From an Upper Floor

My Song Goes Out

My song goes out

on the morning air

and penetrates the sky

to where the stars hang heavy.

My lyrics ride the beams

that will meet the sun

and hang in mid-day

until even the grass hears

the melody or the mourning.

Look who it is! they say.

She speaks to us and

we hear, we hear.

And when they ask of me

I will say it is an enchanted place,

this Earth home.

Learn to speak her language

and learn to hear her songs.

Be the lyre on which

her music is played.

The music spells out

a beginning that never was

and an ending that cannot be.

She will tell us of a richness

that is ours

since we first were stars.

September 14, 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 Ramona, CA.
Morning Comes

Morning comes

with dew hinting Autumn,

promising a long, clean winter.

Schedules are welcomed

and days end

at an appropriate time.

Evenings stretch

like warm welcoming mats,

rolling up at our heels

and sealing us in with what

will feed our Spirits.

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September 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 Ramona, CA.
How And Why

A grandson asked me to explain how my writing comes about.

How I give birth to things and the meaning of some articles and poems.

Some authors and musicians have said that the words and music are

heard with an inner ear. Often writers will say they are writing with the flow.

Ralph Waldo Emerson said we must keep the pipes free and clear so that

we will hear the muses speak. And with me the words will be there and it

is all I can do to put them down as fast as I can or like Emerson I am

in dialogue with the muses. Other times when I am out of sync, I

struggle for words. To be able to say this means that time has been

given to learning what life means to me and how I respond to it. I had to

find a balance with what I was taught and what I was experiencing.

It is not easy to make inroads. It is not easy being different. In another

time I would be called a mystic. This is someone who has an inner

life with a connection to things invisible and intangible, but altogether valid.

To me life is a continuum. We come from a somewhere and

we go to a somewhere we have earned the right to be.

I grew up in a family that took life seriously. I wish we had laughed

more, just as I wish I had not spent 18 months in a hospital when I

was ten with a bone problem. (Penicillin came to market two months

after I was discharged from the hospital.)These were conditions that

shaped me. The worst being separated from my siblings. There were

eight of us and even though the country was still recovering

from the Depression, I felt rich. There were six brothers and

two sisters so how could we be poor?   We had each other.

The previous post on the loss of our son’s baseball tournament I

realized was also for me. I needed to see the words written to realize

that the rules applied to me as well.   The same rules applied to

everything I have done in my 80 plus years. First and foremost were

family and home and all that implied with its care.   All the other things,

the writing and independent study which I did when the rest of the world

slept were to make inroads for me. What have I learned by digging

beneath the rock of who I am? That there is a substance, a weight,

a something metaphysical hidden in all of us within our skeletons.

There is a fountain of lore within us. When we apply what it is we

have learned in this life we come up with things that tell us where

we have traveled spiritually. I make connections. Some people have

difficulty with this. I connect life’s events and draw my invisible lines

and see no division in any of it. It unites in my thinking and I wonder

how it has escaped those in power in high places who have the clout

to do something. I have a son who told me that I make vacuuming a

spiritual experience. Perhaps I do for am I not a steward of this

place I inhabit? This continuous thread has been mine since childhood.

I link everything to All That Is. Some would call it God and others

Jehovah and still others what they think Highest and Best. I see

this link in games of children to those of adults as they dress

their lives with needed illusions.   The rules are for real and the

stakes are us. We either are the victory and our gods the victors or not.

A friend tried to convince me that this is an impersonal world

and not to be taken personally. I say this is my world and I will do

what is mine to do to the best of my ability because I do take it

personally. We must or else it will perish. Every action has

consequences, good or ill.   The roads connecting us to All That Is

are peculiarly ours because of our thinking. What we learn are codes

or Beliefs to live by. If the rules work in one place, they should without

bias work again. If our rules do not have favorable results,   we must

dig deeper and work some more. We are talking about life and it may

take the rest of our lives to find the why of it. Worth it?   Utterly.

