The Teachers Speak. . . .and yet the beauty we encounter is being multiplied here and there, but lacking only the invisible quotient.. . . . we have not been invited in. What did you learn to do so young? To invite the hosts of heaven as your daily companions and then to proceed to live your life as though it was real. It was and we are and that is the difference.
Your friend said that it would be embarrassing to have the heavens as your daily companions. Your retort was aptly put but you then said that you had to live your life that way. It was the way you were. Do you not think that if all the world behaved in like manner, there would be less friction, less tumult in the marketplace? Would not everyone then, so called, clean up their act? They think it would be an invasion of privacy but the kernel of the idea will take root and they will ask within, but how do I know for certain she is not right? If she sees things that I cannot, will my eyes ever be opened? Will my prayers one day be heard? If they are not, why not? How else can I clean up my self?
You know that what you observe teaches you. Well, as you watch, so you are watched. Not only by those surrounding you but also by those invisible.
The Invited Guest
I once knew a good carpenter,
who with hammer and saw
and wood and file
showed me how to build a chair.
I did and sat on it
and then decided I needed a table.
With hammer and saw
and wood and file,
I built a table and sat at it.
I knew I needed another chair
for an Other to sit on.
So with hammer and saw
and wood and file,
I built it.
I then invited the carpenter
to join me at the table.
We lit a candle and talked
and a new world was born.
How did I know
I first needed to learn how to build?
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.
It will be thirty years ago this year that a computer was put on my desk. And it was three weeks later that I approached it knowing I needed to learn how to use it. Up to that time I looked at it everyday and understood that it was here to stay. So the love affair between us began. I, one day put a verse on my desktop to look at every day as a reminder. Much to my surprise, another day I found a second verse attached to the first. It was by our son of the pen that writes. So I put it here for those who wish the complete thought. I look at it often and am reminded that we bring purpose and meaning to every inch of life. And without them, life would not be. And neither would we Be. In retrospect, the tragedy for me would have been not to have had what was destined for me, the joy as well as the heartache.
If you do not intend to look back
it is best to remember
to lift the plough.
But sometimes the plough
seems too heavy to lift
but we push on anyway
to find it is a joy and a privilege.
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.
Whenever religious holy days come to be, I cannot help but think of those who are in the throes of giving up their religion and leaving what has been their way of life. It is not an easy decision to come to, no matter the age of the person. The young will feel guilt especially knowing their parents will mourn their absence at their place of worship and the middle aged who have spent a lifetime with people who have become their friends will feel disengaged as from family. To face all of these people who are affected by such a momentous decision is difficult; not only for the ones leaving their religion but also those who love them.
This decision is significant. It means that avenues have been traveled and thoughts, feelings and facts can no longer be tolerated. It means that the road traveled can no longer be the one for this journey. It means that a new direction must be found and voids filled that once were taken up by rituals and programs. Now comes the work of finding a philosophy that will sustain and not have one buckle beneath the burdens of life. The shoulders are still the same but the head sitting upon them is different.
What must be considered is that not everything needs be dismissed. There is a process that can be adopted that will allow breathing room and space to grow with a broader premise. There are rituals that can still be meaningful and can be practiced. What must be found is support though not everywhere are there groups with no religious affiliation. Some colleges offer strongholds where those searching can find others looking for support also. One may find the road lonely but not having to pretend an allegiance will be an immense relief .
The best and most helpful source will always be the written word. There are writers and poets who know only too well the path chosen. It is not an easy way to go toward one’s destiny but when thought meets a brick wall there is still another step to take and that is Within. To get to this place where this kind of decision is made is a process. And the process is everything. It is not easy nor is it accomplished quickly. One continues to live the dailyness sometimes in the midst of inner chaos and turmoil. But given in return for this life’s effort is a peace that cannot be defined. Worth it? It is the pearl of great price. When you have gone as far as you can go in this life and cannot take one step further, you go to the only place you will always be welcome, Within.
