The silence is comforting.
No need for words because
we have said them all,
have we not?
The I love you has been
our greeting for centuries past
and our eyes speak
the loving endearment now.
Hands become numb
in the slightest chill,
needing gloves, nay mittens,
even while the sun still warms.
Sad, you think,
old fools to need comforts
which no longer comfort
and do not need words
for they have all been said.
There will come a time
when new ventures in new worlds
will pale in comparison to the
honored words saying I love you.
But will we remember
the feelings that raced our hearts
with unthinkable speed,
taking our breath with it?
The ways to love will be new, you say
but I will still
need your arms to comfort me.
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.
We chanced from the wellspring to become living water. We were poured from a pitcher and flowed into a cup. We are the cup and we hold the living water. The part that stayed behind we call our God. . . . .not knowing we are the God that came. And what our heavenly counterpart we pray to do for us, we can do also. We work in tandem for this we vowed to do. And we do.
If we are not proud of who we are, we can change that attitude. If we do not like what we do,we can change what we do. If we do not love as much as we think ourselves capable of loving, we can love more. We can be more caring, we can be diligent and persevere. We can be more capable, we can sweat and work harder. We can only press ourselves, but this we can do, responsibly.
There is no one responsible for our actions, but us. There is no one to blame for our carelessness, but us. There is no blame to place on anyone, for our unhappiness, but us. Our God is helpless when the God in us cannot be reached. It is one body of God as we are one body of Man. The face of God blends all faces of Gods as the face of one man blends all faces of Man. And they are one face.
It is not useless to pray our prayer to our personal God, for God will reach the rich open bed of the God in Man when ready. And then responsibly we work for change. In ourselves, for then our success in being at one will be the only example other men will need to change themselves.
And thus the Great Experiment we call Earth Life may succeed where we are. Great lessons will be learned and we will have stressed ourselves. And laid groundwork for a life we die to and rise in place in another, knowing we made it home after graduation. Neat plan, but already we were given these directions many times before.
Many worlds, many lives, many lessons, for life is a continuum and it is everlasting. And if however far we go and our life on earth being not one minute too long nor one minute too short, we will take what it is we require, so we can begin to give again. For giving is what it is about.
With the living water in us, our well never runs dry when primed.
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 have long had a deep affection for the poet/philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson. He has been a faithful friend for more decades than I dare to say. His essays have been a wider lens for my world and worlds. I have dog eared my books and still they are companions. This relationship gives me the privilege of calling him by a dear name of Emmy. He much preferred Waldo to anything but that has had a hard time catching on. Many years ago I wrote the following poem. It was a mind duelogue and still is in process.
Dear Emmy. . . . .
You say,
When the soul of a poet
comes to ripeness of thought,
Nature will detach my poems and songs
and allow not the weariness of time
to ravage them. . . . and allow them
to lodge within the heart of man.
Do you tell me then
that my words will soar
on the wings of the eagle?
Will the black holes swallow
them whole only to come out
on the other side?
Will I meet them face to face
and say these words speak to me. . .
and I would wish to meet their namer?
And what dear Emmy, will they be?
‘that I saw a butterfly dart into a spider’s web
and lift him up and carried him on high. . .
and I wondered . . . how heavy is a butterfly
on a spider’s web?’
My eyes were made to see this
as my heart was born to wonder.
I hear the words the muses speak
and wonder how the world
can be deaf to these silent shouts.
The rain silently nourishes the surrounding lands
and fills the lakes and clarifies the ponds. . .
as the water fowl speak to one another
and marvel their gratitude to their Maker.
I stand before your words and hear you.
You dumfound me for you speak my thoughts.
But I know there will be few who ponder
their meaning and many who will not
have heard of you.
And yet dear friend, I’ve treasured you
since I found you aeons ago
and held your words fast to my heart.
Keep on writing, I hear you whisper
on the chance that a few words will find a home
in a one and say, aha, that is how it is with me.
And a life will be changed and they will live.
And the muses will continue to speak
to a one who has kept the pipes free of corrosion
and the word kept untarnished
for you will have cared enough.
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.
