From an Upper Floor

Now Another December. . .

It was another December at the end of 1987. I had brought my in law mother back to her residence and she collapsed in bed. She borrowed courage from everyone to get through the holidays in Chicago. We were in a blizzard and I ached to get home. And unpacking I realized I could not leave her in her apartment and the weather worsened and I had noticed cars were not stopping at lights anywhere. I would walk to get her and somehow we would get back here.

We walked the blizzard streets and in great relief she slept upon getting into bed after a hot bath. I wished to stretch out my hand to gain strength but an other already reached for mine. What do people do when there is no one to help? She asked. The best they can Sarah, the best they can I say.

The journal entry continues that December 30, 1987, and I scribed the following, ‘but we sit here and already your mind moves to the grandchild in the crib with not knowing that the son of your heart had already retired for the night in the room. You watched the child in sickness and he watched his mother with her magic chants as they drew from his son the illness causing such heartbreak. You can do it, he was saying, you can do it.

And he was in awe as he watched this atheist profoundly calling on a benign force that would move the sickness from the body of his son. He watched you move those hands in air that was vibrant with the power pouring through you. And he said that this is my mother and this woman I don’t even know.

And he knew that in all that had transpired, in all that he watched, he would take to his writing and pour out what was observed and you think that if not observed, he would have known anyway.

Let the power move through me and make me an instrument of thy peace, he said. Just like her.’

In the morning a wiped out toddler recovered enough to stand and shout his demands to rattle the crib.

I have learned there is an undergirding of our Universes of an ethical premise that supports life and demands of each of us the highest and best we can be. It may be benign but it is a spiritual power we may call God or Allah or Jehovah or Christ or simply Good. It demands that we aspire to our Best. We welcome obstacles before meeting the greatest of our challenges however different for each of us.

I Hear. . .

Look beyond the Light
into the face of the morning sun
to see that the Light beckons and extends. . . .

It would grant you peace
should you let it.
It will grant you life
should you welcome it.

Amen and amen.

December 29, 2022

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.
Let the children tell us. . .

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 Glllooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaa 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. . . .

December 21, 2022

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.
I hold the candle for you. . . .

We are bringing to close another year with what are special gifts. It is the gift of gratitude for life, of a peace not yet finished and a state of mind that is in itself a miracle. These are limited only by focus and not by belief systems. They are adopted in varying degrees by all worlds.

Christmas is a Christian Holyday of great belief. For those of different thought, it is a state of mind as well as a condition and time in the heart and welcomed.

I once wrote that I wondered why as a country we were not loved. And my conclusion was that it was envy. Because people come to our borders together in love even though their roots may be in other countries. And other countries are convinced it will never work. Sometimes it works well and then not but we work harder.

Their children mingle and fall in love and bring children of many colors into our world.

We may not understand nor believe as our neighbors. But we work for their acceptance as we have been accepted. It is a process and a continuing work. We do not let go of this wondrous dream experiment in time called democracy.

And the rest of the world huddles in their winter coats and wonder the stagnation of their breaths.

We are equal to the gift and we will show and live our gratitude in all ways we can.

Because this vehicle I drive for these almost a hundred years has become road weary, I give a rest somewhat and send this card to all of you in this manner.

It is one of my favorites and humbles me in ways that drives me to my knees. We may not be able to share our brothers’ beliefs, but we can hold the candle as he makes his way up. I hold my candle with love.

A blessed holyday in your heart from mine.

December 19, 2022

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.
Life Demands Understanding . . . .

The missing link for me was during the Clarence Thomas hearings when my sister was visiting and we watched till all hours. I was knitting in the corner and what I heard had me shout what did he say? And she said that Joe Biden said that Man cannot put in what God has left out.

That was the missing link for me in my independent study of why no matter the love involved, unless the footwork has been done, growth is hindered.

Whether the idea of God or Good is Religious, ethical or simply Life enhancement for all alive, it will be the best and highest that you give thought. Your difference will be significant. A belief system worth its salt must be adhered and applied daily because the each has a high system of conduct that whatever   you believe gives life to you, has a demand for its understanding that must be adhered to carry you through life. Else you need a support system of at least one to pick up what you cannot.

These past months have brought heartache to many and unrest not to be believed. The Supreme Court’s ruling on Roe v Wade brought many to the frontlines. Memory is still alive for me when decisions were only made with the sayso of husbands. The ability for all to marry whom we wish will be on the line to take away as easily as the 50 years we had as women to make judgments concerning our bodies.

But how to take away memory? What will they do with someone like me? Or the many babies being born with open heads and a foot still in the world from which they come. Dare I write and say that perhaps the gay person has memory of what gender they were apriori?    Or maybe they know for sure that what gender they inhabit now is diverse of what and who they are.