And Within you will find your god has been waiting.
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.
As we enjoin the Universal Spirit to entrust us with another spring, another resurrection, awaken within us the desire to nurture the world that has nurtured us. Let our hearts lead us to that place where we intuitively cherish the Earth Mother who feeds and clothes us and gives us sustenance. Let us not forsake our responsibilities to those yet unborn, but whose futures we have already mortgaged.
Blessed Spirit, enliven our curiosity about our daily world, remind us that the bird’s song needs our acknowledgement and praise, that the sun needs our greeting and the night wishes it bid good.
As we nourish those of our commitment, speak to us of our commitment to the home we know, our planet Earth. Let our love guide us to make beautiful, to make secure and to guard diligently what has so faithfully harbored us. In love we pray, amen and amen.
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.
One of the best things about growing old is that one has a store of memories to choose from to either entertain, beguile or sometimes companion one in the body’s misery. All one has to do is conjure the memory and whoa! There we are. Simple as that. One just has to think.
We were at an affair in Europe where there were very important people gathered from the country’s Tourist Board. It was a black tie affair with the women adorned in lovely gowns. I was wandering looking for a familiar face to latch onto. I was walking up to a one when coming upon me was a handsome man with hands outstretched. Why did you not tell me you were going to be at this affair! he asked. I tried hard to remember if we had met and though I was still a youngish woman, my penchant for not remembering faces was legendary. ( I even at dusk one day closed the door on my son telling him I gave at the office. I never lived that down) The man continued talking and said last week when we were in Paris you did not mention you would be here. I gave him my best smile and said I was not in Paris last week nor have I ever been there.
His handsome face turned dark and he said I was playing games because we had a lovely conversation. But, I insisted, I have never been to Paris and he kept insisting he was noted for his ability to remember faces and he would never have forgotten me. My husband came upon us at that moment, needing to spirit me away for someone waiting for us. I never have forgotten that incident because it has haunted me. The man was a sober one, and chosen for his abilities to remember the various faces his position required of him.
I have been reading The Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot. It is a book on quantum physics and new ways to explain the universe. He says and I am paraphrasing, that it is disturbing to the majority of people who are so deeply convinced that our bodies are solid and objectively real, to find that perhaps we are will-o-the-wisps. He says bi-location (often associated with saints)is the ability to be in two places at once. Obviously, we all work on our sanctification all the time, for sure, for sure. I have also read that when we blink we are in location elsewhere. It all has to do with the space-time understanding. We are more than we think we are and growing old I find at long last I am comfortable with my differences. I know there will be a somewhere and a sometime when I will be at home. There will always be work to be done and worlds to create wherever I am.
But there will be a place sometime where I will not be on the outside looking in.
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 we look deeply into our selves, we are often surprised at the direction our thoughts have taken. Sometimes it is a bit scary simply because it is foreign to our upbringing. It is not what we have been taught. Wondering where this will be leading us, we plow on. For some of us there is a direction that begins when we first open our eyes on this beloved planet. We wonder if by chance we arrived by mistake. But we find that once here, by persevering we can open other eyes to what will help progress our own lives as well as others. It is a hard road that we undertake, but in the final analysis, it is the hard road that gives us the greatest satisfaction. So, come and we go a bit farther together. It is another view that will keep our hearts beating and our breath humming. Come, we dance. And it is that, a dance.
Look Often Into the Mist
Another time, another place
we sat for tea.
Come, share with me
some biscuits with our tea,
as we choose our memories
and compare our love
to what we cherish most.
How often we did just this,
holding tight to one another,
comforting our selves
with the thought
that nothing could separate us
from what we held dear.
Look often into the mist.
It holds the secrets
long denied
by the calculating mind.
Only we know for certain
we meet again and again
in that place where love
holds court.
Soon, soon, we meet. We meet.
