From an Upper Floor

Do You Hear?

Do I have more minutes to finish?   There was no time for answers because the little one with a dash was out of sight.   In a few minutes he was back and announced, I finish.   Having learned to wait while private things were finished, I waited again while he proceeded to his room.

I followed him shortly to find him in pajamas and ready to crawl into the high bed.   Well, should it be a story to tell or a story to read I asked.   I am ready for you to choose.   Tell me what it is we should do to get you ready for sleep?   And I waited. Minutes ticked away while the choice was being made.   Patiently, again, what will it be?

His face took on a faraway look as if searching for a memory.   I recognized the look and wondered where he would go for that memory to take shape.   I knew it well.   It was a look that had been on my face many times with voices telling me to stop dreaming.   I needed to pay attention to what was at hand and not waste so much time dreaming. So because of those reprimanding voices,   I knew to wait.

He asked if I would sing the one I singed when I singed with other voices.   He knowed that song!

What song is that?   I wondered. There was no time for me to sing with other voices that he would have heard.   Like this, he said and in his high soprano he sang his Gllloooooooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaaand I knew.   Unbelievably I knew.   The music hung on his tongue and in his throat as if he were tasting a delicate sweet.

When did you ever hear me sing that? I asked.   Before I came to you, he said.   Before I came.   I heard you singed and my heart singed with you.   I knowed I could tell you some time if I just ‘membered it.    I promised I would ‘member so I could hear it again and again. I knowed that you would ‘member if I singed it. And you do! he said, you do!

And I believed him because I gave up choir when he was due to be born.   I took this child into my arms and sang the song he so wondrously remembered.   And when I came to the part he remembered his voice faithfully shadowed mine.   And another posit was added to the Memory Bank but who would believe it?   Who?????? Except the many someones who entered their place of belief every time they bent their knees.

Those are the who. . . . . . .

January 8, 2014

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.
A Shout To The World

I would fairly shout
to the world that we sit
in the lap of eternity,
the mother lode of time.

Eternity has held us close
and whispered in our ear
the soothing sounds of love.

Eternity promises us peace
at the altar of hard work
and much prayer.

It will give us what we ask
and what we dream.
It is the place for those
whose thirst for learning
is never satisfied and
whose hunger for solid food
begins at birth.

Heaven approves the menu
and the lesson plans.
And heaven approves
constructive behavior.

It even threatens to withdraw
the rewards and
put the babies to bed
until they grow up.
So grow up world, grow up!
Or you will lose your toys.

Life in eternity is not a walk in the park.

photo by John Hallissey (click on photo for larger view)

January 6, 2014

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.
To Ponder Anew

Man clings to many things in this world that no longer have a place. It is his security blanket full of philosophical holes.

It does no good to see all sides of an issue when the heart is concerned with only one side.

Man holds out with what is his divine self, trying against all odds to gain what he gave up when he allowed others to become his soul keeper.

The Ego which needs continual stroking becomes unwieldy and obscures divine passage.

To dismantle an Others’ world demands that we stay around long enough to build another one.

One can care so much that the Other does not have to care at all.

What sells is that which peddles man’s lowest denominator.

The habit of breathing is the hardest one to break.

Man’s struggle is well worth noting. It could have been faster but for some it has been faster than hell on wheels.

That mankind could grow into a benign, caring nature is the dream.

Marthas do not compromise. Instead they are stroke victims.

Marys would not know to be pressed if they were between waxed sheets under a hot iron.

To be in the company of others means that one does not have to accompany oneself.

A good friend will give of his abundance and hug nothing back.

photo by John Hallissey (click on photo for larger view)

January 4, 2014

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 Break Bread

I have broken bread
with old friends
for what seems to be
many centuries.

We continue
our conversations
begun when yet
we were in other times
and were other people.

But it has been, you see,
only a minute.
We bring to mind
all things old and
some things new.

‘Twas but a quirk of Nature
so that our hearts would grow
and become one heart.
It all has a familiar fit.
Don’t you think?

All things will
be new again
when we break bread
in the next of times.
But you knew that, didn’t you?

All things new are really all things old.
Even some of us.

December, 2013
Photo by John Hallissey (click on photo to come front and center)

January 1, 2014

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.
A Toast From My Heart

Let us drink in

the sight of each other

and let loose

those preconceived dreams

keeping us from

breathing in the essence

of the New Year.

With these we will face

a blessedness comparable to none.

Come, drink and be merry.

We will welcome one another

forever more and be glad.

Salut!

Photo by Joe Hallissey Sr.

December 30, 2013

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.
A Christmas Gift

I lay the swords
beneath the evergreens,
but you knew that.
I also lay old grievances
upon the swords,
for we have outgrown them.
They will be buried
low beneath the branches
so there will be no weapons to carry.

