How could I not love them?
They grew beneath my heart,
waiting for my heart to beat
so that theirs’ would continue beating.
Did you not think
I would not know this?
And they would be reason enough
for me to keep breathing?
You did not know me . . . . .
Like a bear
I would fight for my cubs.
I made them. . . .
They wear my name
and one day
they will remember. . . .
who taught them about love.
August 14, 2014
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.
It is August
and there is
a sliver of breath
inside the sill.
The deep breath of autumn
is, I think, a matter of time;
perhaps only in the memory
of the child anxious
for the world of new books
to open.
Anxious for the toys
of summer to be put aside
to make space
for new thoughts.
An old lady now
but still waiting with anticipation
for the long, dark nights
to be filled with time.
It is necessary.
It will take an entire season
to adjust mind, body and soul
to a new way of thinking. . . .
about who I was
and now who I am.
August 14, 2014
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.
Our world needs our arms and legs and talents. Heaven needs our industry to keep our planet afloat. We are industrious and we are also creative. And to be both is what life is all about. We construct our lives by what is imaged and we create in physical space what we envision. This planet is the best classroom ever because what we envision we can make manifest as quickly as we gather materials to do so. There are those who never take time to process information into something they can do within the framework of where they are. They hasten to buy it all and wonder why there is so little satisfaction in the acquisition.
Taking an idea, we soon find it gives birth to many more. For some of us it is like looking up a word in the dictionary. One word gives rise to another and soon we spend hours looking up words that pique our interest and add depth to our vocabulary. What is needed is time for solitude to sift and sort and explore. Everyone needs solitude, from the toddler to the elder. Time is needed for an idea to come to fruition. It cannot be done in front of a screen designed to constantly stimulate without time for employment of an idea. A ‘go to your room’ was never argued in our home for it meant there would be uninterrupted personal time. Personal time meant personal space was not violated. It was time where thoughts could roam the ethers and come back full of substance.
I was grateful for hours spent observing work done by my brothers and our sons. Learning to do was my genetic heritage. With the birth of grandchildren also came the birth of woodworking for me. Starting with plaques I soon ventured into toys. It was also grief therapy needing to heal a breach in the family when our David died. The shaping and the sanding were helping put love into toys our grandchildren would be playing with. Working with our hands is part of who we are as human beings from the first wedge and mallet we shaped from rock. This may sound like old fashioned work but one might find it a delightful addiction. And though we might think otherwise,
most of us were not to the manor born.
(Some of the Pink Feather Fleet were space vehicles. Of course, of course. That is why I called them Illusion I, II, etc.)
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 wear these memories
as a cloak to ward off the chill.
Emotions forgotten, but like new now
ripping along my arms,
settling bumps in straight rows
to my heart.
Kindred hearts, matching
my own heartbeat,
with eyes like mine and
reflecting our souls.
Music in voices saying,
‘and when I look at weeds beside the road. . . .
but you know, you know. . . .’
And I do, I do and we look with eyes
that see and ears that hear the song
of the bird before his sounds
have escaped his throat. . . .
and the music rumbles in our blood,
coursing through our hearts
and gives life only
to those who are ready to listen.
Not many to be sure, not many,
but if we sing to the children
perhaps, just perhaps,
the earth’s cacophony will one day
be harmony.
It is our heritage;
from where it is we come.
From the farm country I was given
a substance that does not spoil,
that does not turn sour
even in the residue of life.
It is not dregs that I drink.
It is the cream rising to the top of the milk.
I needed to see a skyline
with no obstruction and with no words
you laid your hearts on me.
8/11/14 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.
This particular post has been a favorite one of many people. It is to me because of various reasons and I need to remind my self that blessing an experience, especially ones that are painful to remember, is as necessary for my well being as giving silent thank yous for the many good experiences. The painful ones have broadened my premises and expanded my vision. And have kept my heart beating when I would have commanded it to stop. I introduce this post to my new readers and remind my self to be grateful for life’s entirety. And to the muses who sent it to me and nudged its posting again.
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 its 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.
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.
