From an Upper Floor

Sufficient Reason. . .

One of my favorite authors has been Susan Howatch. When she left the United States, she returned to England with her daughter. She also was accepted at Oxford to study philosophy. She learned from the old philosophers that the human mind as structured was unable to understand nor grasp the concept of Reality as taught. I cannot recall reading anywhere the reasons for this. Perhaps the obvious lack in evolution was sufficient reason.

The Peter Pan mentality in aging adults is abhorred by the young. Many young adults consider this behavior embarrassing and lacking maturity. Susan’s work led her into a series on the church in England. There was controversy in how the work came about. There is always controversy when new work appears and the gathering of it differs.

To those who study human nature find there is little evidenced as new work or what I consider belly whoppers. There is much previous students have written, but little that says ‘ o wow, o whoa, ‘ just a minute here guy, I need time with this before it makes sense or it tells me why you think this? I must of need go into the closet of mind to think about this further.’

It is necessary for me to understand the impact on the human mind for growth. For humankind to change direction and literally kick start civilization into progress for universal grandeur to embrace life forms no matter how different, is necessary for the greater good. This view to me is broadening the narrow visage we in fear hold. Scared to death we are, just scared to death.

So what was learned in the books of Susan? How about what the old philosophers thought and what controversies ensued from it all? How it affected the congregations of men and women and youngers and seniors? And morality giving an okay to bedroom privileges when the priests questioned the existence of a god or many gods?

About abortions and when does life begin and who determines life’s viability? Who takes responsibility for a human growing beneath the heart of the woman carrying this human baby? And if life is sacred and to uphold, can I expect your belief also to care for this baby when it is born? Not only physical care, but ongoing moneys to help out? To educate and sustain ? There was also a sidebar to consider that I voice.

Thoughts are things the very old and current philosophers say and that go into the atmosphere and hang there and people with more talents can go along and grab them out of the air and know what human is attached to the thoughts and when confronted do they say my privacy is invaded? And my dears, we only begin. Susan Howatch is my age and a very good writer with many talents. I am grateful she has walked in my world. I am richer because of her.

And because I hover close to a century, all the above controversies are still being argued but are we close to solving them? Seems not. But I bless. I don’t know what else to do. Amen and amen.

photo by Lori Hallissey

September 27, 2024

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.
Listen Ophelia. . . . .

Oftentimes we feel abandoned. Especially when we are in pain and have done everything we’ve been told and those things we invent. Otherwise we would be sitting at the feet of the Great Healer. But here we are in wonder at what we do wrong when we do what we were told from the beginning to pray and the great God listens.

Familiar we are with life’s arguments and come up with our own.

When we know enough to frame the question to ask it, the answer is ready to be revealed if we are ready for the work. Listen, Ophelia was given space to be viewed as given to me.
Take time to listen.

Listen, Ophelia ..

Ophelia, I will say,
do you think I am dead?
I sit on the very breath
you breathe.

I will waft an orange fragrance
o’er your head,
and you will see me take form.
I will crash the air with cymballs
and you will see me enter.

A cat cries in the night
and you will hear the infant.
The moon will send its shaft of light
through the north window
and you will be plagued
with memories
you will scarce remember.

You will warm yourself with the sun
from the south window
and it will nudge a time and place
on the edge of those same memories
and you will know and still not know.

I have taken you to my bosom,
held you and pushed you away
and at once tightened my hold
so you will never be free.

You think I am dead?
I ask you Ophelia,. . .

Who indeed, is dead?

art by Claudia Hallissey

You will warm yourself with the sun
from the south window
and it will nudge a time and place
on the edge of those same memories
and you will know
and still not know.

I have taken you to my bosom,
held you and pushed you away,
and at once tightened my hold
so you will never be free.

You think I am dead?
I ask you Ophelia. . .

Who indeed, is dead?

September 7, 2024

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 You Need To See A Skyline. . . .

August 23, 2024. . .

As an introduction for those new to my writing, you need to know that for me all time is simultaneous, it is all happening now. It need not be your understanding, just an acknowledgment that it is this way for me. It makes for easier understanding when your thoughts are linear as your actions.

I wrote in September ’87 journal that . . .

( I glanced at Ernie and Frank’s (I think) cartoon on my desk. Descartes says, I think therefore I am. And the gent disappears after being told this and the logical thought is, if I don’t think, I am not. And like tea, I steep, how can one live without thought?

I recall once a brief silence in my head like an empty wine cask. Do people live like this was my question. What do they fill the silences with and I don’t think I want to know.