The almost   4 year old told this grandmother when she asked if he had a happy time with cousin Maryann. Not Maryann, but Olivia he said. From where? You know grandma, you know, he tiredly said, in that place where we wait to get born.

And the mother of a daughter almost four told me that her daughter said she walks on her toes because she was a dancer before she came to her as a baby.

There must be thought given to what we teach as life everlasting. Perhaps it means exactly that, forever and forever. When we are rested, we take to the road again, forever and forever. There is no resting on a cloud or guitar playing or walking golden streets. There are vineyards needing plowing and planting though there are wine casks when grapes are ready.

I scribed this on May 3^rd , 2022 when this was written for the last paragraph. . .( all this has to be done with an eye to the progress society has made and also to what has been an incomplete seal in the human body that has resulted in memory being open to the last gender accommodated by the soul in transit.

Who knows for sure veronica, who knows for sure. And who wants to play god? Who would rather be at home with an open head than to take on a body in society where this kind of behavior has met with such derision for so long? And could only be spoken as an abomination in the old testament as it did by the scribers who had not the centuries of questions plaguing yours.)

art by Claudia Hallissey

December 12, 2022

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 last bird sings. . . .

This is a very difficult post for me to write. Since I have been blogging, I have shared many personal thoughts. What has caused me pain is fully factual and I encourage my readers to Google it. I have no credentials after my name but I am entering the last decade of my hundred years saying this has personal feelings. But last week I read an article that made me whiplash. It was the following. . .

Emergency room visits for “suicidal ideation” (or suicidal thoughts) among 5- to 19-year-olds increased 59% from 2016 to 2021, and hospitalizations rose 57% from fall 2019 to the fall of 2020, according to the study published today by the American Academy of Pediatrics.

What made me painfully swivel was the age of five years that children were having thoughts of suicide. 5 years? I have concluded that this has been my hardest life’s journey. But at 5 years I was lying on the grass and moving clouds mentally into positions I needed them.

I have almost three quarters of a century of journal entries. And yes, some of them are blissfully boring which is a merciful moment; never thinking I was different but an easy mark for all those who were inclined to constructively (?) criticize. I was quite old before coming to mind the thought that everyone liked the way I worked but not who I am. Confronting the accuser after being called gullible, I asked if that was the same as trusting. He blanched.

I was born the sixth child (daughter) after 5 sons. Difficult healthwise from the beginning and spending almost 2 years from 10-12 years of age in the Sanatorium because of a spinal infection. (before penicillin)

I loved my brothers and they, me. There were 2 more siblings, brother and sister after me. My brothers watched me carefully. We all carried shares of work because we were so many. We were not inclined to affection so no memory of hugs in my bank.

I thought I was like everyone else, though my sister said I was not lovable. My Coast Card Admiral brother said I was the only one who thought about life’s meaning. My oldest Navy Commander brother said he never gave thought to the things I wrote about. The brother closest in age said he need not explain himself because I knew his thoughts; we were alike. The quiet brother knew my journey and offered space when I needed it. I wept.

I talk long and hard about our jenny genes. I am aware of nieces and nephews and grands who have had hard times and early departures. Yet also the triumphs that depicted enormous courage with passages through rough terrain unspeakable.

But with the article came the knowledge that what I have learned I must speak. Many of us with the jenny genes, meaning having my mother as mother or grandparent, came endurance for some and inability to stay for others. Too many altars to cry against and too many arguments with the heavens.

I came with a foot dragging from my last world and an open head. A tsunami let loose with an ocean crashing in my head at 35 had me shouting close up my head. Almost 60 years ago and I still remember that my only wish was to sleep forever.

It has not been a walk in the park. Regrets? A few. But mostly gratitude for what was learned and what was given to me in the sons of my heart. I don’t know where I could have been given such gifts. Evolution has stagnated and wars continue to be fought for no reason at all. Earth’s knowledge graces many avenues needing clarification.

I have knowledge of things taught in ways not common. Children born now feel they have failed somehow. They have not but they must be embraced because of who they are. They are open headed and open heartwise and they are cause for celebration. But they need adults who have survived physical life not in the secluded arches of churches, monasteries, convents and forests but in the secular world where the gifts and talents that rust and moth do not destroy are practiced. And five year olds should be loved and excited to be born in such a beautiful world and we are grateful that they choose us to be their parents. Because we choose them.

Where spiritual life can be enhanced and a living made in the marketplace. So now we begin.

December 3, 2022

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 twig already bent from a somewhere and . . . when. . .

How To Do It. . . .when I scribe. . . .

You ask. . .

            On focusing, your thoughts, your words. . .
            how do you do it?

I say. . .