And we begin again
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 NBC Nightly News this past March 20 a segment concerning a young boy with memory of a prior life was interviewed and his memories have proven valid and correct. I was not aware that Dr. Tucker of the University of Virginia was doing research on prior lives of children. As he said in the brief segment, he had over 2500 cases of lives of children with prior memories that cannot be dismissed. We of the western world have been religious in our dismissal of anything that smacks of reincarnation other than the gods we choose to believe in. When I wrote the short essay on Choice Goods I had no conscious knowledge of this upcoming interview. What was my hope and is still is that we will listen to those who speak of prior lives and especially the children who are closer to their source than we who are readying for our departure. We have much to learn and so little time.
When I wrote this poem Rebus, I was newly aware of my different perspective and also the difference in my inward focus. It was almost six decades ago that I could no longer contain and pretend that what I saw and heard was what everyone else did. I, like those like me, have learned what society considers normal and rather than have circles made in mid air concerning our behavior, we conform. That we are able to survive is the miracle. That we also have contributed to humanity and have not dismantled our immediate world is the greater one.
Rebus. . .a puzzle
Where are my images
of which you profess
came into being before I am?
Where are the faceless faces
and formless forms
of which I know not
but in my depth?
The past reveals
only what the present seals
within its depth.
We wander aimlessly searching,
faceless, formless,
only to be confronted
by what we are.
When my eyes behold my likeness,
will I rejoice?
Will the spirit be elevated
or cast into the pit?
The mist that sustains me,
sustains my images also.
But are they not made manifest
through me?
Perhaps . . .
I am the illusion.
Perhaps I will find my Self
greater than my images.
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.
Deep in the heart’s dream,
as deep as any forest,
lying amid the debris the ancients left
for others to peace,
lie dreams of today’s children
yielding only to their passions,
asking the chance to manifest.
Are we not today’s keepers,
charging a new reality
for the dreamer’s chance for glory?
Asking only to put to rest
today’s obstacles for impeding
the right for the dreams
to become real?
Like the forest
of yesterday’s Hansel and Gretel,
today’s passion to be found
only in the depth
of any knee deep drift
of the heart’s dream.
White forest, clean forest,
white sand and white cloud,
nothing to mar the Earth’s magic.
Come take my hand and we walk. . . .
Splendor opens the new world
where dreams are not held in abeyance.
It is our time and our world.
We clean our debris.
We do not litter nor mortgage
tomorrow’s children.
(for my grandson Joshua, whose dream lies deep within his heart)
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.
Over a half century ago when I plunked our younger of less than a year into his crib for the umpteenth time, (he learned to climb out at nine months old), frustrated beyond measure, I shouted at him, ‘why did you choose me as your mother?’ And as I heard the words of my mouth I knew they were of my heart and I knew that he chose me as I chose him. It was the first time I said them aloud but they were true for him and for his brothers and from that moment on, I said them with a hug and in every letter and card, I would write or say, ‘thank you for choosing me as your mother because I chose you.’ They were special always and I lived my days with them with this thought. In that frame of reference, I will be sharing what my journey has meant through my years. And why I think what goes on within four walls determines what happens outside the front door.
Of The Pen That Writes
You, my son
of the pen that writes,
that puts my small effort to shame
but it is my best effort.
Have I not shown how my actions
were the cause
of a heart stripping exercise?
Have my actions been unkind?
Have not my words
spoken in your language
of my journey to the stars,
trying to gather evidence
to convince you, my beloveds,
that the unseen is as large
an obstacle to deal with
in our innocent green earth?
As large as what is evident
in the visible needing magic and a God
of omniscient energies?
I may sit in my Light
to write these missives but to write them
is evidence that I have lived them.
And this pen dips in the ink
of what has been my life’s blood
and my heart the inkwell.
The cost has been exorbitant,
but for you whom I have loved
and nurtured beneath
the inkwell of my heart,
never a sacrifice.
Thoughtful dialogues in my head
readied my life for your arrivals.
The disappointment?
Only my inability
to convince you of your divinity.
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.
The one who chooses to come with an open head is the miracle among men. Are not all babies born this way and we masterfully close them up?
