From an Upper Floor

Are We the Promise Given? . . . ..

The first week in December found me transported to Emergency with atrial fibrillation. Since then it has been a trial of finding what medications are acceptable to this body with not so many adverse reactions. I have found myself not nice and complaining. So conserving energy, my work has been my best of what my loyal readers have said to me during these many past seasons of love and memories.

I thank all of you who have gifted me with your time in this very difficult segment of our lives which has brought about stress and behaviors to consciousness we thought we had outgrown and learned better. It does give us hope though that we can restore the goodness we have worked for in ourselves and community.

Remorse and regret need not be attached to our names. We have time to erase them with hands to lift each other up. This is who we are because we have been taught well and we have worked. To all of you who are part and inhabitants of this human family, I wish a heart filled with joy this holy season whatever your persuasion.

I am restored again to a compassionate frame of mind that shows we know what substantive values we hold that help us enhance our humanity.

And though we do not share others’ beliefs, we can at least hold the candle for each other as we make our way up. I bless. And eagerly accept your blessing. To bless is a gift given to us when first we draw breath with soul. Use it frequently.

do you hear the angels? . . .

Lifetimes lived secreted
behind the wooly frames of memory.

We jog the frames
of Christmases past. . . .

Scents of
pine boughs and holly berries, mince pies and cranberries.

Sounds of
apple crisp snow and retorting icicles.
crackling fires and laughter.

And the sound of silence,
as love stretches through all dimensions to encircle Thee and Me.

As real as tangible,
as the star beams on the evergreen.
A promise. . . .
given and kept.

Do you hear the angels?

December 23, 2021

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 Sacred Obligation . . . to think . .

(For my new readers and for those who need to be reminded, I share again this vignette. It speaks to how we are connected, one to another as well as to the invisible worlds. Just as Christians celebrate this holy season, others also celebrate their holy days as Belief demands of them. We live by Beliefs that signal our inner knowledge to greater reverence. The unseen world guides and directs us in ways we often choose not to acknowledge. By not acknowledging, we lose sight of what can be universal progress in peace. When we accept the differences in ourselves as well as others, we will accept and extend this acceptance with no reservation. Our intent must always be to broaden our focus so that we live in harmony. It is our obligation to the sacredness of Life.)

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 Gllloooo oooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa and 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. . . .on whom our lives rest. . . .

December 18, 2021

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.
Changes Are Afoot. . . .

July 20, ’16 journal entry

I was reading in my suffering servant essay that what we do here is felt throughout the Universes.   That we are being watched closely. Not only our unborn but other worlds also. Jesus was an evolutionist. He knew that what one does eventually all will do. Both good and evil. Look at what is going on in the world today.

I talk of the essence of god. Because in quantum language Becoming is the key word. We are all in stages of becoming other than what is, are, am. I stutter my way with words and thoughts and do not wish to dismantle but to nudge the thinking . We need help for our world. And for worlds watching what happens here so that we do not contaminate the rest of the planetary systems.

Remind us that pleasures are not the sole purpose of our agenda. But learning is. Of ourselves, our earth, and universal life and our innate knowledge of responsibility. We would be reminded of what we know and taught what we do not. Various stages of universal life watches like a visual for the vagaries of unruly children in various stages of disrepair. We need to be healed so we can stand upright. We know to our embarrassment what upright means. Not so much different as correct for our time,

The snowflakes were just barely visible when the younger looked hopeful and asked can we make a snowman? Well, I said that there really had to be a lot of snow on the ground before we could roll it into a ball and make a snowman.    We could stay up later he said and wait for the snow to fall.

But I said to him there is school tomorrow and to stay up late was not a good idea.   Then I asked him how important was it that we make a snowman?   And he looked at me in astonishment and said but how could we have Christmas without snow?   I said but what about the children who lived in places that were hot all the time and what did he think they did?

He was silent for some time and then said quietly, they make believe, don’t they? Tell me I said, what do they make believe? Like I do he said when I am sad or I wisht for something that doesn’t happen.   I make believe in my head that what I wisht is real and then play like it was real and pretty soon, I am happy.

