From an Upper Floor

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.
How Hot The Night

The still air

stifles

even the act

of breathing.

The hot air

forged in the steel furnace

of daylight

is nowhere a relief.

My eyes droop

with heat heavy

fatigue

and I take refuge

between bed sheets

locked

beneath the pristine

spread all day.

My naked legs

scissor kick

in their coolness,

like swimming

in a dish of vanilla ice cream.

July 10, 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.
A Lesson In Strawberries

I was a young girl, about 12.   It was our first summer on The Farm and it was a hard one.   But it also was filled with good food straight from the warm earth.

My mother had a talent for growing things in the city, despite its polluted air that even 70 years ago people knew to be unhealthy.   But in the clear air of the country, in the soil of her loam filled garden, her talents blossomed as did her crops.

We were getting produce ready for the stand down near the road.   As we were preparing the fruits and vegetables, selling them as fast as we put them out, friends from the city were arriving. They were what we would consider diverse characters. Some were people in her circumstances with many children and little money. A few were wealthy but the outstanding characteristic of all these relationships was mutual respect.

Toward the late afternoon, I was tired and as most adolescents are prone to be, whiny.   The source of my irritation was the fact that my mother was giving to her friends, without charge, the best and finest of what we were putting out.   A bushel of potatoes here, quarts of strawberries there, a bushel of apples, here. But the strawberries were my argument. I loved them and the ones she grew were the reddest, juiciest and largest I had ever seen.   They were sweet clear through and the dream stuff of that first June on The Farm. With the heavy cream separated from the rich milk the excellent cows gave, these were mine she was giving away. The strawberries summed up my resentment.

“You can’t keep giving away our profits,” I said. “you have given away half of all the produce!”

She turned to me in a voice I have not forgotten and a lesson that has stayed with me.

“These are mine,” she said. “I will do with them what I please. These are for me to give away if I want to. No one can tell me who to give to. My friends may never do anything for me, but if one of them does something for my children or my grandchildren, then that will be payment for me.”

I have thought often of that lesson in gift giving. In giving what is yours.   In the course of my days, when someone did something for me I did not expect, there was the lesson in strawberries. When so much has been done for our children by their friends and ours, the lesson in strawberries comes up.   When time, whole weekends of time, have been given up to add a room, to sit with a sick child, to listen to an impoverished spirit, to make dinner when the task seems insurmountable and appetite non-existent, to do any of these when time has become our most precious commodity, it is a gift of Spirit. When a check arrived unexpectedly from someone whose only reason was “I remember how I would have felt to have received this. . . ” or the some ones who oftentimes helped our children through school because “it was done for me. . . “, I thought of the lesson in strawberries.

As I review a life where so much has been done for me and mine, from sources unexpected, I am grateful for the lesson in strawberries.   My mother gave what was hers to give, what she worked for and gave freely.   I do not forget.

June 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 Ramona, CA.
CROESUS, MY COUNTRY

Croesus stumbled

and laid back a war torn skin

for public autopsy.

With bruises bested by emotional welts

too deep to be visible, he wept.

In the eye of the cyclone,

the earth's erratic heartbeat

was his heart;

the blood drenching the soil

was his blood

and the screams of the mothers

came from his throat.

From Midas he inherited his golden touch,

spewing riches tinged with decadence;

stroking the mind of man

and lulling into complacency

the aging neophyte.

Promising to pave the illusory streets

with golden bricks,

the purchase price was extracted

ounce by sweaty ounce

from the despairing brows

of the ages' overburdened.

* * * * *

We will again bathe our Croesus

in the River Pactolus.

We will anoint his open wounded heart

with the balm of Gilead.

He will stand again

with his ancient head in the clouds

and his heart in the eye of the cyclone.

And no longer will he permit

the mothers' screams

to tear the earth apart.

June 20, 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.
For Love’s Sake

What we create are memories.   Not only for ourselves but for others. What we think we are doing and creating, to another within their frame of reference, is an altogether different thing.   For ourselves we may be enriching our experience.   For the Other, we are oftentimes teaching something of great value. Or simply giving them something to warm them when life's experiences are not sufficient. It is important to keep in mind that what we think we are doing together is often quite different for the Other.