I will not burden my own
with my dreams,
for in another world
they have taken root.
The pattern of my days
with intensity and purpose,
shaped them.

There will be new dreams
for the young to fulfill.
No reason anymore
for the old to lay upon
the freshly crafted heart
the chafings of their envious spirit.

Life is weighted gold,
so sacredly guard it.
I wish to lay to rest
the long held grief
that each new generation
must assume the ancients’ maladies.
If anguish resides,
let us undo what we have done.
We give birth to those we hope
to be the best of who we are.
Children are no one’s property.
Their gift is to find and renew
their own sense of self.
To be given life in any dimension,
is to be hugely gifted.

Come, lay your swords beneath the evergreens.

photo by John Holmes

December 20, 2013

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 Laughter

In the dim light
of the silent candle,
while seated at the kitchen table,
I heard laughter.
It rose from the belly of one
seated at another table
and hit the ceiling with a loud guffaw.
The ceiling fan threw the laughter
out the windows to the winds
carrying it afar.
My heart welcomed the sounds
for safekeeping.

The girlish giggles in answer
roamed the table
and shushed the corners
of the room
and I wondered;
the girls, where did they go?

Now I sit and pound my keys
to a fine fettle
and ponder the turn of wheels
that held the world
at its pivot.

And wondering what happened
to the laughter
and why did it die

when we were so hungry for it to last?

12/13

December 18, 2013

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.
Some Thoughts

One would think that for human progress to have been more rapid, a sledge hammer rather than a quill would have been used.

Unless emotional garbage is released, it will continue to be contagious.

The mind set to turn a particular way is already bent.

The split in man is so dichotomous that his life is one mass of contradictions.

When advancing age stiffens the limbs and makes the mind less elastic, we will find the inner ear listening to what the heart stirs about.

To say it is mine to do and do it is to take the bull by the horns. And to say I will take responsibility for it is to tame the bull.

Where will the young generation turn if not to those who pride themselves that their advancing years have brought a degree of wisdom?

Who is going to teach when all about are denying that they are getting older, never mind wiser?

When one’s strength is honed and sharpened, it becomes a dependable strength.

The persuasive voice is well trained to manipulate. Today we call it selling.

One should not find his bed so comfortable that it is an effort to get out.

We are given license to steal from ourselves the only thing we have. Time.

December 13, 2013

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.
Toward Arms Wide Open

I walk now
toward arms wide open
to embrace the fabric
of who I am.

Centuries
have gone into
the craven pot,
stirring to form
a compatible formula.

Looking always
toward humanity’s good,
I become with hope,
a welcome addition

to my Earth’s classroom.

November, 2013

photo by John Hallissey

December 9, 2013

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 Are A Mosaic



Sometimes our actions seem out of context. It is as if we are dancing to a song not in the musical library.   It is not heard by anyone else, just us.   It is not foreign to us, but seems puzzling to everyone watching.   We know that it is still us, just not the us that people know.

All of life and human life especially, is likened by me to a mosaic.   Bits and pieces here and there of importance but I wonder where some of the pieces come from when they are not of this lifetime.   They have a fit though in the larger picture.   Not that it need flash before my eyes, but more of a feeling as being part of the whole.   This Veronica has a Veronica who has a Veronica.   Ad infinitum. My boundaries are no more since my inside has no outside.   What I try to describe is that we are more than we appear to be.   How there is a depth to us always eluding, never definite, never static. That if we had the ability to focus differently and some do, we would see ourselves as a substance far greater than three dimensional.   When we put our arms around beloveds, we are embracing the human family from which we all rise.

When I heard the term ‘sense of snow’ being described as a one who looks at a footprint in the snow and tells what animal walked, how large, what way the wind was blowing, how far the animal traveled, where he had come from and many other things,   I understood it.   I immediately thought there are those also with a sense of time and a sense of destiny and those things driving one to learn sometimes by osmosis but definitely by study with a keen interest in a subject.   They make connections.   Given a word, they take it and whip it into the present and use the premise to show how we connect.   This is an area that adds to depth.

Those who can, read the handwriting on the wall and know who wrote it because they understand the language. They have a ‘sense of’ we say because everything they see connects with the subject. A sense of snow. It is a wonderful term. It describes fully those with the ability to hear the cries in crisis and those who see themselves as part of a mosaic, not even consciously realizing where all the pieces come from but knowing it all is part of the greater picture. We are a mosaic, within a mosaic, within a mosaic, ad infinitum. The sense of it all is vast.

The nonsense question is who am I. The real question is who am I not?

photo by John Holmes

December 4, 2013

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.