It is necessary for me to ask why;
otherwise the peeling of my heart has no purpose.
Why implies a reason, doesn’t it?
So don’t start by saying it is not enough
just to live and breathe and see and feel the anguish
of hurt that should never be;
implying that this life and earth are not enough
in themselves because we might get too lazy?
I can’t believe that.
Just looking and feeling the North wind is enough
to stir my senses;
to lift me from my bed to get on with living;
to raise the dust out of corners
too long neglected and lift
the filthy and sweaty labors and point out
that these are gifts of life in themselves.
These are the beauties along with the first snow
and the harvest intact and sealed and the
presence of souls who find a reflection
of what they hold dear in the eyes of an Other.
These are so. I say these are so.
I say because such a world exists
and there can be a large measure of happiness
in just such a world.
Or you think what I see is a rose in a field of weeds?
Needlepoint roses gifted from Diane Rybacki
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.
After reading more on quantum physics and the holographic universe, coming forth are poems from the past, my linear past, that are in conjunction with work of mine done recently. I was not prone to think in times simultaneous, but by having dated my written work, there is an alliance with both prose and poetry. I am constantly surprised when a phrase or word seems familiar and going into my files to find work that coincides but also verifies other detailed work . This road I’ve traveled has not had only direction but I realize, great support. The philosophy I honed needed to work for me , but heaven needed to see it sustain me in what has been a full life. I offer the second poem now; one posted three days ago and this latest written in 2013.
What Will You Do?
What will you do
without your lamentations
and crosses to carry? I was asked.
What will you do
when you find yourself
closer to the truth
than what you care to know?
This world was made, you say,
for children and I say,
so many toys
they will be forever amused
and want to return to this
Disneyland of the Universe.
But for the children
we keep the teachers busy
and place guilt in proper containers
to have them stick close like glue.
These teachers have scraped the code
from the mooring and
find themselves behind a rock;
knowing the only way to clean up history
is to crack the code.
Which of their students will do it?
August, 2013
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.
Where are you going to go?
What will you do when you run out
of lamentations and crosses to bear?
Where will you go
and to what world
where you will be ready
to transfer when you arrive?
What will man do or whatever
will they call the Beings?
You scraped the code
from the mooring and find
yourself behind a rock.
Now the road is blocked and
whatever will you do?
Horrendous is
the weight of the rock and
so far to walk around it.
What should have taken eternities
now find you where?
In place and content, dear heart, in place and content.
July 30, 1989
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.
The Teachers Speak. . . Every so often, out of one’s domain, there is an isolation that swamps one. It is difficult to shake, and yet there it is, evidence that this is not home. There is a portion or many portions appealing to one, yet basically, the at home feeling begins to leave. This is when one digs in and brings to light all those things that brighten the soul. Dig into your handiwork, give yourself some leeway but stay with the program, stay with the route. You will find that the isolation will fade somewhat and again you will regain your sense of belonging. But do not distress yourself about it. It is a pure longing for the home of one’s soul. It will come about in its own good time and the journey will have been worth the while. And what is gained along the way will add simply more weight to the gems in your pockets.
(Again for me this is an example of all time is simultaneous. The above journal entry is from November of ’94 and the poem following was written on the eve of my birthday, this week, so it was really yesterday that the teachers spoke to me, all time being simultaneous. Yet linear time is crucial to allow growth to take place.)
Within Memory
You will again yearn
for a patch of green earth
to lie down on,
to smell the pine forest alive
in its secrets. Or hidden beneath
the crisp cover of fresh snow.
They will not have left your memory.
Somewhere also within memory,
is a place yearning for you.
It is deep in time that is
as remote as a country village.
And yet there too, you will find refreshment.
You will find eyes that light and
follow you when you enter their doors.
There will be those whose lives
you have searched for remnants
of who you are.
You will find them waiting silently,
for your voice to beckon them
from where you have been hiding
for almost a century;
bent on finding the reason to live.
So come now, when you hear
your name called and let us know
you are willing to be with those
whose love for you is weighed
in centuries. Nowhere near the place
you now hold as being close to heaven
and yet, yet, close enough that you
will lose your hold on the place
destined to be another memory.
You will take love for god’s sake
and hold it high as a solemn token
of the herald’s torch, reminding all
that the way is always safe
until the games are over.
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 Teachers Speak. . . . The smallest act of mercy has large repercussions. Remember that. When the smallest act of kindness is received it is passed on without thinking because the act gains a life of its own and struggles for expression. It gathers momentum as it moves through the person’s hands, their life and those about them.
It is these acts of kindness, of niceness, of love that keeps the role of the Earth’s purpose in mind. And the Earth continues to vibrate its song and sings it for the ears that are destined to hear. One person can delay it, but no person can stop it up completely. It will only be delayed but never destroyed.
The many acts of kindness and goodness dispensed by each person takes a proper route and touches many lives. Giving to the each a measure of estimation they could not reach by themselves. Each time a person views what is created, what is built, and sees in the children actions of goodness , the source of that goodness is revealed. And the onlooker tries to duplicate or tries in his best estimation to reach those goals. This is the purpose of the each and precious life. That the each is a teacher, that the each is a student.