In my lifetime there have been many memory makers.   The memories are sweet at times and often poignant and other times sad.   Maybe not the intent of the memory makers but this was because of my frame of reference .   If we approach each other with the intent of making our meetings something of substance, there will be many memories of those times.   But the most effective I think are the ones where the relationship is mutually satisfying, the good moments become the sole substance in retrospect. There will not be a defining moment, simply a sigh of something that has come into our lives uninvited but leaving or creating a deeper fulfillment. Those are the ones that expand our spirits and give depth to who we are.

Oftentimes we are surprised, especially with children who visit when something is done which is outside their experience. Coming to mind is a special visit of small children to our home when I set the table for dinner with cloth napkins. The surprise on the little one's face will stay with me forever. 'I can wipe my face and hands on this?' the question was asked.   Of course, of course.   Another time with older children I quietly put logs in the fireplace and started a fire to take the fall chill out of the room while they slept on couches. I saw sleepy eyes open and close as they snuggled on down.   The smiles on their lips are my memories.   I am certain that in their adult lives they too will recreate similar moments for those they love.   It is love that desires to make memories.

Small incidents surely.   But in the lives of those we welcome into our hearts they become the stuffs that are the substance of character. Someone took or takes the time for these small things that begin to form the shape of who we are.   Someone loved us enough to do this.

For love's sake, are we not honor bound to do the same?

June 12, 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.
Family Drama

We should give children roots to know they are connected to us but we must

remember to uncover their wings so they can fly. Then they will come back.

The straight spine is an inheritance. It is agile enough to bend but its natural

position is perpendicular. . . . to hold the chin up

When as adults we realize that we no longer have the chance to save the world,

there are the children.

The children will do what we did not or could not. It is with great relief that the

torch is passed.

As we get older, our world becomes smaller but infinitely richer.

The one who chooses to come with an open head is the miracle among men.

Are all babies born this way and we masterfully close them up?

Each of us have soft spots in need of gentle handling.

Friends feed the Spirit and good families are icing on the cake.

We should be building lives for ourselves, not lifestyles.

In a partnership there must be a compromise . . . of wishes but

not of self.

If humour was a monetary form of exchange, too many of us must

of needs file for bankruptcy.

May 30, 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.
Time In The Heart

I was an oppressed people.

I wandered long

and became very tired of wandering.

I hugged the banks

of the green river and

shredded lives of high calibre.

Crying hard and loud

I voiced irritation

that rubbed edges raw.

And soon I walked

into the promised land.

Even before, even before I died.

It was green and fertile

and without enmity.

Without rancor I tended gardens.

And in the wide calm of doing

I knew of Being.

Ah, it was so. It was so.

Tending the cabbages

I found the young fruit sweet.

Tending the orchards, I found the hearts tender.

It was in the doing that I found beauty.

And I know it has never been done this way.

And I have done it before.

Each time fresh, each time new,

but the promise and the land even

more beautiful than I had remembered.

But even now, new eyes approach mine

and I whisper. . . . search for it,

search for it.

It is real and when you find it,

you will know it never was a place

but a time in the heart.

May 21, 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.
Toward A Destiny

wild geese move

within the moments of their destiny

framing patterns struck

upon a naked sky.

clocked by indiscreet motions

they move

in gentler waves

instinctively.

confirmed in their geesehood

they soar with speed

amid the chastening winds

and luring skies.

untethered, unfettered.

dressed in their celestial garb,

melding motive and design

toward a destiny disclosed.

in a moment

they can do

what in a lifetime

I cannot.

May 9, 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 Poet’s Memories

Torn from an event

with memories still alive

and placed in an incubator to breathe

are poets expected to live.

Leaving a world incomplete,

they wander in vegetation totally unfamiliar

and yet expected to survive.

And give rise to credence

in a world with no root,

where trees are shades of others more vivid,

whose flowers whisper their names

in a forgotten language,

whose people are ghosts of livelier images,

all crowding the nimbus.

Where horizons are vast

and what eyes behold are stark lines

dividing two dimensional realities

pretending a depth that fools not a one.

Where snow sheds its stars

on a crystal night and the night becomes

a holy night eliciting unexpected

extravagances bestowing grace.

All grasped in a moment's vision

to linger through worlds creating ulcers

by gnawing the viscera

with dreams not completed.

The poet's pen translates worlds

of mean existence from memories held

long in the heart's pocket.

Translates the colors of those other places

where winds caressed and sun bathed

a skin unlike their own.

In another place and time they walk

and because they do,

their memories give rise to Others' dreams.

May 2, 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.