This is an idea spoken of since man first began to think about the purpose of life. Or perhaps his purpose on this planet. It deals with the idea that everything is connected throughout the ethers. That nothing happens in and of itself but is the result of an action happening because of a previous action elsewhere. However long ago. Our purpose, however wrought with meaning as we think or not, is the result of perhaps a stone let loose on some distant hill, rolling and crashing onto a field. The storm in the night is the result perhaps of an argument lamenting the arduous activity of sea lions in some obscure waters. The idea remains cleverly innate in heads looking for reasons to believe that of itself nothing exists. We are connected, one to another and one event tied tightly to all of life. It is with this idea in mind that this poem came to be.
Because I know. . . .
I see worlds in motion,
taking a portion
of each one’s talent
for their own survival.
This is what I do with my hands,
this motion of knitting yarns
to form a piece of world
to fit the mind of an elusive soul.
See here, I, content in what I do,
I free a soul to do
the Great God’s bidding
in keeping a world in motion.
See again. . . I give of my Self in this time,
to free an Other
to build what may be
the perfect Universe or many.
So content, this that is mine to see,
a great plan, a strategy, yet unheard .
It may not be for centuries that
my knitting fingers will alert the senses
of a soul to keep in motion,
a Life, a Being, an Idea.
Sit here with me . . . and
show my hands what to do
and they will do . . . . .
The task, so simple will gather
other talents and make for itself
the grand design, futures down the line.
A bidding, the nature
of what has never been seen before.
I know it and because I know,
you will know it 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.
I don’t know where I either heard the story or read it somewhere it has been so long that it lay within me. It goes like this. There were three wise men. They were in a huddle deciding where they would hide God. One said let us put Him in the sky. No one will find Him there. No, another said. Let us hide Him in the ocean deep. No one will think to find Him there! But the third one said, let us hide Him within Man. No one ever will think to look for Him there! So that is where God is hidden. Within Man. And the idea that within Man is the Divine still waits to be uncovered. And waits and waits and waits.
A Deliverance
There is a deliverance into the journey of self.. The deliverance will deliver and the God within will use whatever means to bring forth courage using the talents of the individual. It works this way. When we least expect ourselves to rise to the need, our Divine Self will nurse what little talent we have and with a courageous thrust lift us to the bar and over it. The bar will be what we have set for ourselves and in that secret place where we think we cannot meet it, we will. We do. Maybe not a whole lot that we would aspire to but more likely, more than what we thought possible.
Society wishes to keep one forever young. A grinning and jolly soldier for profit. Society would have us jumping up and down with excitement all the time in a reality show that has no basis. They would have us striving for the latest in gadgets and want us to believe that we cannot live meaningful and rewarding lives unless. . . .whatever the latest catch phrase is. Only releasing oneself to oneself will one be able to grow up and by doing so, be given the whole world. And that definition will not be thought ever again to be the toys of the world.
How do I know , or how will one know what will be the correct way to grow and be? By their fruits we were told. Or as a very dear and wise friend said, by the pattern of our days. The fruit does not fall far from the tree. When what you do is good, and we all know when we do what is good, for your brother, for your Self, it will be good forever for everyone. You will do good not only for this world when you do good for one, but for all hearts and hearths and for all worlds. That is the way it works and why have we forgotten this very important lesson?
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.
Those with short memories are wonderful party people. Those with long memories are
the ones to keep nearby for the long haul.
If man works out the frizzies in life, the comb will wave on through.
Too many people stop at reborn when it is only a way station.
There is no wisdom quite like the wisdom we earn by learning about ourselves.
There is in Man a dichotomy so wide that when he opens his mouth, he falls in it.
People say what they say because if they did not say it often enough, they would
know it not to be true.
Physical life is bent on survival which means not to die.
It is not the common lot of man to persist in what he does not understand.
Selfishness is not the same as self interest. Self interest means survival of Man
as a species.
It is the compassionate view that considers the human species worth the effort.
Congregations are often just another group of unpaid servants who must pay taxes.
A cursory glance at the morning paper is proof enough that human beings are angels
on sabbatical.
The ingredients of life are basic fare. Yet we take it all to make an agreeable pot and
still find heartburn.
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.
We often hear a young person say that they have a call upon their soul to do certain things. Certain career choices are often made that way. To be a doctor, to follow their God whatever the religion of choice, or often a teacher or a farmer. There is a definite something that transpires within the hearts and minds of individuals that starts them on their life’s work. They may be simple words or long mind dialogues with their soul’s mentor. I include this brief advance explanation to my poem to show that even the elderly were young once with directives given to their lives. The following was taken from a journal entry in the summer of 1966. Many of you were not born then, but there was a generation of us tramping through rough bush so that our children might have smoother paths. I offer a question. What would you do when the call is made upon your soul? What would you do?