Do you do that often I asked and he said lots of times.   Especially when I am hurting inside or wisht with all my might for something and even I knowed that all my might not make it real. But then, then the hurt inside goes away when I play like it did happen and I not sad anymore.

Well, I said, this I can promise you.   When the snow piles up to just two inches and I showed him how high two inches was, we will make as big a snowman as we can.   We will roll and roll until the ball gets bigger and bigger even if it takes the whole yard!   Like higher than me, he asked.

And I said higher than you.

And then I hugged him and thanked him for telling me how he made himself happy when he hurt inside. How did you learn to do that I asked?

And he said, I watch-ed you. Always I watch-ed you.

December 13, 2021

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.
Love transforms. . . .

Perhaps you also feel as I in looking about, and wondering is this not the hardest lifetime to have lived? This lifetime is filled with notes and memos reminding me of the impossible events I have labored through. And wondering from where came the energy and the chutzpah to work through them.

I am glad for the nudge that brought me to the keyboards to note those events. It is dotage that brings a respite from vivid memories because the weight of them is burdensome. Glad that I learned what was mine to learn and now ready for what refreshes Spirit.

And glad for the sons in my life who brought awesome gifts to me and whose presence in my life made what was mine to learn, necessary. Not only helped make me a better human being, but wealth in experience money cannot touch. They are the jewels of my life. Love transformed us all.

Legacy. . .

The house is quiet
when I enter this private place,
this holy place,
to listen to my private oracle,
my comforter,
while I chase down my holy grail.

This holy grail for me
is my philosophy,
that I spent a lifetime pursuing.
I was pushed and pulled
into a blackened pit
strewn with many lifetimes’ worth
of desecrated dogmas.

I was expected not to question,
just accept as mankind had dutifully done
for centuries.
But life’s ironies consumed
an enormous part of me
as the maternal segment refused
to feed the children of my heart
an unpalatable meal.

Strong arms lifted me
and the nearing century
found me
in august terms in a legacy.

But I will leave some memos, essays,
words of many muses,
whose meanings are dressed
in costumes of countless lifetimes.
There will be ledgers
on how to build a life
with digestible ingredients.

Done as the mother of sons
whose hearts and minds she hallowed
so they would never, ever
think that she took
the keys of the kingdom

and left them bereft.

December 6, 2021

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 State Of Mind. . . . .

A State of Mind

‘Country’ is surely as much a state of mind as it is a way of life. If it is a place, it need not be in this time and space. It can indeed be buried so deep in memory that in the normal course of affairs, it will not be unearthed.

Just to recognize the feeling is sufficient. One can live in the center of the largest metropolis, yet have within the pulsating heart the yearning for ‘country’. And find its expression, it will.

The eyes will hunger for a skyline with no buildings. And we will find the largest field we can and pick out the hedgerows and swiftly identify the birds nesting. The heart will be alert for the sudden movement in the shrubs and note with delight the brown eyes of the trusting doe.

The feet will shed their years in the cool grasses and pick up the butterfly net with the youngest child and take to the fields. It is the metamorphosis of the most profound kind. It is the body coming to life in however brief a time. And sometimes, too brief.

For eyes too long held to the grimy snow of cities, in the one whose heart brims with ‘country’ even the first city snowfall will bring to mind other times where ghosted angels cavorted in knee high drifts.

In those very eyes the star valentine will be seen and be recognized by a similar soul trudging alongside. It is a song to be heard and Nature calling to her own.

Touches of ‘country’ will be found everywhere. Sometimes an ancient bowl and pitcher will have a special place to be handled carefully with dreams attached. Or a checkered cloth with pottery will be set for dinner. And cornflowers in a crystal vase.

Stories will be born unto these memories brought in from deep wells of yearning and they will spring to life and hurtle into the future with internal power.

