From an Upper Floor

Shared Silence

It is a time

past the time of talk,

past the time of argues.

There is a time of silence,

a shared silence;

a time to accept,

a time to simply

slip into old slippers

and Be.

No matter the world,

this time is ours.

Maybe not to fill

all the empty spaces

but given time,

blends them

into a communion

of shared silences.

February 15, 2012

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 Lake Forest, CA.
When David Died

I say that David took the hands off my clocks.

It was the greatest gift he could give me.

I tire of running my life with a large hand and a small hand.

No time for this, hurry for that. Do this now, do that before.

I hate it. With a passion.

I want to immerse myself in time and swim in it.

Feel it around me yielding

and yet holding me up.

I want to feel the eternity of it

and I want to see my house and yard

at different times under the sun.

To be able to say that in the morning

this is precisely how they look.

I want the information stored in my Memory Bank

for those times when I feel bereft.

I want to see the moon rise and give way to the sun.

I want to see the rainbow

around the moon and say again

we are in for a big snow.

I want to find the joy in the mundane task

of shaking out the kitchen rugs

on the back porch and feel the cold boards

beneath my slippers and the cold air

stealing beneath my clothes.

I want to keep looking at the moon with a glance

because no farmer stares at the moon too long

and say hello David.

And when I feel very homesick, I will again

as I have in the past, take my coffee

out on the porch and sit beneath the midnight sky

with the stars daring me to look up

and identify them and again

revel in this multifaceted existence called Life.

February 8, 2012

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 Lake Forest, CA.
The Dance

There is a dance that our feet learn to do when first we stand up. That dance

is learned well, for even when our feet no longer dance, our phantom feet

remember the dance. They itch to dance. And under penalty of death we

think, we stay with it. If we decide to learn new steps, the old steps often need

to be altered. And if they are, we think we are not needed for our dance or we

feel our steps are not noticed anymore and are taken for granted. Either way

we may feel sorry for ourselves or worse, give up. Very few give in and learn

new steps, perhaps slower ones. The new dance feels alien to our self image

and we are certain we will be laughed at. Fortunately others do not remember

our old steps as we who danced them. In the fashion of our admired dance

stars, we skimmed the floor and swept others along with us.

And that is the kicker. When one is aware that a new step is needed, one is

aware also that the dance is soon ending. How to do it gracefully, with a

sweeping dip that barely touches the floor, takes a nimble body and mind.

Most of us do it with the tentative steps we learned when first we learned

to dance. For the vision might still be sweeping, but the body falters. And

before we know it, the audience's attention is riveted on younger feet still

learning new and beguiling steps. We shuffle off the floor. Our dance is over.

And we are never the wiser that the young feet doing the new dance could

not dance at all had we not learned the old dance first.

January 25, 2012

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 Lake Forest, CA.
A Resolution

Let us resolve to fall in love with our Earth. Since many resolutions have

already died let us fall in love with our Earth and keep her alive. Yet

how does one fall in love with Earth?   It is easy.   It is a different kind of

feeling, a oneness, a union that nothing dissolves nor divides. It is the

steadiness, the compliance of all things in Nature that yield to a bidding

when it is done with love.   She is not secretive. She is an open book.

This love is a desire to return to a place where the heart knows its

completeness, in its wholeness with the laws of Nature. We become one

and the same.   We are what the seeker chooses to establish when all else fails

to come to fruition. When there is nothing that satisfies, there is always

the hope and response in the garden, in the fields and in the forests. In its

beaches and in its waters. It is a communion with the holiness in us and a

love which puts all else to shame unless it measures up.

It is a comfortable place to be. It is what we choose in place of

relationships that wither with disillusion.   Nature does not.   She gives

from an unending Source, reaching into her carpetbag to bring forth bits

of revelation to entice, to give one reason to keep trying.   Yet when she

falters, for every grievance she dispenses, there is redress. In time there

is an adjustment, a correction for every injury.   She is easy to love.   And

no matter the number of other worlds, this one is worth taking care of.   No

illusions are necessary because she is sufficient unto herself.

In retrospect, this planet has suffered with our lack of stewardship. So

let us fall in love with her. Let us resolve to make her an object of our affection

and take care of her.   It is time now to assume guardianship of this place

we call home.

For this time it is all we have.

January 13, 2012

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 Lake Forest, CA.
Gift of Time

I am in a January

which thinks it is an April.

I fully expect to see

the rose in bloom and perhaps it is.