Coming to mind immediately when writing this was the reason the kitchen fan was not working. ) ( My head works like this. Because when the new addition was insulated, they inadvertently covered the vent.) And when I read this I thought of my of my sister’s complaint that it takes a whole page for me to say walk to the corner. (4 words)

I say but what I wish to share is what I see when I walk to the corner. You understand I thought everyone was like me or I was like everyone else. When my world crashed, Dr. Cassidy, my first psychiatrist, was so wise to ask me what I saw when I walked down Michigan avenue. And when I closed my eyes and told him, he whistled through his teeth and said you understand that others do not see this. And when I said nothing, in dismay he said, my God, you don’t.

How you see is how you talk. And when you listen you will hear what you need to hear and how to respond. Some will hear the antiquated language and some the vernacular of the times. And the wise will take to heart and remember why you chose to come to this time and to make a difference.

Coming to mind will be memories entwined which will take courage to unwind.

If We Sing To The Children . . .

I wear these memories
as a cloak to ward off the chill.
Emotions forgotten, but like new now
ripping along my arms,
settling bumps in straight rows
to my heart.

Kindred hearts, matching
my own heartbeat,
with eyes like mine and
reflecting our souls.
Music in voices saying,
‘and when I look at weeds beside the road. . . .
but you know, you know. . . .’
And I do, I do and we look with eyes
that see and ears that hear the song
of the bird before his sounds
have escaped his throat. . . .
and the music rumbles in our blood,
coursing through our hearts
and gives life only
to those who are ready to listen.

Not many to be sure, not many,
but if we sing to the children
perhaps, just perhaps,
the earth’s cacophony
will one day be in harmony.

It is our heritage;
from where it is we come.
From the farm country I was given
a substance that does not spoil,
that does not turn sour
even in the residue of life.
It is not dregs that I drink.
It is the cream rising to the top of the milk.

I needed to see a skyline
with no obstruction and with no words
in the space of a candle. . .

you laid your hearts on me.

August 23, 2024

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.
We do it now because we know . . .

To change history. . .a new path. . .

I had been at sixes and sevens (so to speak). I should explain that the idiom means things being in great doubt with me.

The idiom is centuries old coming from (more nearly surmised) the English. Since I married into an Anglo Saxon Protestant family, I was introduced to what were strange customs for me. And this idiom was one of puzzling language.

Since being just twenty, eager to please, I learned quickly, both joyfully and askance sometimes.

Leading me to conclude at almost a decade less than a century, that for peace to ensue among men of diversity, those things which unify us as a species should be taught in all schools along with the differences in cultures.

It seems the differences in worlds (and words) and we are just one of many, are prime fodder for simmering anguish.

How we are united in so many ways fade in many minds while the differences sadly become up front. And the differences wielded so well are the fears quietly smoldering unknown even to the holder but when given voice turn to rage.

Tyrants live in various houses and use their tools so wisely they leave Heaven aghast as to the hurt that is done. Tyrants need not use hostility. They need not use weapons which destroy anything but self esteem.

And many are they who use their own neglected self esteem to drain the other of pity and sympathy and strength. And because the tyrants feel not appreciated, they say in so many words, I am number one and let no one in this house forget it! And tyrants proceed to devastate laws and their abiding citizens with their countries and constitutions.

And because so many think their futures depend on the largess of the tyrants, in fear they remain silent. Until the time the disparaged ego rises and takes a stand. It is written. . . .

At all times you can change your destiny. You can continue to love in the face of rejection. You can continue to have faith in the face of no faith. You can continue to build a life in the face of no life. And because you know this and continue to do it, you will be creating a new path and a new method which will in the course of history, change it.

Your acts upon your days have already sent the future into a direction which will reveal itself. They will know who we are by the unfolding days. We will stand proud.

(When ours are the only shoulders upright to carry the commitments about to be curbed, for those like us options close. Who is left with the children no matter their size? Some too large to sit on your lap, but not too large to sit on your heart.)

August 16, 2024

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.
Immigrant. . . .

Although it was my best of intentions I don’t know why it was not obvious to those who claimed they knew me. But what they saw was some kind of favoritism but never the cost or the contract involved. That it could not be believed was understandable. But the next question should have been, why not them? But already the comfort of being a child taken care of was too cherished to give up. And lax in work habits they would appear but bluntly just lazy. The work involved was too much and the profit of it all, non existent. Why go there?

Only for punishment to be sure. That sainthood was desirable an achievement? Not for them because to be a child and not critiqued but only with a pat on the head and told to go forth and sin no more was what was easy. And were we not told that heaven was for children? Childlike? Maybe a different word but same meaning?    Sweetheart, heavy difference.