The principles apply.   Universal principles apply and will work in

other places and times. These are known as true values. True

values do not change.   Because the substance of them has a

weight our hearts will recognize instantly.

Quantum, sumus, scimus.    We are what we know.

September 4, 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 Ramona, CA.
The Explanation

It was with stony disbelief

they watched as I slowly lifted

the strands of hair at the back of my head.

And when they blinked, I smoothed

the disarray and said, did you see them?

I, of course, had grown another

set of eyes on the back of my head.

But only after the children came, of course.

The other one, in front, I pointed out,

set between the other two like yours,

I've always had and thought the world did too.

It helped me to reach places like your heart.

You always had a key to my head, one said

and I was shocked.   I did not know that I did.

I did not mean to invade your privacy.

And another, breathless, shaken, rushed

into the house one foggy night

and said, you won't believe this!   (But I did.)

There they were on bicycles all five abreast,

dressed in white.   They stayed in front of me

till I turned the car at the corner, home.

And then they vanished you wailed.

And I said, I know, I know, they are your friends.

And another said, we are the listeners.

The world does not listen but we hear.

The raindrops speak to the windowpanes

and apologize for clouding their vision.

And the windows say my eyes needed washing anyway.

And I say, you know, you know.

We hear the anguish of the world in motion,

in the raucous laughter in words unsaid, said.

They see the world in shades of white and black,

denying spectrums of themselves in brilliant hue.

These souls who question us

are sight and sound and color blind,

living in a world of no dimension.

August 29, 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 Ramona, CA.
In Consort

I seek solitude

in that part of mind in consort

with the ancient gods.

We whisper great truths

and often chuckle at the simplicity

of man’s complex thoughts

and of the complexity

of the simple word.

It all must do

with the feelings of the times.

For in ours, when our time was,

we laughed and imbibed

and made babies like ourselves.

Yes, we know

this has not changed,

but the difference always is

the character of the peoples.

It seems that once we were

and knew for all time

we would always Be.

But now man works and plays

and does not know

there will be other worlds and times

and as many chances as he needs

to make amends to get it right.

Without the toys.

August 22, 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 Ramona, CA.
The Leader Coach

I was thinking of our son's disappointment in the baseball tournament. He coached

the team and they lost. He poured himself into them and it just did not come

together. Another place, another time, I told him. It will happen I should have said.

His disappointment was keen and I could not take it seriously I said. They had

always told me that I did not see how crucial games were. What I realized is

that one cannot orchestrate the outcome of anything.   One can pour oneself into

something, instil one's best and highest motives and desires but one cannot

orchestrate the outcome. And perhaps the outcome truly is not that important.

But the process is.

What we teach to whomever we are in charge of we can determine by examining

our motives and intentions. We w ill teach along the way those things which fit

into the process of maturation of an Other. We will teach those things we are

proud of and those things we will heatedly say we never intended. So it is

imperative that our lessons not give crossed signals.   We need to know why we

needed to win and why to lose was so undesirable. We need to know what we

intended to prove. Perhaps what we also need to know is what we taught along

the way and how it helped for good, constructively, to enhance a life.

Did someone learn that discipline was crucial to keeping a job, a marriage

intact, a family?   Did someone learn that motive, desire was crucial to spark

the continuation of a life or many lives? Did someone learn that practice can

be a method of discipline, that practice ensures that one can be at home

with anything not attempted before and that learning never stops? Did we

teach that joy could be found in doing with one's body, mind and soul a

task that once seemed undesirable by changing one's attitude and saying,

`this I can do because it needs doing and because I see it as mine to do?'

Do I see my participation in this part of life as privilege and not as duty?

Did someone learn that to do one's best is what is required of life and in

doing so no regrets will burden them? And was there a camaraderie,

a dedication to a joint effort and a love borne by all for each because

of the sharing of motive and intentions? Did they all come through

happy to have participated and adding a dimension of success because

the individual's success depends on the cooperation of the all?

If the ball tournament brought these things home to some, then there

was no loss and the coach stands as leader. A win does not necessarily

mean a successful team. What one learns is what determines a winner

in the process.   The process is never finished.

