into the fabric of man.
Unraveling the skein of life
she stands enmeshed in chaos.
He stands perplexed,
ruminating the exigencies of life.
But it is not as envisioned.
In the fragile moment,
when eyes behold the new life,
when hearts ache to behold the new spirit
destined to free the chains
binding man to servitude,
the Earth gods know.
The man sees another just like him
and is dismayed.
The mother sees another just like her
and aches. For neither prepared themselves
to uncover what each knew and
could not release.
That begetting was easy to do,
but to borne meant unearthing.
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
It was a very vivid dream and I wrote of it in detail. I was moving the garden hose on the front lawn and looked up and David was walking up the sidewalk. Oh David, you are alive and well I said, and he said it is a wonder. They make as many mistakes as we do. And I remembered Jesus saying along with on this rock I will build my church he also said, that whatever is loosed in heaven is loosed on earth and whatever is loosed on earth is loosed in heaven. Conveniently forgotten. I have known since I was a child and remembered the place from where I was born, this dream visit was real .
Heaven is not a font of wisdom and they make many errors. Proof is the world we inhabit. We do what we can while we live here to make it better. Whatever we do with all the compassion we can muster is better than leaving things as they are with little thought. Now having said that, what do we do now. We keep on working, keep on keeping on. Joining the host workers who in the past gave their utmost to promote human welfare. Who wrote the music to remind man from where he had come. Who worked to keep man upright and off his belly in the mud. Who made water pure and drinkable and still working on that. Who grows food in arid land to put bread, not cake, on the table. Who write and teach and feed the minds of men to lift my brother up.
There is no effort as great as man’s effort. There is cooperation with man’s god only insofar as man works in cooperation with his fellows. And there is no rhyme nor reason anywhere unless there is reason where man is. The majority of my generational peers grew up in prejudicial homes where bigotry and racism were rampant. Our parent gods said they hated what they were taught to hate. Doesn’t every generation? When do we put a stop to it? The changes have been slow in coming. We are running out of time and resources.
Let us hide God the three wise men said. The ocean, said one, because man would never go deep enough to find him. The sky, said another, for man would never go high enough to find him. Within, said the third, for man will never think to look there. Within.
Dante took Virgil on his journey to the heart of himself. Virgil was a philosopher of note and took up the challenge though Dante was a Roman Catholic and did not take the Christ. Christ was not real but Virgil was. I, being, uncredentialed, took the highest and best frame of reference I knew and that was the Nazarene. In my independent study of a lifetime I found him a man to be of no thought except to release man from the prison he was kept in by other men who themselves were also imprisoned. He showed me that to be utterly human and utterly divine was a concept that man carried and so long was it hidden that to uncover it was such a heartrending process that few attempted. It is a long journey and a hard route.
And never ending. A grandson said to me in awe that you are not afraid of anything, are you grandma. Fear is the hangman’s noose. Knowledge gives one freedom from fear. It is accessible through the everyday tool of learning. It is man’s choice to use it. Now is a good time to start.
art 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.
Dickens said. . . ‘I wear the chains I forged in life’
For better or worse we forge them link by link. And I like to think they are good habits of ours that I call little mercies or the more common, tender mercies. I felt this many times. I often started something I could not stop because people I loved depended on that little something. Whether it was a fire in the fireplace when the grandchildren especially visited or I set the table a certain way with cloth napkins for them or when I make Christmas cards.
“I am going to live, Eleanor’, George said after his heart attack. ‘I am going to live and we will frame Ronnie’s card and put it on the dresser.’ And he did and he looked at it every day and had many long years. And Marylouise said I set your cards on the mantel where they stay . You have no idea how many times I look at the rose card and it gives me strength to go on. And this is one of the reasons I was born, to stretch out a hand.
Most of us have no idea when we do a something that encourages an Other. I was fortunate in that I learned and people have told me when they have been touched by something I have done. How very important to do that little act of mercy. I have heard a harrumph when I have labored over a something with someone standing nearby and succeeded to follow with a heavenward thank you. Even as a child I understood that heaven seldom gets thank yous. When was your thank you sent heavenward? Send it now. . .
Thank You
My days are littered
with murmuring thank yous
for gifts unbidden. . .
for the stray thought
giving answers
to questions I did not ask. . .
for the beating heart
too tired even to stop
and glad that it did not. . .
for the quivering morning
poised to take flight
through a day hard pressed. . .
to a night, bidden
with unfaltering love
as a thank you. . .
for a day loved through. . . .
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.
All thought which holds the life’s crucible for an Other’s well being is prayer. Any conversation which holds the good of Others in its heart is prayer.
*****
What seems like a tragedy in the absurd and obscure is indeed a well thought out and prescribed drama. . . oftentimes.
*****
Bless the good day and blow the winds of fear as far from as to the ends of the Earth. The alternative is more of the same in a place where progress is not as swift.
*****
Tears aside, there is eternal life within each and for each to discover. One cannot hand it to them already chewed. It is theirs to do.
*****
Wait not for death. Be vigilant only of life in all its forms, in its entirety. One cannot break a will which heralds its own functioning to its own existence.
*****
It is enough that the articles of faith be hidden for as long as they have behind the façade of the mind grown into habitual lack.
*****
It is time for even the skeptical mind to be convinced that what is seen is not necessarily all there is to be seen and what is heard is all that is being said.
*****
You cannot know what deep is until you have fallen into a hole.
*****
You cannot rush in and guide the cart to avoid disaster. Disaster brings lessons which cannot be learned any other way. Even when the extra work falls on your shoulders. Suck it up.
*****
We walk on cobwebs but we are cobwebs. We are not certain what the final outcome will be. What we are certain of is the process.
*****
Don’t lose your grip. Heaven is tightfisted also.
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.