This classroom of the universe is vulnerable with high chance to go down the tube again. Inconsequential behavior leaves no hiding place. Where can we go and not be found? The following poem is from a new work called Terminus.

     Immigrant. . . .

         I watched as you worked
         a mind through endless turmoil,
         sifting and sorting truth and fantasy
         and arriving. . .

        You opened eyes and unblinkingly stated,
        ‘you have always known, haven’t you?
        How did you do it?

        I knew I could not take even
        a moment of self revelation away,
        answered, ‘in my way. I loved and
        raised babies and painted
        roses on their cheeks and
        planted evergreens in their hearts.’
        And in a way I had not known,
        closed a part of memory so I could do it
        all for real, so I would use the same rules
       you did and everyone else.

        But you did not play by the rules.
       They were changed so quickly for you
       that you could not switch tracks.

        So now I write why.
        I compose odes and melodies
        and tie my feelings in knots
        and look for entry into a world
        I know by heart.

        It is one I never left, even to come here.
        I carried it around like a money belt
        all the days of my life.
       And I know now that when I go

       it will be to the old country.

July 18,’87   all time is simultaneous

photo by john holmes

July 28, 2024

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.
Making A Money Cannot Touch Difference . . . .

We have been overwhelmed with the breaking news of national and international consequence. I leave those voices to reweave the news and now give thought to what we share in common when even sleep does not rescue us. Our efforts to make a difference seem embarrassing when the world needs a step -in by a Great God. But we know that life improves only when our behavior does.

Before throwing in the towel, let me post this journal entry scribed from July 17th, ’94 on making a difference. I had gone twice into cardiac arrest in May ’93 and my cardiologist tiredly pounded life back into me. As the last one of 8 siblings still here, I still wonder the why of me. We wonder if we make a difference? Let me give you this.

July 17,’94— On making a difference . . . .

You wonder if you make a difference. You do those things that escape the notice of people. But without the choice of kindness, of good, of decency, of courtesy, the world truly could not go on.

The smallest act of mercy has large repercussions. Remember that. When the smallest act of kindness is received it is passed on without thinking because the act gains a life of its own and struggles for expression. It gathers momentum as it moves through the person’s hands, their life and those about them.

It is these acts of kindness, of good, of love that keeps the earth’s purpose in mind. And the earth continues to vibrate its song and sings it for the ears that are destined to hear. One person can delay it but no person can stop it completely. Delayed only but never destroyed.

The many acts of kindness and goodness you dispensed took their proper route and touched many lives giving to each a measure of estimation they could not reach alone.

(we are the example and the cherished purpose. . . and I think that the smallest acts have no money value . . .because they are priceless and money cannot touch. . .)

family photo. . .

July 22, 2024

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 Word Is God. . . .

I was born dragging a foot still in my last world. When asked for volunteers, my hand went up. Not a walk in the park has it been. And with the events of this past Saturday, all the words have been said by the important voices. I have reached as high as I could and still be anchored to my commitments. Today I gave thought to a post as a lover of words and the sacred journey each word carries with our intent. I embrace the words, hopefully to your embrace.

THE WORD IS GOD . . .

In the beginning was the word
destined to touch the mind of man.
But the prevailing Spirit in its wisdom saw fit
to encumber each with the power to discern.

Meanings floated into space,
shaping themselves to fit the receiving mind.
Reaching their destination,
their shape changed to fit the owner.

Such turbulence! Such uneasiness!
Albeit because the word had taken life and risen
to meet the heart’s need.
The speaker’s heart had taken its intent
and placed upon the Ethers the heart’s desire.
It gathered cadence as it rode
to meet the receiver’s prejudice.

The sender’s intent lay silent, lost.
The heavens only acknowledged
its primordial meaning.
Can it be said in truth
that the word be god?
It is.
For within its power to create
it moves with desperation to voice feelings,
to give breath to visions and to heal.

The word created creatures and dynasties,
wars and rebellions, held peace in abeyance
and brought us to life.

So speak sofly when speaking.
Words carry the weight of the heart
with intent to topple empires
and worlds and men.
In the catalytic movement
of the word, the world’s heart beats,
years are gifted
and man’s future secured.

It is all we have.

July 14, 2024

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.
To Remember Is Our Liberation. . .

I remember once or many times saying that I wish to pick up a book and understand what they were saying. I wanted wisdom. I wanted to understand. I wanted there to be a difference about me that others could see and say she is different. I am different. Our words are the same but meanings others cannot relate to.. . .

I wanted to shake the world and say, look what is going on. I want to say look at the heart of the other. And if you look at the heart of the other you will see nothing else. But before you do, you must look at your self.