The Teacher Speaks. . . . .For the one who searches the Heavens for his answers and then hopes to find the answers in his actions, his activities and in the midst of his affiliations, he might find them there if he chooses so. But chances are the answers he seeks will be in his living room in the wise hours of the morning. Or in the closet of himself when he unearths the meaning of who and what he is.
The largest undertaking of one’s life is when one researches oneself. It is no small matter. It is all that matters. It can be done in the kitchen of the house, in the classroom or the market place. It is done anywhere and the truth of the matter it is seldom done, period. Not many wish to give up the day’s entertainment in search of one’s identity. Too much trouble and too much hurt. One finds that nothing has meaning without the central meaning of life. One must have a healthy core for the fruit surrounding to have texture.
YOU CAN GO HOME
I shall teach you
about your root.
The fog will dissipate
and you will walk in truth.
Truth is fashioned
to resemble you.
Perfect in beauty,
laying dormant,
only to be awakened
from the impenetrable error
holding
you hostage.
Anguish
will no longer companion you.
The veil will be stripped away
and you will be set free.
No longer will you agonize
about beginnings and endings
and have terror ripping you
to the grave.
Space will be encircled
and no longer will you be paralyzed
at the thought of oblivion
and you will know
that you can go home.
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.
Heaven teaches by the only weapon they have. That is Conscience.
Beware the one who sings loudest in church. They may be pleading a cause of which they are not proud.
Swift action by the wrong person often takes the decision out of the hands of the one who should be making it.
When the premises are broadened and the frame of reference pushed out, the view is expanded.
You cannot stoop but an other’s back is bent. You cannot breathe but an other’s breath is taken.
Privacy is the ultimate illusion.
Work, lovingly done, is prayerful attendance to life. It is reverence toward life.
Words will hang a person. Words are nooses with scaffolding complete to hang the man. Words will by themselves come back to haunt. This is what the weight of words is.
Parenting is a sacred trust. And children come with a sacred permit.
Every world requires maintenance. Even Heaven. So we better get in the habit of cleaning up our own messes.
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.
Echoing softly,
in the night the willing heart
is nudged quietly into sleep.
Wondering why
in this place,
the interest pales and fails
to keep soul aloft.
There is no time as now
for events to falter,
for the spirit wills
its place to be yet..
So, come now,
foolish it is to deny
one’s place in a world
so unsuspecting.
Time will yet be
for the soul to shine.
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 music tangles
in the wind
of muted sound
and we live again
When our son became seriously ill and I could not find holiday cards that spoke to what my heart carried, I started to make Christmas cards. The first card was made with construction paper and carried a poem of mine that I had a local printing company print. That Christmas I learned of many who were carrying heavy burdens who appreciated the card. One man said that he told his wife Eleanor, we will frame this and I will live! He had just recovered from a heart attack. He said I will be reminded every day and the card in a frame on his dresser was his reminder. We do not know when we make the effort to do a something how far the ripples will reach.
This wall quilt is a fabric version of a Christmas card I made when we as a family faced an unthinkable future. But we learned many things and were gifted with joys never thought possible. To begin to do with one’s hands and mind is a gift of unmeasurable dimensions.
One of the most important lessons we can teach our young is to begin the task, whatever it is that one desires. Even when we don’t know how to do something, beginning will be the largest hurdle to overcome. When we begin, we will be shown how. In just measure commensurate with our abilities, we will be taught. And this is how we learn. This is how we accomplish what it is that is our heart’s desire. The materials may not be the best, but whatever we have on hand is what we use. Eventually, ways will be shown and events conspire to place within our hands what will not only be useful, but necessary. But we must begin.
Not everyone will be an artist, but we can do what is within our capacity. Our technologies have placed lessons on television, but we find ourselves judging what we do with professionals who have spent lifetimes doing. We can express ourselves within our means and do something we have not done before. Our efforts at what we are able to do are commendable. And these efforts are noted. They allow the god within to cheer us on and say now we can do this and this. It will be with effort and care and we will do better and better. And one day we will call ourselves primitive artists but more importantly we will be able to take another step in conquering the fear that we cannot do anything.
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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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.