Too late I learn
life holds the sharpest knife.
Cutting the loaf accordingly
and with compassion
passes the butter.
The Laws of Compensation do prevail and it is a lesson most do not like to think about. Retribution for whatever deeds is a commonplace happening but there will always be those who think the die is not cast by them. That the intricacies of complex living seem too diverse and too extraordinary casts the attitude that all is coincidence. But it is not. It is not.
For every action there is an inaction and a reaction. Which are one and the same. An inaction is a decided action in zeroes. For this there will always be the game of chance being played and the players think they will escape the consequences. But in time, their time, there is a reactive legislation that prevails. And no thing goes forgotten.
It is written in the wind, so to speak. And Nature will have her day. Always. Life will have its totality. Always. What is sown is also reaped. People understand this only in the most banal terms. But all those precepts are ideas of long standing and have come to their own fruition. Listen well to them. Cliches are true and have a substance leaking energies which do not dissipate until satisfied.
photo by
John 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 needed the lesson and this blessed essay was a given. It has found readers needing the comfort and direction as I did and that I can share this again and bring comfort to others is where the blessing continues to be given. We can remember the pain of the negative experience but we no longer need feel the impact. It is blunted in time. But not to hang onto it is what is important. One cannot help remembering the injury but one need not feel the pain each time. Time helps with that.
Bless The Experience
I learned something today. I learned to ‘bless
the experience’. For if the experience has been
a negative one, has left me with a hurt so deep,
has filled me with anger, then I must bless it.
For in the blessing I remove its power to hurt
me again. I leave it impotent, unable. I’ve
taken the wind out of its sails and there it sits,
blessed for the teaching, but unable to wield
power over me again.
If the experience is a positive one, I bless it.
In like manner, it will remain powerful and
upon recall, able to confer its goodness time
and again. In my thinking happily on it, I
will automatically bless it again.
Life is a blessed experience, all of it. Bless
it generously and gratefully. It teaches us
magnificently and impartially. These are the
magic words. For in the unhappy experience
we are taught swiftly and surely and must
bless the lesson. In the happier one our
pleasurable memory is our reward. In blessing
all of it, we make our truce with life and secure
our place in it forever.
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.
On focusing, your thoughts, your words. . .
how do you do it?
I say. . .
I barrel down into my center and listen
with my inner ear and hear what my heart says.
It is within me that I have my world.
This is what and where I am at home.
And this is not something that can
be taught. It is how the twig is bent.
And what world we appear in is where
we do our work.
You say. .
You listen to your heart.
How does a heart speak?
I say. . .
there is a murmur within that tells
you things and it is with the heart
that one moves. The heart is the
largest area of emotional and profound
truth. I can see where the child
who is maimed right from the beginning
and embarrassed because of his openness,
can dismiss this avenue and close it up.
And the world suffers and evolution
is held up and we have one who is in trouble.
It is always the children with me.
I would protect them. The sophisticates
I would tongue lash and say grow up.
Stop using childish tactics to be cute.
When you have an old face and
childish mannerisms, you are not cute.
Cute is for under 5 years old.
Artwork by
Claudia Hallissey
Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
To those who have inquired and wondered how we have weathered Hurricane Matthew, we did well. The Refuge behind us soaked up water as it was designed to do and our home withstood the elements handily. Thank you for your concern and this hurricane will do nicely for the rest of my days. Uneventful is what I anticipate and appreciate in my mid eighties. Thank you very much. The following are some of the sparklers in my thinking.
*****
Man can strike the essence of what is wrong in an area the heavens cannot.
*****
Man must process an enormous amount of garbage in the place where integration of the human is of vital interest.
*****
The sounds of mortal life cut deeply and quickly and with great pain to those who have ears to hear.
*****
It is always more enlightening to apply criticism of an Other’s behavior to oneself.
*****
Rehearsed rhetoric is a game to use for one’s own justification.
*****
Humanity’s progress comes quarter inch by quarter inch.
*****
Mass evolution is an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms; never a fact and never a reality.
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 it seems that I persist in speaking of differences in perspective, it is because that is what makes us unique, it is because of my intense desire to keep our planet alive and this classroom operative for those already here and those yet to come, who desire to make a difference. Children are our hope that any differences can be effective in making this the best of all learning places.
In one of Doris Lessing’s Shikasta series, the 2 percent difference the woman speaks of to the psychiatrist is a big difference when the issue is quality of thought. And the 2 percent in the quality of thought puts both people, the speaker and the listener in different countries and maybe in different worlds though they be side by side. So I wish to bring up the difference again and as little as a breath separates our thoughts. Evolution? How long does it take? Look about our world. Look into the eyes of children today and you could see angels walking into your heart. Beautiful and innocent and smart. And if someone does not step on their heads they will be able to come to you one day and say we know who you are. You are the safe one. You are the haven they require if the world is to progress and they are to contribute.
In Being A Child
They would say of us
we had no sense of style,
for we dressed in faded clothes
long after they were carried
out of the store.
We put on caps knitted
by loving hands and pulled
over ears fearing frostbite.
We carried walking sticks
and gently jiggled loose piles of leaves
to shunt the mice out of roosts
buried deep.
Great fun we thought.
We tenderly picked the twigs
with berries loosely held
to decorate wax covered driftwood,
simulating snow for centerpieces.
We opened books and closed books
and talked of what was
remembered from other times.
They call it hands on this day
in the language of those privileged
in private schools.
