From an Upper Floor

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.
GENETIC MEMORIES

Lurking behind every door are ghosts

from a shadowy past,

eager to be translated

to a dubious present.

Impregnated in genes

are the memories of these ghosts,

split second DNA, with desire housing

the delicate substance quoting life.

Stupid am I to allow

others' memories,

lurking in my fresh Being

to suck life out of my present.

But power filled, even to think

that I could release their tenacious hold

from a life unfulfilled

and requiring recompense.

Helplessness rages simultaneously,

pleading a judicious balance

to satisfy life's imbalances,

yet knowing

I cannot do it.

April 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.
Peace In The Center

Refresh yourself at the trough of knowledge. The water is cool and fresh and deserves a thirst that can appreciate it.

When the eyes see, there is peace in the center. Providing of course the footwork has been done.

Not until one sees where one has been can one change direction.

Illusions are the finery with which we dress all the dailyness, all the scullery to make life not only bearable but to elevate it also. It is a noble endeavor. It is a god-work.

Evolution can only be taken a step at a time. No lesson is skipped else it will not stick and carry forth.

It bodes no good to keep ploughing when the field is ready for seed.

One cannot expect to govern a body of men when one cannot govern one's own body.

One cannot be a better anything that what one is as a person.

Words are water and actions are stone it is said. Your actions will shout who you are and your words will whisper to the ears of them who do not wish to hear and hear what you do as louder than what you say.

Do and you will be shown how.

The Spirit requires an indulgence now and again.

Man is a country quilt. A patchwork of many colors and shapes. Altogether beautiful.

April 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.
The Farm Woman

Woman of the Earth,

you are loved.

You gather the fruits

of your labors to your bosom

and feed the children.

You’ve inched your way

along the dusty path

with back bent in great fatigue

and cultivated the rows

yielding wise fruit.

You would feed out of your mouth,

those you think hungry

and then beyond measure.

The fruits are the heart

of your labors, the harvest of

your mind’s philosophy,

spilling indiscriminately.

Who is left to feed you, farm woman?

What commissary is left open

to feed your hungry soul after hours?

What bookstall will house the words

between stiff covers

to increase your harvest?

Labor, till the sun

closes its blinds on the day.

Restless legs will

speed you through the night

to find the bins ever full.

March 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.
Like Minds

My thoughts rove the ethers

like a magnet pulling

like thoughts to themselves.

The excitement rumbles

through my belly

while heart accelerates its beat

forcing my blood

to course through my body,

drunkenly.

Heady stuffs

to know that mine is thought

matched by invisible minds.

I swim in conscious waters

resembling earthstone.

Pulsating, yearning,

I find it humbling to think

that heaven's thought

has searched out mine.

March 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.
Midnight Excursion

I saw them,

leaning against the rail

with grey curls circling their faces.

They were in animated conversation.

Their eyes were glued

to the waters, I think.

The wind blew their housedresses

about their knees.

Frowns and furrows

made ridges on their foreheads.

They giggled with laughter.

Not out of the ordinary, you say.

Certainly a commonplace happening.

The hazy sun was evident,

but most of the surroundings, blurred.

I could have stepped

into their conversation.

They would have welcomed me.

But I did not.

It was with a start

that I realized I was the visitor.

The midnight excursion

placed me in their time.

I had broken stride

and found me another world.

March 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 Ramona, CA.
King To Pauper

Rendering itself useless now,

the elements of Nature

first borned by Man

to work for him have gone rabid.

But in wisdom still,

the moon continues

to pull the oceans by great force

and gently lays the rolling waves

on windswept sand, clearing man’s debris.

The wind if amortized,

would harness its power

to push the plow.

And sun, first born of woman

would gladly warm

the earth’s chilled bones

and never cast a shadow.

The earth would form the nested nettle

where foot transgressed,

with pleasure support

the frame of man forever.

Air in bunches note

the going in and coming out of men

and upholds their stance, untiringly;

gladly yielding itself to noble ends.

Relegating himself to the beggar’s position

of that which man himself created,

the Art is lost and in its stead

small triumphs rise.

Birth and death are Nature’s saviors

preventing man

from raping her in anger.

February 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.
A Perspective

To forgive and forget has become a shopworn edict. It can work just so long but when you realize that the god of the other person weighs your interest against his best interest, you might come in second.   You can forgive until your face turns whatever color it is not, it still is heavy on the heart.

Forgiveness can only work when we give up hope that the past can be rewritten. Generally the insult or injury is not viewed as such by the other if they are still in our lives. Even when pointed out, there is no ‘I am sorry’ because the other does not see a reason to be sorry. It does not mean that the injuries are not valid.   It means that the other has a different frame of reference and heads are different. It means that what is, Is. It does not mean that all things are forgotten, but that from this point on there will be notable changes.   How different will depend on what we value.   And that is where the hard work of sifting and sorting and building a philosophy begins to accommodate life’s challenges.

Education of people varies so one wonders about credibility. Women stand by erring husbands and often feel guilty. People stand by their governments no matter how rancid, employees stand by employer’s outrageous malfeasance, and children work to cover their parents’ stupidities.    Now everyone is to be held accountable.    This is how it should be.   But it is a challenge.

The question then is how to forgive the daily irritant in our lives, related or not. In this day of DNA , we are more than a little surprised just who our relatives are. The commandment still is to love one another.   When we look upon Others as separate from us, we deal with me, my and mine instead of we, us and ours. Open warfare is the agenda and we become Separatists, whether we speak of a person, families or countries.

Forgiveness may be difficult when we cannot accept the effort of Others who behave in a manner that is within their frame of reference or their culture. That path may not be what we can share but we must remember within them also is the earnestness to find a way toward their truth. When we acknowledge our different perspectives and that the past is accepted as past, we can begin to write the script for the future by our actions today, the present.

Let us gift ourselves and make today our present to us.

February 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.
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 Ramona, 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 Ramona, CA.