I barrel down into my center and listen
            with my inner ear and hear what my heart says.
            It is within me that I have my world.
            This is what and where I am at home.
            And this is not something that can
            be taught. It is how the twig is bent.
            And what world we appear in is where
            we do our work.

You say. . .

            You listen to your heart.
            How does a heart speak?

I say. . .

             there is a murmur within that tells
            you things and it is with the heart
            that one moves. The heart is the
            largest area of emotional and profound
            truth. I can see where the child
            who is maimed right from the beginning
            and embarrassed because of his openness,
            can dismiss this avenue and close it up.

            And the world suffers and evolution
            is held up and we have one who is in trouble.
            It is always the children with me.
            I would protect them. The sophisticates
            I would tongue lash and say grow up.
            Stop using childish tactics to be cute.
            When you have an old face and
            childish mannerisms, you are not cute.


            Cute is for under 5 years old.

November 16, 2022

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.
Will I Require An Alibi?

In The Mirror Is The Answer. . . .

THE TEACHER SPEAKS. . . .It is useless to say that we can be non judgmental when we make judgments of necessity all day long. What we must not judge are the places an Other comes from when we look upon cultural ways.

When we understand the cultures of other people, we then begin to understand ourselves. But we know too, just as the decisions concerning our personal behavior are a matter of conscious choice when we reach the age of discernment, then we know too, to hide behind cultural practices is begging the question.

When we decide how it is we are going to approach the questions of life, we then begin to know where it is we are coming from. If we sidestep ‘just this one time’ we are already setting the basis for future behavior.

Matters of character are personal decisions. They are not based on anything except as we view ourselves. And character is the basis for everyone. And character is formed early, within the safety net of the family. What is let go ‘just this time’ with no comment, is not to be viewed later with the question ‘how did this happen?’ when confronted with the larger implications.

This implies that we are going to grow up, that we are going to mature at some point. What is being said is that the process is never ending, never finished. For along all junctions we will be pressed with character questions. We will be expected to make character decisions. And the final questions will always reside within the individual, ‘what will this say of me?’

In the process we know that we can fool no one. Especially the one whom we look at in the bathroom mirror first thing in the day.

We know, know deep within us that we cannot be a better anything than we can be a person.

Small Bear or Large Cub. . .

We can interchange our adjectives
and the words take on different meanings,
depending on our frame of reference.

We may find that bigotry is the same as
prejudiced preferences and my color
may be other than what you are.

It is quite right for where you are, if that is
all right with you. But I ask will you clean house
and set straight your attitudes

so you can say gay with no malice?

art by Claudia Hallissey

November 7, 2022

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 Awaits . . .with a putting place. . .

October 27, 2022. . .(I posted this essay more than 5 years ago and my thoughts today have only deepened. The wish I hold still is that there would have been someone early on that I could have voiced my thoughts with no fear. In my terminus I fulfil the old maxim that the end of our lives are only more of what we were in the beginning. This does not apply across the board, because our histories differ.

It brings to mind from the Dead Sea Scrolls the Nazarene upbraiding the disciples for asking where they go when they die. You never asked from where you come he angrily shouted.

From when I was a girl, memory has chased me without a putting place in today’s world. It always has been my inner focus and readies me now for an embrace. Love awaits.)

Previous Post. . . .In the many studies on love and goodness, what appears to be evident is that when one is aware of good and when one comes to the time to do good, the choices are few to do other than good. When you become better and better, your options cease.

Heaven goes one better. When approaching sainthood, the options are not there anymore. And even if sainthood is not on our conscious agenda, I clue you that it is somewhere in us. These they refer as those who have made the light a beacon force in their lives. And who in their secret thoughts would deny this, that they would be less than a beacon of light?

When the mind is one with the god mind, only for that which gives life (and who would deny otherwise, no matter the personal consequences?) humanity’s progression is the only path to take.

Here Is Where We Live. . .

There was a time
when thoughts and desires
were simple and
fleshed out a life.
When rain on the windows
promised a day with a good book.

Commitments came with age
and options few.
A book became a luxury
with sleep non existent and
a nap became the respite.

Fewer options were the result
of choices, and commitments
took precedent because
other lives were at stake.

Big lessons to teach and
necessary ones, if the evolution
of humanity was to continue.
A trip to the moon and a jaunt to Mars
will be the children’s dream
but here on Earth is where
we cook the oatmeal

to feed the children’s dreams.

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

October 27, 2022

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.
Freedom’s Work. . .

Freedom Is Not Free. . .

Time nears for elections and we wonder how can our aged bodies contribute to this magnificent country we live in so that our democracy does not die. We plead with the heavens. And thoughts are given to match what can be done. The healing begins and life takes off with wings and we do more than we thought possible.

July 18, 1987 journal entry I scribed. . .