For if it were finished, we also would be and the final page would be writ.

Who among us would say we've learned it all and played the last game while

breath is still ours?

(This was from a journal I had kept many years ago with a copy to our

son. It is valid today and he agrees.)

August 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 Ramona, CA.
Rest well, Sailor

So in this night

when you lie still

and listen for the rain,

listen for the wind,

listen for the stars

moving about the sky,

listen also for your heartbeat.

It is steady and it is sure.

It beats for all your commitments,

both loving and lovable.

You are an important adjunct to this world

and you cannot estimate your good.

Rest well, sailor, rest well.

The seas have been rocky

but now we come to the inlets

that will take us to port.

There will be no tug

to bring in the ship.

She will make it on her own power.

So, rest well, sailor, rest well.

August 6, 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 Ramona, CA.
The Beginning

There is a mountain top sitting on the edge of nowhere eager for attention.   Eager for those with a need to know to start the journey.   Eager also to dispense knowledge where there will be help.

We ask with great hope for the kind of help given by those who have been driven by a knowledge only given by a life devoted to learning about Self.

We hold these truths solidly for a lifetime because they have been researched with the knowledge driven by a higher desire.

Never asked for because it was not even known to exist.   Never asked for because there was nothing ever in the history of the Pilgrim to know such knowledge existed.   Science has always said that only bodily senses were the only valid senses. But the Pilgrim now knew that to be wholly aware was valid. Senses held by the whole person was the only way to learn that to know means to access the unknowable and a way to know truth.

Eager always for the way to be clear means to research, to unearth one's self. For the only way to the center of the truth would be straight on through one's self, through the psyche holding information for the price of life everlasting.

It is never evident at the start that there will be lessons to tear the heart apart.   But the only way is the step first taken inward.   Where it will lead is the surprise and the way.   The journey is a long one.   But for the journeyman it is the only way to go. Home is the destination.

It is a long way home.

July 29, 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 Ramona, CA.
The Healer

The storm clouds gather

and fear mounts,

harnessing power

which once were emotions

struggling for expression.

Like the great god Zeus,

brandishing his hot irons,

lightening arcs

across the night sky.

Thunder, like rolling kegs of dynamite,

flatten systems of tarnished beliefs,

leaving in its wake,

profound silence.

Forgotten are the thoughts

heavy with the weight of worry,

heavy with the futility

of life lived with no hope.

In her great capacity to heal,

Nature combines with man's emotions

to leave in her wake

renewed purpose,

if only to get things back to abnormal.

July 26, 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 Ramona, CA.
Her Advocate

The doctor was thoughtful as he asked, `is she in pain?' And I said

that she takes the stairs quite slowly and has difficulty in the morning.

I felt as if I was describing myself.    He touched her head lightly

and said, `take her home and love her.'

The walk home was longer than the other times.   We talked. I told

her how I knew that she hurt sometimes but together we would

make it. Her head was pointed in the only direction she knew,

home.

We climbed the porch and with great relief she sprawled. It was

the only place in memory to put its square arms about her and say,

`welcome back.'

I watched her forget at times when a squirrel spirited her vision

and she gave chase.   A monumental effort for the enormous body

collapsed and found its rest with four legs at right angles.   She even

thought at times she was a pup and she remembered from some

distant time how she jumped straight up.   Now she found her

legs unsteady.

She does not whimper but takes time in stride. I prepare her

supper with the crisp fatty bacon and no gourmet meal matches.

I look upon my cereal bowl and wonder.

One voice says, `put her out of her misery.' Another voice demands,

`would you do as much for me?' Another counters, `what will you do

with me?'

My bones become brittle now and I find rest at the top of the stairs.

My eyes grow dim and I tire.   Occasionally I do my spirited dance,

remembered.   And then my limbs remind me again that to dislodge

hidden memories brings pain.    And I wonder again.

Who will be my advocate?

July 17, 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 Ramona, CA.