Because I have memories
and carry pictures with no putting place
in this my time. . . .
Because I have memories
of worlds I cannot see
next door to where I am. . . . .
Because I have memories
of love once
having been given. . . .
without needing to prove
that I am
other than what I am. . . . .
then I plead
for my heart to be opened
so that I can see Me, too.
Painting 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.
At all times you can change your destiny. You can continue to love in the face of rejection. You can continue to have faith in the face of no faith. You can continue to build a life in the face of no life. And because you know this and continue to do it, you will be creating a new path and a new method which will in the course of history, change it.
Painting 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.
This time now, the hay no longer
lifts the roof of the standing barn.
No longer piled loose and
pitched with forks as high as the man can stand.
It still creases the nose with aromatic exhilaration.
Standing now are the bales neatly tucked
one upon the other, so economical of space,
so utilitarian, so terribly modern.
The machines had cut and scooped the fields
with utmost efficiency and confined the hay delivered
to trucks where men stacked the rectangles neatly.
The barn does not change, not much.
With heart laboring, I walk the one story incline
to lean against the knotted frame of the sliding doors,
wobbly in the old tracks. They work still.
The smell of the baled hay is not as pungent
as I remembered, but still familiar.
The single door at the opposite end
with the window vents at the peaked places,
could not be improved.
They allowed fresh air to enter
as well as the sparrows and starlings.
The open doors to the right of the main floor
leading to the bins where grain is stored,
is like the first barn.
Empty spaces with floorboards missing
leave gaping holes ready to turn an ankle.
The dry, spicy aroma is like
some great libation for the gods.
The scoops, hand made and smooth,
cut from large cans having fed large families,
measured neatly the amount of grain
for each of the animals.
There was no old man coaching horses
in front of the wagon with hay overflowing,
at the top of the hill.
It was tricky business at best, not to
tip the wagon or break the shaft.
An unmatched set of horses demanded
the best old man to maneuver them.
The horses shied, as well as the household
gathered to watch. I’ve never known the onlookers
to be silent nor the old man to be confident.
Now I see the John Deere, skillfully backing
the flatbed straight as an arrow, onto the barn floor.
Just like backing up a semi. Labor is required and
the longer hours are still after dark.
The acreage planted are still more acres, the costs ever dear
and somehow in the hypothetical justice
of supply and demand, higher ever for the farmer.
But we progress, I hear.
I lean against the timber and it feels moist and hard
and smells of oak and barn. I close my eyes.
It is good. The memories are cold and sharp
and as I open my eyes, I see orchards and fields
carried from another time.
I make my way down the hill.
I turn and walk across the field and lose myself
in the village. A horse drawn carriage
finds its way across my path.
I need not pivot for cross traffic
but I do need to look out for the ducks.
All centuries have their share.
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 least understood but perspective is the most important thing in the human and animal spectrum. It means that if we are to have space for all we must give thought to how differently humans and animals perceive life. Much has been written about animal behavior but to say our perceptions are similar when they might be mutually exclusive, is more true. We each have our own perceptions and view life differently. People might see a chair to sit on but to a shy pet it is an obstacle. We must simply assume that an other does not perceive life as we do. Before an argument starts over words spoken, understanding the words is mandatory. Words are loaded with meaning. Cultures approach the meaning of words differently. We all have different frames of reference within which we operate. Humans use linear measurement. We stop at red lights and we go on green. Laws govern us.
Animal senses are peculiarly their own and coupled with language challenge us to understand them. When watching migratory birds in flight we assume their flight habits are measured like ours. That the world they function in is like ours. We see them in our world but what do they see? Insert the thought that perhaps their measurements differ. Perhaps their miles are not in feet or kilometers when they breed in the Arctic and fly to the southern hemisphere. When our pets become pseudo children, are we surprised that they wish to be fed at the table? They wish to sleep in our beds? If we wish for them to continue in our lives, we must remember what species they are; unless we prepare for another species to enter physical life.
Before we enter the private space of an other, either with warrior words or fists, we must first understand what we wish from one another. That we are on the same page in what we mean to say. Because we are not unless we make ourselves clear. Perspective is personal. Our perspective is wholly ours. Different we are even in the same family. I try to introduce you to my perspective. Grant me the same courtesy. We must honor and listen with hearts opened to the Other. It is the only way to achieve a peaceful existence. Otherwise we will measure the days of our lives in terms of wars fought and children who are forever scarred.
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.
After taking the garbage
to the curb in early dawn,
I stopped to look about
and thought, I know
more about what goes on
than I would dare reveal.
But furthermore, who would say
I was right?
Who would not deny whatever
I would say?
Who of us has courage enough
to own the truth of our behavior?
The sky is heavy, pregnant heavy
with something wishing to be borne and born.
And there is so much human life about,
doing those things no longer appropriate
for a world in pain.
photo by Joshua 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.
