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Illustration of a bird flying.
  • Crowded With Saints. . . invisible

     

    When I try to explain what track my thinking has taken in my life,  even as a child or a teenager when a peer said that I talk as if I am reading out of a book,  I am at a loss.  In the following excerpt from The Last Bird Sings,  Marshall,  the student is explaining to his mentor,  Felix,  a feeling he needs explanation for.  He is at the point in the story where having found the brothers  and Felix he feels finally at home, wondering why he feels as he does.   I have edited the segment.

    Marshall thought for a moment.  His feelings needed some sorting.  He looked at Felix with intensity.

    ‘I cannot see it, but can feel it.  I cannot put a name to it but it is real. When I talk to the brothers,  each and together, I get the feeling that I am not just talking to them.  By themselves or altogether.  I get the feeling that there are great ones standing about listening.  I have the feeling that we are in the midst of saints standing.  Even now,  I have the sense that we are not alone.’

    ‘You are right, Marshall.  We are not alone.  And it is good that you sense this.

    For too many people talk as if what they profess to believe has substance and presence and yet act as if it does not.  We would have you act in the knowledge that even the invisible has substance and intelligence.  And to act accordingly.  It would  help man to act to his best capacities and to elevate himself.  He would clean himself of the corrosion that hampers growth, his and all men.

    He would open  himself to what is highest and best and be its reflection.  He would be able to judge behavior according to what is highest and best and want nothing less for himself or his brother.  But he must first know who and what he is.  And only in the silence,  Marshall, will man be taught.  He must go into the closet of who he is and listen.

    You are right to sense the presence of others.  They are about and we are never alone.  We have not been abandoned.  We have chosen seclusion to accelerate our learning.’

    Marshall listened, and tilted his head to catch all of Felix’s words.  Felix knew it took courage for Marshall to choose the route taken and his antennae were pointed to the heavens.

    Marshall stood and then spoke.

    ‘It has all been written, hasn’t it? It was all put down somewhere, sometime.  That is what the brothers read and listen to, isn’t it?’

    Felix shook his head yes.  He waited in silence..  There was something going on in this boy and would come forward.

    ‘There is some thinking I must do,’ Marshall said.  ‘There are questions I must put into words.  For some I know the answers and others I must feel out my answers.’  He turned and was gone.  Felix seated himself and closed his eyes and prayed the prayer of the select few who knew the power of words.

    ‘To the best and highest within me,  help me to choose the best and highest.  Amen and amen.’

    I was fortunate to have a handful of friends in my life who loved me.    One in particular came to my home because she said she loved the feeling she had of being in a crowd of invisible saints. We were 5 in number of regular people  but she saw a roomful of saints.  We do entertain angels unaware, she one of them.    There are copies still available of Last Bird for $20.00 shipping included.

    April 21, 2017
    Veronica 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.
  • Thought in Flight. . .

     

     

     

    We cherish not the dream or the believer but the  One who sparks the dream.

    *****

    The bushel is moved and in the space of a candle, the world is lit.

    *****

    Love ventures into areas where courage falters but the heart makes waves.

    *****

    The highest framework we can choose is one by which the heart is healed.

    *****

    Eyes that once are opened will always see and ears that once are opened will always hear.

    *****

    Those whom we trust, reach out and touch the fear in us and lay Grace to it.

    *****

    To see through eyes of an Other will put one’s heart into divine orbit.

    *****

    You wrapped me around your heart and you will have to wear me like a pacemaker.

    *****

    We plunder our children’s wealth by casting doubt on their veracity and then weighing them down with guilt.

    *****

    The original meaning of adultery was to bed someone unlike oneself.  Man then made the relationship legal and called it marriage.

    *****

    Humans dress themselves in expensive clothes to cover their attitudes.

    *****

    As an alien life form to another world,  I hope I am viewed with compassion.   Your hope too?

     

     

    Photo by Diane Rybacki

    April 20, 2017
    Veronica 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.
  • In Tribute To A Beloved. . .

    To Lift The Plough At Last. . .

     

    She said to me that when she felt Spirit ebbing,  she would toss her suitcase in the car and take off for The Farm.  She not only loved those who nurtured her but the Farm itself which somehow fed the city girl.  There, nothing was demanded of one except to discard all pretense, assume the mantle of charity  and hold high the torch of love.  In essence,  it refreshed and renewed.

    We give gratitude for having had in our midst our beloved Susan.  It is only time which separates who we are.  In that place of no time, will come the most meaningful celebration.

    To Lift The Plough At Last. . .

    How great and wonderful
    is the borning,
    the breaking of dawn
    fast in the East.

    How blessed is the soul
    intent on magnifying its god,
    borned in the heart
    of many lifetimes’ consciousness.

    Naysaying all arguments,
    lamenting all laments,
    laying aside all agreements,
    intent still, but weary.

    It is a wondrous effort
    the Great God instills in Man,
    to plough the furrows of his life,

    to lift the plough at last.

     

    photo by
    Kathy Qualiana

     

    April 18, 2017
    Veronica 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.
  • Where Can We Go?. . .

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Where Can We Go? . . .

    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

    April 17, 2017
    Veronica 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.
  • Time In The Heart. . .

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Time In The Heart. . .

    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

     

     

     

    April 15, 2017
    Veronica 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.
  • The Lighthouse. . .

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    The Welcome. . .

    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.

    April 13, 2017
    Veronica 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 Richly Endow. . .

    To Richly Endow

    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

    April 12, 2017
    Veronica 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.
  • For you especially. . .

    The Roses Are For You. . .

    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.

    April 9, 2017
    Veronica 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.
  • Attitude of Gratitude. . .

     

     

     

    Simple Things . . .

    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.

    April 7, 2017
    Veronica 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.
  • A Sacred Leaning. . .

     

    A Sacred Leaning. . .

    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.

     

    April 3, 2017
    Veronica 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.
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