From an Upper Floor

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.
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.