Carefully crafted wooden toys, highly polished, will seem to belong to another time. The receiving child will still delight in what is different but unmistakably made with love. And the circled guests will marvel at a cobbler floating its berries in heavy cream and shush the health fanatics with ‘it doesn’t happen every day’.

These are tributes to another time and place and also to those who keep alive a way of life for those of us less fortunate. And the loss is felt when lives are run by the second hand on the clock, when there are no fields in center cities for children to run barefoot in grasses.

Country people whose lives are lived with their eyes to the clock, their senses to the change in wind and darkening skies and wheat fields ready on the moment for harvesting, may not readily agree. But the differences are valuable and meaningful. In their presence one senses the difference immediately.

It is that imperceptible hesitancy in answering a question that articulates keenly variables affecting an answer. It is in that glance that takes in the horizon, ‘whence cometh my help’ before a commitment is made. It is in the delicate thrust of a child’s hand in answer to a greeting. And the firm grip of the parents’ on yours.

These come from an innate love and respect for our Earth Mother.

These are the signs of ‘country’, simple, articulate, trusting when trust is extended. Beautiful, artfully crafted with loving hands, whether from the oven or the workshop or the knitting needles. Signs that we cling to because our lives depend on them and they do.

So when the first snow flies in countable flakes, keep me in mind. I will be searching the snow for the earth angels. And I will find you.

November 30, 2021

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.
English Muffin Bread that toasts divinely. . . .

You might find this helpful if you will be having a houseful of hungry people looking for something to eat Thanksgiving morning but wanting to leave space for big bird, this you will feed them. Everyone loves English Muffins but to have enough on hand leaves a bare budget. This recipe makes two loaves and they are good! And taste even better than the muffins. Follow the recipe and don’t substitute. I have and when something is good, I hope I have learned not to mess with perfection.

This yellowed recipe is from the Detroit Free Press from early 1982. I know some of you were not born, but I narrow the decade to the century mark. I don’t know why I seem to have lost this recipe to be found again because even in hard times we have to eat.

5 ½ to 6 c flour , divided
2 pkgs active dry yeast or
(4 ½ tsp measured active dry yeast)
1 Tbsp sugar
2 tsp salt
¼ tsp baking soda
2 c milk
½ c water
Cornmeal

In large bowl combine three cups of flour, yeast, sugar, salt and baking soda; set aside.
Heat milk and water until very warm (120 to 130 degrees). Add to flour mixture gradually, beating constantly. Until batter is smooth. Gradually add enough of the remaining flour to make a stiff batter. It takes most of the flour.

(I sprinkle some flour on the counter and push the batter onto counter. It will be stiff enough to smooth and knead into a ball gently 2 or 3 times. This I love to do because I somehow know the dough knows the feel of my hands and the love flowing through. It is my connection and who I am,)

Prepare two 8 ½ x 4 ½ inch loaf pans greasing lightly and sprinkling with cornmeal if you wish. Divide dough into equal parts for each pan. Sprinkle with more cornmeal. The directions say to cover with damp cloth. I don’t have success doing this because the cloth always sticks. I just put the 2 pans in a warm place until almost double in bulk. For me it is a little over ½ to 1 hour. My warm place is a toaster oven with no heat of course. Or your regular oven with no heat.

You may have a warm place the family pets cannot reach. Let rise an inch above the center of the pan. It has a tendency to fall should you forget and let rise all around the pan. If you do and it does, remove and knead lightly and let rise again. It happened to me and took a little more time, but no calamity. I had dressed the tops in the photo with bagel seasonings.

Bake at 400 degrees for 25 minutes. I have invested in an instant thermometer and wonder why it took me so long. At 195-200 degrees the bread is done. No guessing. Otherwise all my life I tapped the bread like a drum for reason I do not know to this day. To my ears it was a drumbeat. Remove from pans and cool on rack. Makes 2 loaves. Enjoy and in good health.

November 23, 2021

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.
What if it is true. . . just for today. . .

What if it is true. . . . .just for today. . . .

The thought occurred to me what if whatever we think is true. . . just for today? How would it affect me and life around me? How would it affect you being related in thought with me?