In Looking Back
Sometimes in looking back
to grasp meaning. . .
the uneventful brims with it
The small deed by the young
take on logistics of magnitude.
The smallest bouquet
often picked
from the neighbor’s garden
is innocently given
with largess of heart.
It is no small thing
when the child says
I will do it. . .
and unburdens the caregiver.
It is in the uneventful
that the heart grows
in understanding,
when the lesson becomes
the food on the plate.
Not good to look back?
How else to learn
what life has taught
and perhaps we learn
what not to repeat?
It bodes well to forgive
when harshness makes brittle
the connections.
But in the smallest detail,
in the dailyness of the commonplace,
we grow.
And the soul leaps forward and universal life is greatly enhanced.
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.
You cannot know what deep is until you have fallen into a hole. But no hole is so deep you cannot dig yourself out
The phrase ‘you had to be there’ recognizes that the event of itself is empty even as the participant retells it. The emotional climate was all.
Exceeding the limit in knowledge because ‘we are only human’ is an incongruity. Man does not live with incongruities. He sets about blueprinting and readjusting his mental house very early on.
Knowledge recovers a previous knowing and elaborates a premise impervious to error.
Self limitation is one’s own qualifier in case of failure.
To usurp authority is unethical. . . but to allow such authority to go unquestioned when behavior demands questioning is to compromise one’s own ethical system.
To compromise one’s own ethical system is suicidal.
One’s code of behavior is a systemic belief. . . infiltrating the cardio-vascular system and lodging in the mind, demanding self expression.
To singularly dictate an only acceptable code of behavior denies the evolution of man in the area of social custom.
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 Teachers Speak. . . Once you know that a change is being made, then you will find things pertaining to that change bearing down upon you. You will find subtle changes in your attitude. In even what you consider priorities for the day. And when this happens, welcome these changes. For they are with you for a reason. They are a preparation for what is to come.
And that preparation for what is to come may be better than what it is you now enjoy. It will be for a greater purpose and perhaps the prime purpose for your life. And it need not necessarily mean the end of your life where you are. A subtle change, a needed change. A new vision, a new exploration. So do not anticipate your own demise. It will be the rebirth of who you are.
You are being asked to take part in what is sometimes called the hero’s journey. Not many people even know of it. It cannot be seen, or eaten, or worn, or even bragged about owning or even sport around in it. What is its value? It happens inside of you and you will know and be known. It is the pearl of great price and with it come the keys. But it is a life’s affair with the unknown.
It might make you sad and even thoughtful and compassionate. Sometimes angry and irritable. Impatient with yourself as well as others. Goodtime people will not want you around but you will be sought for in times of heartbreak. Your mind will never be empty and should you persist long enough to find your thoughts answered, you will never be lonely again. You will find invisible friends and your life will be cleaned up to a fare thee well.
The quality of life becomes apparent. Deep would be the word to most nearly describe the journey. Deep in all directions; down, laterally, skyward, vertically. And deeply penetrating in all directions. Life will reach beneath your feet, beyond your arms and literally the top of one’s head will be lifted, uniting the mind with the greater mind. It leaves one in a body with no skin to limit but melds one with the beating air that at once insulates and protects and leaves one vulnerable.
One lives one’s life while making a living. Raise one’s children to the joys of this world even when one cannot see these joys yet. One does not dismantle another’s world while trying to rebuild one’s own. St. Paul took a year off after his cosmic experience on the road to Damascus. His followers tended him. We would call them groupies today and one would be a celebrity to have them. For the majority of us who make the journey it is a solitary one. Is it worth it?
To dislodge the fear that grips the heart and to walk in peace that surpasses understanding, what can the world grant to match these gifts? What can touch the soul of me who walks beneath the wings of the Great God? I know that I know. For this world and time, I am on my knees.
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.
(The doctor looked at his middle aged patient and said you know, there was a time when an old friend would know your despair and arrive at your home with a good bottle of wine and say let’s go out in the yard and talk. And the two of you with a carton of cigarettes would sit in the dark and talk not once, but many times, about the heart’s utterings. And both of you would benefit and your families would know that this is what old friends do for each other. Modern times have me writing prescriptions for what was once done for the heart of man by his friends. I cannot say we have progressed. A true physician would heal the soul of man and I, here, doctor the symptoms.)
It surprises me that people do not wonder why they do what they do. It holds no wonder for them but obviously they feel helpless. I suspect genetic memory holds us all and though material things and times differ, basically we are what we are. In another era we played the same games, sang the same songs. For some it is all right but I find it difficult. I think we play the game with a loaded die.
There are those who know this. This classroom and lesson plans are written as we grow and when we reach graduation we leave. Here for however long; illness and chance having their say and genes determining our stay. So we are told we are right for this time and place or guys, you have a lot yet to learn for this here place! So we keep trying.