The Teacher
It is not the happy child who upsets the apple cart of the adult content with his satisfying existence. It is the contrary one, the one who cannot find a putting place for too many memories for a short life who discharges his anger on those who should have some of life’s answers. To find one’s parents, one’s only gods in flesh not equal to the task is a hard morsel to swallow. It is still another event without a putting place.
It was a cold day when I was excused from school for religion class. My walk to the church found me pushing open the heavy door to the basement with shouts telling me to keep the door closed! There was an acrid odor to the room, part from the wood burning furnace and the clothes from the children hanging damp and smelly. The smell of the candles drifted down from the sanctuary and the toilets never functioned properly. It was a potpourri of habitation.
I scrambled to my seat and sat. My hands were cold and I sat on my hands with bitten finger nails so no one would see how weak willed I was. My parents were more concerned about putting food on the table and not worried why I bit my nails. The priest stood directly in front of the class and right next to my desk. His hands were wrapped inside his sleeves in the chilly room. His crucifix dangled a breath away from my face. My bitten nails were evidence of my sins. The priest smelled heavenly. Neither my brothers nor my father smelled like him. I thought he must have hot water all the time to smell like this. He was clean shaven and his backward collar was like poster board around his neck. He wore his shiny black biretta with a tassel.
“Class, take out your books!” An imperative.
He did not move an inch. I sat there on my hands and started to sweat in that cold room. I finally reached for my book. The catechism began:
Question: Who made the world?
Answer: (in unison) God made the world.
Question: Who is God?
Answer: (in unison) God is the Creator of heaven and earth and of all things.
And we continued. I sat there and answered with part of my mind and did not believe one word. I knew better. I knew because I knew. Big people with big bodies did not know. They told lies to cover up what they did not know. This priest in his three cornered hat did not know. He carried his swinging crucifix that frightened small people. He was not saying what I knew because I was closer to that place of beginning than he was. Already I could figure this out because I could count on my fingers. I knew because I knew. There was not one person who could convince me that I did not.
“Veronica”, he asked “do you not know the lesson?”
“I know the lesson, Father, but I do not believe it.”
The buzz around the room would not stop. The priest rapped his crucifix on the table and shouted for quiet. I had started something and the end was just beginning. I felt heat rising in my body and my face getting red and my skin felt slippery. I was going to burn up and fry to a crisp.
“Why do you not believe this lesson? It is the holy word and Christians believe. What is it that offends you?”
And the child that I was answered, “because it is not true. It is not what I remember. And it is not true. I don’t know for sure everything, but these words are not true.”
And in the smallest whisper, the whisper that no child in the room heard, I mouthed these words to the priest.
“There is no one God. There is All God.”
His face grew white and his jaw shook. I heard his teeth click. And I became sick. I ran to the lavatory and I vomited all my distress with the world that only added to the smell already there. I finally wiped my face with toilet tissue and made my way out. Everyone had been dismissed. No one was about. I tied my hood on my head and put on my blue coat with the little fur collar. I put on my boots and went up the stairs through the door that did not swing shut.
I trudged on home and knew I would hear about this day. My brother was there and would tell in detail what went on. And my mother would be embarrassed over and over. I wished there would be a whipping because a tongue lashing would last forever.
“Just who do you think you are?” would be voiced over and over. And no answer to that but I am who I am. I don’t remember exactly what happened but I do remember the priest visiting and my mother bidding him welcome when he said I come in the name of Christ. They talked and I heard my mother say over and over that she did not know where I heard these things nor who taught me. Not from her she said, not from her.
I was left to ponder for the rest of my life where these thoughts did come from and what I was going to do with them. I would be hearing over again, you think too much. And somewhere on the way to growing old I finally answered with the phrase, “what’s a mind for?”
The Rabbi Teacher said it. “Knock and the door shall be opened. Ask and you shall receive.” But be prepared for truth for it will roll like thunder.
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.