In my mind I have transplanted

the marigolds and set the annuals

in their proper places.

In my part of the world I awake.

It is dawn and I prepare for the new day.

The dogs are put out and

the papers brought in.

And in the dailyness there is virtue.

I marvel at the continuity of it all.

In the beauty of the day

I now see all days and

in the quiet of the night,

I note the world's silence.

In recognition of who I am

in connection with All That Is,

I am grateful.

I have taken this gift of time

and richly wear it like a money belt.

January 7, 2012

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 Lake Forest, CA.
A Toast

May the winter sun warm you

and the winter moon

house your heart.

May the world

set the stage for your dreams.

And may love

choreograph your life.

Look up!

With these the New Year will be rich.

January 1, 2012

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 Lake Forest, CA.
Christmas Lullaby

The moon assists the drama

heralding the arrival

of the event

locked within memory.

A place, deep within time’s measure

nudges from familiar territories

the clockwise turn of events.

Incense, sweet hay,

pungent holly, sweeping palms,

evergreen.

The eye follows the moon rays

to find the final beam

lodged in our heart.

The ear strains to hear

the lullaby last

to find we are the music.

December 24, 2011

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 Lake Forest, CA.
An Offering

In all things good we ask that a Light so shine

that the good works which are ours

will glorify and exemplify all that is true

and divine, both within us

and within the Earth.   We ask

Divine guidance be placed

upon our heads and within our hearts

that we may bring to light

all that we have been taught and

all that we have learned.

We ask in all names that signify

the blessedness of life and the glory

which is both Divine and human.

We ask, please receive.   Amen.

December 21, 2011

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 Lake Forest, CA.
Waiting For Santa Claus

The bare floor of the landing,

midway to the top of the stairs.

began to bite her knees and she grew weary.

Her chin pressed the ledge of the frozen window

where her breath left a misty hole.

Her eyes followed the range of the stars,

afraid, afraid of missing the sainted friend

who would deliver her heart’s desires.

Her vigil continued and

the night grew weary of itself.

The house slept under the weight

of the wonderless slumbering within

and its old bones creaked with fatigue.

She did not move and

her eight years spoke her eight millennia.

The promise was not for now but of forever.

Erstwhile urchin, never blended the phases

of the child’s dreams, but the boiling

of the witch’s brew to drink

from the cauldron of life’s ironies.

It was the story written of the night

in which a million stars stole the night.

She long remembered the banishment

and in her vigil she would have

reclaimed the homestead.

It was not to be. But in its stead,

the morning fir stood and the lights

reflected the stars which distilled

their radiance in the eyes of the child.

Not for long was the long wait.

She claimed her right as a child of the night

and gift wrapped was her life.

December 12, 2011

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 Lake Forest, CA.
A Life Worthy

Life is kind to those who treat her kindly. But if intensity, with its power is used, then life desires to meet her match. And uses the match for preparation to a higher glory that has little bearing on what one believes.   It is not a matter of life in a hereafter that has one floating on a bed of tranquility.   When life’s conditions are met in the physical, there will be testing periods only chosen by the person who feels the need to gather time and put it to use in a way that others would find untenable.

Who would put or pit themselves against situations that would force a do or die attitude? Who would force themselves to grow in spite, despite all prevailing attitudes about stress and stress related illnesses, except the soul who knows a something that seems to escape the knowledge of others?

Escapes the knowledge of others.   It is an ancient thought that has propelled some to the present now with the knowledge that by stressing themselves they will prove capable of better and higher things.   And not necessarily in physical life.   There is something innate that tells them there is a something beyond physical life and when pressed, they will shrug and say who knows?   Or some such bright saying.   They will also when pressed deny it and say we work for our family, for position, for the good of some worthwhile cause.   But the truth of the matter lies in the fact that what they are saying is that they want to be qualified.   Qualified to pass a higher judgment to qualify for a position of work that will enable their transport into a world unlike the one they have known.

And the world held in mind is different than their neighbors, in that it will be of memory as they bring it to conscious mind. These will be glimpses. They could not elaborate if their lives depended on it and could not describe nor articulate their feelings.   It is done with the hope that what propelled them here has resulted in a life worthy of graduation to a something higher. They are in a cooperative venture with the heavens.   There is assistance for the intense desire of the pilgrim. It is there for the asking.

Though the majority of us feel we are plowing the field with runaway horses, it is enough to find at the end of the day, that we too have been tested. And found worthy.

December 6, 2011

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 Lake Forest, CA.