Life does present many problems now that must be confronted philosophically simply because one’s reputation is on the line. You are doing a superb piece of reading enmeshed in the spiritual and moral qualities given by an unbiased person as the times had. You have terms such as conscientious objector, moral judgment, secular world, triumphant and church militant. All these and you cannot stop to sleep without scribing. I must tell them you say. I must tell them.

Who and what must you tell? You do not fool yourself. It has all been said before. And unless you put yourself in the front of the line, you will only impress who comes to your door. If becoming public, you might be noted in posterity. But not without a taint of malice, a taint of mental ill health. She was crazy they will say. Smart, capable, a worker of good things and talented but a bit crazy. Dependable too and a good writer. A little doty, odd. A good poet who walked among the great teachers but strange. She talked to the heavens and thought they answered her.

And others will say, the work is inspired. But NO ONE WILL DARE SAY and question, how inspired, what inspired, Who inspired and from Where? What is this inspiration?

Last night as you heard the man talking about Muriza, the Hungarian shepherd’s poem, you ached with knowledge of where they came from. When I disappear the shepherd said to his sheep, tell them I married the moon, that I went to the place where the apple trees bear pears and fleas wear boots 99 tons each on feet.

It Grows Dark, Love. . . .

You say. . . So much to be said.
To take a hammer to a word and splinter it,
what’s to be gained?

I say. . . Where is the meaning if you don’t?

You say. . . .Let everyone take what is theirs and build on it.
That is the way of the world and
the way illusions are granted a solid state.
And darling woman, it is all right.

I say. . . They say that life is too hard just to be illusions.
The people will say of me that she was off the wall!

You say. . . .There will be those who say
you have a fine imagination.
And others will say you took an impossible life
and created a philosophy to sustain it.
Does not everyone?

I say. . . Not every child is shown tender mercies.
And without them, there is a long sleep when transiting.
Remedial help is needed.

You say. . . . You shored up when fault
was found within your system.
You continue to love, and lady, continue.

And I ask. . . Where will you be?

You say. . . Until the day you can no longer do it,
walk to the fields and lie down and say no more. . .

I will pick you up and we will again
set fire to hearts which do not flicker yet and
create that world where love abounds.
And commitments and priorities take proper place.
Time is limited and it grows dark.

We work, we work and with love, lady, with love. . . .

poem written Jan 28, 2018

October 21, 2022

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.
Galactic Wanderer. . .

It has been awhile since I posted, being unsure of a topic when this world is inundated with so many problems. My last thoughts of the night were of solar trees I had drawn from a dream and I wish to share again.

On November 19, 2019 I read that Bill Gates had unveiled a project aimed at saving our planet. Immediately coming to mind was this drawing entered in my journal in September 9, 1991. I had already posted the gentle fishes I drew from a dream in 2017. Understand my family was uninterested in my journals or my dreams and thought them boring. But I continued and spoke whenever there was an open ear.

Life jars us awake when least expected with events unthought. Moving to California and installing solar panels, I showed the sketches to son John. Ahead of your time, Ma, he said, ahead of your time. There obviously are worlds where other forms of energy are utilized.

I wrote in the journal. . . (What I thought were trees in the vision, shaped like trees were not, were they? They somehow brought energy to run houses without chimneys. I wish I had credentials to back me up, but I probably would not have taken this seriously.)

I could not have envisioned this on my own nor have thought one day to be living here in California where solar panels would offset the high cost of electricity. But I had sketched other worlds where gentle fishes and houses without chimneys were evidenced. I had heard of Rachel Carson and her worries for this planet. I had other immediate concerns needing attention and prioritized.

(the following quotes are scribed from August 12, 1987 concerning the worlds I know. . .) we are using what you do to the fullest extent and you will be remembering more and more of where you have been. . . The worlds you inhabit are worlds most avoid because they are unfamiliar and cause discontent and frighten. You appear where you are needed and the one looking for you appears where you are.

They are not just one world. There are places of beauty that still the heart. Places of poverty that touch the living heart and strum with songs of despair that cannot but help but be heard. There are barren places, lush places and places that speak of the mind.)

And other worlds watch with eagle sight what we do in our handling of issues that have direct effect on their welfare as evidenced by our compassion or lack of. The moment presents a full plate for us and we plead only one world to handle at a time.

But I must inject this. Often we use kindergarten ways to solve problems best suited to gravity dimensions, large, cumbersome and sometimes we think sleek. To broaden and enhance life of many forms in worlds unknown (to us) requires fine minds and characters vetted to degrees still unmeasured. Think on it. Vetted characters unmeasured coupled with undisputed fine minds would be necessary to relate to matched worlds. Who qualifies?

But transition from physical life involves us eventually. For beloveds we utterly hope for what heaven we envision and for ourselves we hope the night is kind.

October 7, 2022

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.