Learn while you can. There is always something to learn and do. Those are the things you will take with you when you transit. And transit you will. Either early by accident or illness or later for whatever reasons. If a daffodil and mushroom die to live again, are you not as important or as able? You must learn in this best of all places. There will come a time when the ideas will not manifest as quickly and it will be difficult. What you learn to do or learn to be or learn for knowledge’s sake. . these are things that moth and rust do not destroy. Whatever you learn that makes living or life less difficult or more feasible are what will be the tools for a world less gifted. What it is that is your talent, your knowledge, is what will be the coin of the day.
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.
I would not have had to shout
my questions,
if I had only known
how simple it would have been
to simply awaken.
It was not a matter of despair
but a matter to unearth.
I only had to ask
and my track record would have shown
if I qualified for an answer.
photo by Josh 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 time now to take cognizance of what we have done to our Earth planet. She is still here to give us breath, polluted though it may be in some areas. She challenges us with sparse watering. She allows us to live as best as our livelihood does. She continues to love us with passion. But what we have done to her is abominable. We take advantage of our good resources and give nothing back most of the time. A few steps to the recycle bin oftentimes seems too far to walk. But she keeps on teaching in spite, despite our obliqueness.
Yet we are asked once a year to honor her. And hopefully this once a year will be enough to embarrass us, make us feel guilty, so guilty that we will change our ways and give honor to her who has been our grounding, our bed of rest and the best classroom in the universe. How else to honor this lady, this teacher, this mother? We must find new ways if we are to continue in this classroom where to have an idea is to make it manifest as fast as we can collect the materials. There is no other place so conducive to easy learning as this classroom. No other place that accommodates us to the degree that our Earth Mother does. We will chance it every time we decide that next time we will do better. The next time the neighborhood may not be quite as nice.
We are in a crucial junction. We are where we are because we have neglected our stewardship when we contracted to care for this place we inherited. What to do? How much do we treasure the early morning with the dawn rising clearly and with punctuality? How much do we treasure our love of evenings when the sky darkens and the moon sources our light? As we reach for our Other and hope that what we wish for ourselves is also wished for Others. How much would we treasure rainfalls on cracked ground; foodstuffs now rising in price so that milk for our youngsters is too steep for good health? We treasure our way of life. We treasure what is ours and we hope that our progeny will be able to be inspired by the same sun and moon and waters of this green planet.
We must begin. Our environmentalists have told us time and again what we must do. Somehow we cannot wrap ourselves around the idea that this Earth cannot sustain life as we know it. We already see Nature’s harsh lessons. If we are ugly when the weather does not suit us, let us be aware that Nature too reviles our habits when we do not honor her. It is long past the time to change. The bill is overdue and time now to bend at the knees to this Great Mother.
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.
When first I started my journey there was a need to know. It was my focus. Everyone has their own need. The way for the each is to focus on one’s need. The criteria for that need requires insight. We must focus inwardly. It is not easy.
Many Worlds
I wander about in many worlds
trying all on for size.
Walking timorously, fearful always
of a misstep.
Generously coping
with a plethora of ideas,
alien in context,
coming from sources I can only wonder.
Now a word,
a complete thought
fitting incongruously
into my world of now.
I surrender to a multi-faceted existence.
photo by Joe Hallissey Sr.
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.
There is a common problem among us and it bears thinking about in the hope that there will be an answer or a lesson learned that may point to a possible resolution. It is the need to know that there is a someone who waits for us. Or a someone who cares whether we come home or not. Or a someone who cares where we are at this very moment.
For children, this is crucial. How crucial we only have to see what is happening in the world or watch what is happening on our street. For the child in all of us, who has not been allowed grow up or whom we hold onto for fear of growing up alone, it is just as crucial or even fearful. We have become a society that we say cherishes its independence, doesn’t want others or anyone to account to or truly exhibits a facade to show the wold at large we are really quite all right with the way things are. But let me put this into this equation.
If this is truly the situation, if we are truly this independent society that doesn’t care whether anyone takes note of our goings and comings, tell me then why the heart responds with ‘I really needed to hear you say that’ when I tell my beloveds that their being in my life makes my life worthwhile? But you see everyone needs to hear that. Everyone needs to know that someone thinks their life is worthwhile, no matter how small the difference one makes, what does matter is that someone notices this difference which may take all the effort this soul can summon. Everyone needs to know someone cares. Not the someone only in family whom you think has to love you, but someone who notices you as a person who is trying their uttermost to make a difference.
Everyone at times, if not all times for some, feels isolated. There is this separation that is more common in this day than I care to think. It is because life is awry. There are few meals together and no one on the premises. No one at home. And we need someone at home when we are children and it is nice when we are adults. It is a wholesome goodness to know someone is waiting for us to come home. That someone cares enough for us to want us to come home. I realize how difficult it is to raise children even on two incomes. Perhaps we need to make room for extended families again. Perhaps we need to rethink our directions and what is important to the whole family. Do we need to rethink our priorities and look to see accommodating various elderly members within the family again. There is a problem not only in our cities but in suburbs and rural areas as well. There are ways to help with this dilemma.
We can work it out. We must. The emotional growth of our very young and our peoples as a whole need to know we are not alone and there is someone, even one someone who looks forward and waits for us to come home. We may find that there would be a spiritual healing throughout our lives should we invest ourselves in this very common problem. We may yet come alive with emotional good health and spirit.
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.