We were told the unexamined life is not worth living. If you can unabashedly, without an alibi and with courage of a supreme sort, look at your self and in a frame of reference you choose see what and who you are and act accordingly, you are on the right path It is as simple and as difficult as that.

The camouflage systems we construct are intricate. An architect would be proud and no doubt win kudos for. And we are architects and creators both and we deny this all the time. We choose to think we are thrust into a dervish of some sort, at odds with our environment and at the mercy of an unmerciful god. To think that we ourselves create and manipulate for advantages we are ill equipped to articulate, is an anathema. But we do this all the time. We deny what we choose. And we choose to forget what we choose to forget. Our protection is uppermost in our lives.

To remember would put a burden on our lives. To remember would demand an involvement that would be uncomfortable to say the least. We bask in the shaded twilight of our shadows, never ever knowing that to step into the light would reveal ourselves to us who we are. It would be our own liberation revealing who we are. We are afraid to know because at once we would know who we are and who our brother is.

He is Me.

July 11, 2024

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.
An Affair Of The Heart. . .

An Affair Of The Heart. . .

If you are a front line worker, a miracle worker appearing first to cries of crises, and you are driving home at the end of the day, you begin to talk in the silence of your car. You vent and cry with fatigue, with sadness, with curses and finally end your discourse as you turn down the street where you stay either with others or by your Self somewhere.

But here you are walking home in the rain and loudly talking. You cry and the words are not elegant nor precise, just a wrench from a heart pressed for various reasons. None of which speak to the fairness of anything. No one notices your tears because in the rain everyone you pass seems to be crying.

But to whom are we talking? I sit here and have held conversations in mind that were company for who I am. And for only slightly more than 13 years have seen my words of mind printed by determination on the monitors. When did I become conscious of the arguments of an Other and the comfort of a companion mind in conference?

It is what I call the greatest love affair ever we engage in.

For when we reach the highest and best that we know, that bar set for the highest mountain we can climb mentally still in our human skin, when we succumb to the intensity that has us roaring and venting, cursing and in great fatigue exposing our hearts in bas relief, that we are answered in like intensity by the Divine Within.

No respecter of social classes, but great respecter of our approach to work and our work ethics, of belief that the Each is of supreme value regardless what is held to be the currency value of the day. The intensity of purpose will reveal the Who of who we are and we are assured to be more than the disheveled one we appear.

It is then we have knowledge born to be ours. That we are companioned and never abandoned though this was lost to us. The night embraces us but in the morning we take our posts to be accountable. We never have the language to describe this affair of heart which only is alive in mind.

But we know now it is another pearl of great price.

Concordance. . .true harmony. . .

The heart reaches out
in mute acceptance to that which is given.

It answers only that which
it perceives at its Source.

Its depth is mirrored by the very essence
of the soul’s reflections.

It wanders not among possibilities
but perceives also

the very essence of the mind’s abstractions. . . .

art by Claudia Hallissey

July 4, 2024

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 Invisible Challenge . . . .

The Invisible Challenge . . .

           I post today a subject close to my heart and mind that boundaries in thought subject our young people in ways detrimental to their growth and honesty. It comforts the adults to be sure but the relationship goes nowhere.

         With Sunday’s go to church approaching, we are in a place where we can remedy our focus in the ‘twig is bent’ and add direction forward but being already bent, means we come with a history and if not completely sealed, we have memory. We should be asking memory from where.

         The where being life everlasting, world without end. Not given to understanding or curiosity, why work so hard?   Since we consider the mind a gift, we appreciate also the responsibility. Leaders in religion too often teach by rote with no hope of revelation. As a recent pope opined as to his lack of accomplishments, caught as he entered his vehicle, he said ‘Jesus sleeps.’

         When we limit by our lack of study, we limit by fear what the young could offer in lieu of being mental. How to know they were happier being Other? Memory?

          If everlasting life and world without end were understood and not illusion, memory would then be authentic for knowing when Other they were happier. And who goes noted in this day as dealing with the invisible world? Except yours truly arriving with a foot still in her last world.

         It is not fun and games. Isolation is more the status. If invisible life were acknowledged, and there is more than sufficient knowledge, it would be easier to say I remember being happier ‘Other’, keeping our young authentic.

         With proper counseling and time doing its healing, the conclusion reached would be less traumatic. Susan Howatch, in returning to Oxford, wrote in a work, that some philosophers believe that human nature cannot grasp the concept of reality at all. There are some people whose brains have matured with areas open to the invisible challenge.

        It is not an easy journey at best. But the young are closer to being born than those of us chasing the century at closing. They should not carry what we chose not to work through.

       More’s the pity.

June 8, 2024

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.