I was reading about cell consciousness and how a person or species borrows a future and prepares the DNA to be rewritten in preparation for that future. And how the entire human body is apprehending one’s environment all the time, literally feeding to the brain what it needs to see. It is something I have learned with this body of mine. How it already knows what is happening long before my brain gets the message. The reaction is visceral before thought reaches consciousness and informs after the fact. It is ridiculous to be in the throes of emotion and to identify the problem before conscious thought arises. Strange also that the science gods say that the mind will control the body. When for some it is the other way around. Not everyone is born with filters intact for this earth needing only five senses. Some of us become earth’s emotional pit stop.
It is not that mind cannot do it because it can. But not before there is a determination within the person, within the physical self to begin a change in one’s belief system. Long before this is a conscious thought there is a germinating idea that things are not sitting well within. This can occur because of reading, through dreams, meditation or talk and thought but on a gut level. When it is lifted to conscious thought and takes root, changes will be made.
This is when deep friendships are crucial. These days leave little time for friendships to be nurtured. Driven within will bring to fore a compliance on a level that will give birth to a sustenance of a new kind. Stay the ground and there will be a way that the road not heavily traveled will open for the journeyer. It is worth the travail. It is giving birth to a new you and staying the route will open a new world.
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.
Since the publication of Kiss The Moon, I have had a few requests to use the poem, Abundance, in ceremonies of commitment. In these months of May and June , I would be honored if you choose the poem to be read at your ceremony. It is one of my favorites and I think speaks to the hearts and minds of those who are making this very large commitment to each other. Use it in the way most meaningful to you both.
Abundance
In my abundance, I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
This love shackles you not
nor binds you tightly in chains.
It gives you freedom to soar
where your spirit wills
and in the same abundance
finds you winging back to me.
Run quickly from a love
which possesses by need.
Its momentary satisfactions
bind you to a life of servitude.
Its very negation of freedom
murders the giver and the recipient.
Love beckons not out of desperation,
but out of abundance.
It is life, calling to life.
It is life, begetting life.
Come to me,
when in your abundance
you would find annihilation in not giving.
When in your joy of living
you would find death in not loving.
Come to me then.
For in my abundance I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
And in our communion,
the Spirit lives.
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 have read Michael Talbot’s book called The Holographic Universe and in it is a different way to explain reality. It is what the theory of quantum physics is about and I was surprised that I have been living this physics. In rereading journals I have found much that I had forgotten and much that I have integrated all the while as I was conducting my life in the best way I could. In retrospect, it has not been a walk in the park. It has been a journey of note and a hard one at best. I came across an entry I would like to share. This entry is longer than my usual 400 words, but bear with me while I try to explain what that unruly, really different child is trying to do with his or her life not quite like other children. Their intent is not to drive you crazy.
December 12, 1993
(For most people the connection between the past and present does not exist for them; that today is what they concern themselves with thinking it is standing all by itself. How best to explain this continuity that those like me know? That thread which is stitched throughout our lifetimes? That carries the past into the present and borrows on a future already in progress as we race to catch up with it? It makes no sense to linear thinking, and yet to me is as real as real can be. It comes with a sense of feel that is as ephemeral as a snowflake, yet as real as a coal that burns with a hot fire and the ashes that serve to fertilize a world yet unborn, but still as real as the one we think we inhabit.
It comes with the ability to place myself within time, sitting here in front of the monitor knowing the outside of me is part and parcel of what it is I sit in. I breathe the air that breathes me. I see my surroundings as I am seen by my surroundings. I hear sounds that are as conscious of me as I of them. I blend, I multiply, and I yield. And am blended, am multiplied and am yielded.
I reach out and reach in and find that I am reached both in and out. I think my thoughts and find that my thoughts are thinking me. I cry my tears and find that my tears are crying me. I no longer am separate and no longer find that my world is separate. For I am whole and my world blends and multiplies, breathes in and breathes out, and there is a depth that no longer escapes but permeates. The past is still happening, the present is now and the future already lends its essence to my now. I race like hell to catch up, try like crazy to mend the past and work my fingers to the bone mending and rectifying the present. To enlist some meaning to the now, to create within its moment a depth that will give it substance, that will not be lost somehow to a meaningless present.
I fear I speak a language escaping those about me. That it is with a foreign tongue I speak. Not the vernacular that would tidy up the present. Not with a meaning that would challenge the thoughts riding within heads like mine. Or looking like mine. For I fear I am out of step, that I have not the words that connect my world to others. Or my worlds to this one. I fear that what I present would be territory foreign to the present mind, to those whose only hope is the restoration of their childhood feeling of excitement in the holiday season.)
This was written in December of 1993 when I was 62. Seven months earlier I had had two cardiac arrests. There was no one who understood the context of what I tried to explain. And yes, not even the doctors. I ask that in reading this, for the child whose behavior is different, for the adult you cannot understand, whose language you also find foreign, that perhaps there is something to learn. And that something might yet be a light in some way for all of us. There is always that hope.
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.