The less fortunate might one day
have a field trip in search of natural life
in an open field. We called it
all in a day’s work
in being a child.
Painting 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.
Could we take the time
to savor this minute?
Hold it close?
There will be
more minutes, but none
more special than this one.
It tells me that
you treasure our friendship,
to show our true feelings
that connect us,
one to the other.
I will remember
the marks on my life
you put there when
you took the time to rescue
the self I thought I lost.
Today I am whole.
Forever drawn as a heart
beating steadily as
with an inserted pacemaker
but with gratitude transcending its beat.
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 intended to do a post on my blog this morning but after reading Maria Wulf’s post this morning on her blog, http://www.fullmoonfiberart.com I am giving her space because her essay is well written and pertinent to our time. For those women who are of recent years and have had no experience with sexism I can only say how fortunate you are. But for those of us especially of vintage years who were brought up with mothers who were revered because of the number of sons they bore and dismissed the daughters born by them, this essay speaks loudly and with despairing truthfulness.
That the old boys’ network flourished during my lifetime is without question. That there were those few whose self esteem would not allow this subjugation was apparent and envied. But that the old thinking is still prevalent even in the present generation of women is appalling. The following incident happened in the emergency room of a local clinic where I waited with a relative. A young girl of ten or eleven was in tears waiting to have a cast put on her broken leg. A boy had tripped her she was telling the nurse. Oh, the nurse said, he must really like you. He would not have tripped you if he did not like you! Before I could gather my wits about me, she was wheeled out and I have regretted not following up with names. Any wonder that persons of abusive behavior feel at fault?
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.
To the essence of the great and holy god,
we offer ourselves in our bounty and
in our sorrows. We ask that we be
allowed to enter with all that we are
and all we hope we can be.
Let us lift our heads
to the glories of the day and
allow us always to see
the brightness that surrounds us.
Ask us in our gratitude
that we look to serve those
less fortunate while always seeing
to those to whom we are committed.
Let us be wise in our choices
and sensitive in our feelings.
We ask in times of need and
in times of great gratitude
that we neglect no one in our care.
In all names we ask and
in all names we wholly, holy, blend.
Take us as we are,
for we are on our knees. Amen and amen.
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 born a person whose breath weaves its own magic during the night hours. When the world goes to sleep where I am, my eyes widen to embark on their own journey. Those sweet hours of the morning I have seen all the days of my life and have found thoughts traveling at a swift pace to their mark. When darkness appears, the air becomes electric with its own energy and the full symphony begins.
In These Sweet Hours. . .
In these sweet hours of the morning,
I sit in this chair, borrowed
from another room, where old bones
had not yet broken it in; missing
the familiar one, much loved
but grown musty.
Like me, I think, old and with thoughts
well worn but suitable for the mind
habiting them. They’ve stood
the test of years that proved their mettle.
They’ve worn their courage
to the extreme and now will go
into the pages and take their place
as reference to a time long gone
but stable. These thoughts worked.
They upheld customs and behaviors
and civilizations. And families when they
could have crumbled never to be restored.
But when hand crafted was
a work of pride, so was the work of the mind. . .
stored now like vintage wine.
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.
Because of the head that sits on my shoulders, I have worked this life the best I could. Because I grew up in a house of brothers, I learned to do many things simply by observing. They tolerated my presence and I learned to watch and say nothing that would get on their nerves. I did not want to be banished. I assumed all males knew how to fix things. (My dearest friend Jan said that the eleventh commandment should be ‘Thou shalt not Assume. . . .anything!) She was right, as usual.
When married and our wringer washer malfunctioned I told my husband and he said call a repairman. I looked dumbfounded and asked stupidly, what’s a repairman? Never with six brothers was there ever someone called to fix anything. I soon learned though. After that, not much money went out of our home for services.
When a service person appeared I was at his heels watching as I did my brothers. I gave our sons haircuts because I watched as my father gave my brothers haircuts. The boys put up with me until their teen age years when they worked for money to get the haircuts they wanted! Though I was called upon by my mate on many a Sunday night to cut his hair and when the owner of the local salon asked who did his hair my husband said I did. And Bernie said I will give her a job anytime.
The home maintenance things I did like painting and papering and plumbing if not complicated with changing pipes. I had a wonderful neighbor friend who was more adept than I and she did electrical stuffs. I stayed away from wires for fear of getting fried. But lawn mowers and snowblowers were my forte . My mate came in for me when he could not start the snowblower. I went out and did my usual and it started. Over the loud noise he shouted, what did you do? How did you do that!??? I knew not to go into what he did not understand so I simply said ‘prayer.’
It would never do to say I talked to the Master Mechanic. I went into the house. As he was rounding the back door with the blower, he stuck his head into the kitchen door and asked, ‘does swearing count?’
I tell you this to show you that one can live a normal life with work and children and home maintenance and a public life and still have an inner life that supports the secular. One does need to set priorities. I had my private times when the house slept that gave uninterrupted hours for study. When my home priorities could be held at bay, I took to my books, and those things that gave me support for times when my world went gray. An open head, or more open than the average head I now learn, meant for despair in all languages. It is the kind of head that is in conference all day with its own eternal why’s. But it is possible to live a contemplative life of a mystic in the midst of the common, meaning average life. One does not need to take to the woods, nor to the mountain top. Those are within. They come to the pilgrim when the intent is noted. And heaven does heed the crash at the gates. Often with a ‘well, look who’s here!’
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.