When The Call Is Heard
I wondered when the call
upon my soul was made,
what would I do?
When I heard the words ‘come follow me’. . .
I walked into the room
of our youngest one,
sleeping the sleep of the innocent.
He was sprawled with hands
unclenched and his face at rest
and through the window
the street lamp’s globe
had his face in bas relief.
And I knew, no matter the good
I might do in the world at large,
I could not do, if the ones I grew
beneath my heart were crippled
by my neglect. No matter. . . .
He had said, did he not,
what good to save the world
when your own house falls apart.
I left the sleeping ones and
sought my bed and slept.
I did not fault myself.
There was much to do where I stood
and I began with the log in my eye.
Forgiveness of others was a stumbling block
only until I realized my need of it.
The independent study consumed my life
and revealed a hidden mentor.
A half century later my answer does not differ
and my regrets are few.
Commitments lessen the number of options. Even now.
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.
An idea took form
and manifested
and was called Earth.
Its essence rests unsoiled,
untarnished and floats also
in a Sea of Tranquility.
The green forests are lavish,
unspoiled and
the blue waters clear.
Farther yet from mind
is the essence called man;
his essence greater by far
than what he manifests.
Surrealistic in form,
tangible to the unstructured eye,
it all takes shape for the initiate
struggling to place
the elusive content called self
in a world he himself designed.
Beautiful lord of creation,
there will be worlds yet
that will fit the Idea.
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 said before
in this best of all possible worlds. . .
that we will surely miss this.
It has to do
with the sweet ways of greeting
to demonstrate love and
of mostly handling the common place.
There are those worlds
of which we speak
where frame of mind cannot compare
with our range of emotions.
How like us that is. . . .
We boast of our capacity to love
and honor each other through all life. . .
and then raise arms in combat.
Why I ask does it pain me so
to leave it all behind
when emotion has blinded me
and handicapped you
from peacefully coexisting?
Too much, I think,
my heart needs a quiet time.
One to stand (beside) aside,
to heal my heart and simply Be. . .
in the next of all possible worlds.
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.
Psychic experience is labeled as phenomena because it is not sufficiently understood. It is called paranormal because it is outside the average person’s experience. What it is, is memory. Having lifetimes behind them and coming into this world with open or partially opened heads and talents that moth and rust do not destroy, it is a wonder that we don’t have more people with more than the usual five senses. Believers and Christians alike who take as an authority the New Testament Jesus, have him telling us to put our time and effort into those things that moth and rust do not destroy. And why? Because these talents then are ours. Forever.
One talent more than the usual five may just mean 2 percent more than the average person, but a 2 percent increase in brain cognizance makes the one seated next to you very different. And when we were told that my father’s house has many rooms, we know on this calendar date that there are worlds outside of us as well as penetrating and interpenetrating where different senses are used.
Three quarters of the world believe we have lived before. Books by the dozens in libraries around the world have proven data of prior existence. Have evidence to prove that there was no false information given. We call these people psychic when in actuality their heads are more open than the average person. Of course we would have other senses refined in other worlds carried by those who have lived many lives and have much in memory that the science doctors call imagination. Where is this imagination located? In the DNA of course and places like the heart and mind. Yes, we would have talents and extra senses. And for whatever reason, by birth, by shock or trauma as is often the case, or simply by intent and motive to make a difference, these senses are called phenomena.
In the course of human life, in wars and religions and institutions of various orders, we have done disastrous things to the soul and hearts of people. Religions have penalized their congregants who demonstrate unusual talents when compared to others who have the recognized five. Remember the witch hunts. Instead of being the safety net and loving arms beneath those who already are bullied by families or on the playground or in the marketplace, they are further dismissed by the medical people who do not know how to help those distressed in a world unaccepting of psychic differences.
One world at a time is enough to handle for the average person. But there is much we can learn from the child or adult who has access to worlds beyond ours. That one you just dismissed may actually be the angel unaware of a much needed and heralded future. Our loss is vast. We have no tools to measure this loss.
Photo by Veronica
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.