What if it were true that thoughts are things and have a weight? That everything crossing our minds is true somewhere, what would their effect be? And what if our thoughts hang in the air, ripe for anyone’s picking?

Supposing, just supposing what we are thinking is considered prayer by the heavens? Would we be embarrassed? Because we approach our Thanksgiving holy days of gratitude, can we try something?

We are a special country on this earth. And many the world over, envy us. We were settled because people fled persecution for many reasons and one of them being they wished to worship in their own way. We are a country composed of the world’s religions and it makes us special because sacred customs are honored.

My mentor, the Nazarene said you give me a drink of water and you give a drink to all. Or what you do for one, all will do for the each. When you do something kind, it is a way of giving your blessing to everyone you meet. It is a gift we all can give simply because we breathe the same air.

Since you are reading this, I assume you learned to read in kindergarten when I did . I read the Dick and Jane stories about families not like mine. I also learned to be kind to the one sitting next to me and not to hurt feelings, to be gentle.

Which was a big lesson to learn because those sitting next to me were different than me and were not allowed to come to my house to play. We all had to learn that different can be a big lesson because in many ways you see me as different than you.

So let us be helpful and do good. Today we will think kindly about each other and give our blessings. We try for happy memories for all and send our thoughts skyward so that whoever finds them will say thank you!

Be it true. . . just for today have our thoughts be prayers and see where they go. We can do it. . . .just for today. I attach my name to mine. You too?

November 20, 2021

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.
He Watch-ed Me. . . he watch-ed me. . . .

This is my birthday gift to my inlaw daughter Claudia and my granddaughter great Emma E. They almost share the same birthdate just one day apart. Emma E. will hear this blue boy story many times and will come to love hearing them. She knows she walks on her toes because she was a dancer before she was a baby to them all. She told her mother this. To the birthday girl and birthday grandmother, my love to you both in a heart hug. I am glad you both chose me to come to. I have loved you both from forever.

Can we make the snowman now, the little one asked.   Almost time, I said, almost time.   Well, he said, when will it be the right time?   And I asked him to think about it.   He was still for a minute and then asked me what I meant.

Well, I said, there is a right time and a not so right time about things.   Can you name some things that have a right time?   He looked at me and with a bright smile that showed gleaming teeth, and said, yes!!!   Well then,   I said, tell me.

And he looked at me and said that it was always a right time to make cookies.   It was a right time to eat ice cream.   And it was a right time to take care of those littler than you.   And it is always a right time to put your toys away when you are ready for bed.

I agreed with all of those and I said that was good thinking. And then I asked for examples of things that don’t have a right time. Can you think of some and tell me what those are?

Welllll. . . . he said, the not so right time is when you ask me to do something and I am not ready because I am not finished with what I am doing.

Intrigued, I asked, what can you possibly be doing that I don’t know about and especially when it is the right time? And he looked at me with wonder, puzzled. . . . . you don’t know?   Nooooo, I said, I don’t.

Well, he said, when I am doing private things and ‘specially when I am telling secrets and those are private things. When I am talking to my friends that you don’t see.

And when do you do that? I asked.   When I play and whisper things to them.   They whisper back but you can’t hear them.   But we have talks and they are my friends.   Who are they?, I asked.   These are good friends from before.   When, before ?, I asked.   Before I came to you, he said.   They are my forever friends, he said.   Forever.

Hold onto them, I said.   Hold tightly to them.   And you be their forever friend.   Tell me next time you talk so that I can wait till you are through.   I know, he said that you have forever friends.   How do you know this?,   I asked.   I see you move your lips and I know you are talking to your forever friends.   I watch-ed you, he said.   I watch-ed you.

And then I hugged this little forever friend who watch-ed me.

November 16, 2021

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 Silly Putty In The Hands Of Children. . . . .

. . . .I got to thinking about this dream that made this world and all in it. I have been thinking about Michael Talbot who figured out that this was a holographic universe and everything in it was a soup kitchen. Soupy and until we looked at it to name it and because we identified it, it turned into matter. So the soupy mess never stayed that way because the minute we looked at it, it became more solid.

And the noises surrounding all this identifying and naming and photographing we couldn’t because we found also that when identified everything soupy had potential. Even if we thought there was no life in it, the bottom line to subatomic particles is that there is no divisive factor. Everything is non divisive, is united or clinging to their almost likeness because there is a desire to bring forth life I think, in The All or Life or what we think Sacred.

What I was trying to say years ago in Connecticut when Hal and Ann(our minister friends) came to dinner was that there is God In A Rock. That even when we dismiss non life we simply do not have eyes to see everything and what we are dismissing as non viable may indeed be submerged and we don’t have those eyes yet to see. Because all that we acknowledge is what we are able to relate to.

As I read the Talbot book what is seen is the top layer of what we look for. And Researcher Bohm by his proclivity says that the deeper secrets still are not evident. We only see what we look for. So we can only discuss the soupy texture of the Universe and what we hope to see is what is composed of this soup.

As we evolve we create the reality we identify as we swim in it and rewrite it. We draw summations of what we experience and view but we cannot project what conclusions can be drawn from the parts.

The good Science does is that it tries to compute how things began but we draw conclusions from what is experienced and what has been glimpsed. The full potential is not yet disclosed. And what we are open to. The potential is in its becoming.

Perhaps as Susan Howatch wrote some philosophers believed that human nature cannot grasp the concept of reality at all.

My dream of our David after his death was as he came down the street while I was moving the water hose on the front lawn. I said David you are alive and well and he said it is a wonder. Heaven makes as many mistakes as he had, David said.

And the reason for the mistakes is that as long as there is growth, no conclusions are drawn because it is incomplete, everything inconclusive and offers potential growth. Is anything ever finalized? Surely beyond my frame of thought. But as long as there is a one who thinks he can make a difference, can we close anything off?

Especially if the ending is not determined to have a final potential. Or is final potential an oxymoron? It can be understood that our desire for manifestation of our mind’s produce gave way to this world’s creation. Was there direction foreseen with boundaries within moral and ethical choices? Was there a sense of sexual morass or proclivity to it all?

We have seen human behaviors manipulated as so much silly putty in the hands of children. And we have seen the reality show onstage and have seen applause inhaled as so much addictive substance.

We couldn’t believe what we were seeing because it was not in our frame of reference. But it blew our minds and we are all wounded. We have not recovered and wonder if we ever will.

photo by Mark Jacobson

November 13, 2021

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.
Observations. . .from my lifetimes. . .

If you do not intend to look back, it’s best to remember to lift the plow.
*****
Wishes are as potent a force as fishes swimming in live water.
*****
Under adverse conditions, we become more of what we are.
*****
To think is a holy obligation. And to be held accountable should follow. We would then be responsible human beings? Imagine that!
*****
The world no longer tolerates the thinker. He has become a recluse in the ribbon of concrete.
*****
The world hails the activist, the doer. The attention and kudos are granted no matter the consequences, constructive or not. And we live in those consequences.
*****
Curbside decisions belong to the white charger. The smooth phrase, the quick retort are only newsworthy. And both fade rapidly in memory to be recalled only by the video screen.
*****
The thoughtful person cannot find a place to be asked a question requiring the time to raise their eyes to the hills and back for a reflective answer.
*****
The visionary has the look of one used to focusing on the horizon. I have time for the visionary. They have substance for the long haul as a participant in the vision. And strangely, human events still take time no matter how we wish otherwise.
*****
The immediate situation may be alleviated with a curbside decision but the progression of humankind may never be affected. There is always that hope.
*****
Where is safe? Safe is only in your head because no place is safe. And I would have to argue your head.
*****
Nothing gets done in this world unless somebody’s back breaks, a somebody’s legs ache and at least a somebody’s mind splinters and a heart rips apart.
*****

photo by
Kathy Rybacki Qualiana

November 6, 2021

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.