From an Upper Floor

Our Coat of Many Colors. . .

July 9, 2020
Thursday 4:40 a.m. (excerpt from journal entry)

And the thought again is to write of my coat of many colors, and should title it our coat of many colors. Since I have memories, of who I portrayed over the centuries, and have written of my dreams, seeing who I was through some of them and have had the emotions of them, but no verification as to when I can only assume a knowledge of them. But my poetry depicts them and memory serves me partially. Perhaps only the humanity of them, but it is enough for me. It answers my why of who am I also. A big answer for me to life is everlasting. Only partially but Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms.

And where those rooms are is conjecture at this point but will be knowledge again. Planets are found all the time having suspected life as we know it. But perhaps many support life as we do not know of it. Jesus said seeing we will not see and hearing we will not hear. We see variations of that all the time on this planet. I wonder all the time did I really hear that? Or did I really see that? Does he listen to the words he is saying? And when you see behavior that mystifies or cannot be understood, did I really see that?

Everyone is at different stages of understanding. It all eventually makes sense where we are in growth and maturity. Technically we can be savvy but emotionally or psychologically immature. Different aspects of who we are. We can speak the words but meaning eludes us. We simply do not know what we say. Jesus said, father forgive them. They simply do not know.

I harbor the woman in the cold, the black woman with a basket on my head, the Arab man who is harvest for the flies, and the Polish woman kneading her bread. My gnarled fingers are the hands knitting with smooth sticks in the tent house circled in the firepit drinking some kind of brew to keep warm. I have to keep my focus right here and right now else I walk into that time frame of who I am. It becomes a problem for those like me.

‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’
                                                                                                the teacher

All Who I Am. . .

I feel the pull of the Polish one bent over her bread board,
pounding, kneading, smoothing the egg dough
into a satiny mound. Raisins, like eyes, half buried
in the fleshy loaf, stare at me, daring me to absorb
her rhythm into my blood.

Her aching restlessness I breathe already.
Her utter frustration to make new whips me to
a working frenzy, a woman possessed. She delivers me
to my bed in agony. With memory splintered, glinting
off the corners of my eyes, I find me. And awake again
to a morning promising me no relief from her visions.

                                             II

My brow furrows, forming ledges to shield my eyes
from a sun that beats unmercifully. Sweat pours to drench
my body and nausea routes its way flooding
an overloaded circuitry.

The wandering tribesman leading the camel favors one foot.
Calluses shoot pain into the moon calf of his leg and I limp.
The tart taste of yogurt in his mouth washes clean
the sand out of mine.

Each step becomes a mile in length and his laborious effort
throbs in my temples. I will be harvest for the flies.
I cannot bear the heat anymore.

                                                    III

The air, sharp as a cut lemon, washes me. The children race in
their overlarge sweaters with roses painted on their
faces smooth as milk legs. Lace fringe curtains entertain
the visitors agape at the starkness, the simplicity,
the square picture. I am at home.

The arctic terrain beats my blood to a froth with exuberance.
My sturdy body matches my earth. My love shields me,
woos me and I am as cherished as a milch cow in a land
of sparse grasses. To each other we are the heavy cream
poured on a dish of skyr .

IV

How far back do I dare reach to uncover all who I am?
Is part of me racing, black skinned and hot, basket overflowing,
precariously balanced on my head and heart beating
outside my skin? My loose breasts clap-clap in pain
against my rib cage as I hurry to make up time spent chatting
with my sisters, fearful of the masculine outrage brewing?

I sit at my desk, surrounded by the present essences of
today’s people, today’s commitments. The air is spicy with
fomenting earth. My brow does not furrow from the heat yet.
Summer’s dog days will arrive too soon.

I ‘ve reached backwards and sideways and tasted portions of lives
both palatable and unpalatable. But altogether rich. Is my
fatigue of genetic empathy, perhaps imagination gone wild
or an accumulation of too many lives lived, too many
sorrows sorrowed, too many dreams dreamed?

                                                            V

The answer will be mine. With my departure I will take
the sum of my days, the loves loved, the dreams unfulfilled
and all who I am and walk again the cosmos.

And because of my love for me I will create another world.
Due to my cumulative sense of loss. . . .

There will be no more loves aborted.

photo by John S. Hallissey
of art by veronica

October 27, 2020

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 Chance To Make Better. . . .

Gratitude. . for lives consciously loved through. . . . . .

She was a friend of the boys and came to share her grief with life; an aspiring legal mind that looked to reason the why of it all. She asked in despair, why did you settle for so little?

Words escaped me because life had given me so much. Yet her question haunted me all these years as I struggled with it. The question, unsatisfied with my answers, kept returning.

Have I lived a substitute life the erstwhile minds labeled, by allowing others to shine? That deserves its own essay with arguments.

How to evaluate others’ perspectives fairly without the ability to see behind their eyes? How to gauge the value of what I would have missed, taken other than the path destined? Big questions that deserve consideration.

I listened and watched for full impact of President Obama’s speech in Pennsylvania. His words impaled my skull. No, he said, we weren’t completely successful, but we made conditions better. I paraphrase because this is what I needed to hear.

And this, in my endtimes is what I struggle with. One would think that after a lifetime of hard trying one would have something, a tangible something to hold in one’s hands. But the prior President’s words were meaningful as he gave hope to the community workers needing guidance.

My teachers say it may not be in our lifetimes that we see the success of what we do completed. What has given me motivation and hope to keep on keeping on have been lives of great dedication to those values of mind. They have been a testimony to the commitment and devotion not only to intangible values but to humanity.

We are a country of immigrants granting second chances. We don’t junk humans. Even in our common singular lives we have many of those chances to better all lives we touch. It is not the road most traveled and it is not easy, but to make better is what should be our intent.

Perhaps teaching our young to persevere with good intent is to benefit the All, which is Life. Success is perhaps like this. . .my inlaw mother calling to me as she drew last breaths and took my hand. She lifted my fingers with a kiss to them. . . . and I knew she was grateful I was in her life.

For over a half century I tried. Easy, of course not with almost a century of rock driven issues for her to peace. The mills of the gods grind slowly. But her next borning in whatever world will be with an eager leap.

When we help to make better. . .Conscious Evolution with thanks to Dr. Jonas Salk. . . with love.

Portrait of Dante
by Wikipedia

October 22, 2020

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.
Scribings. . . .

Scribings. . . .

To stand straight need not be at the expense of another’s fall. It can be because of one’s need to reach higher than one knows.

                                           *****
Facing one’s self in declining years is a task best left to those who point to kudos on their walls. Their sights rest on visible accomplishments.

                                           *****
When one’s commitments are successful, rewards are hung on hearts that supported them. Not chosen to be seen since public autopsy needs bodies not breathing.

                                           *****
God is a word most people stop at because mind balks at its meagre knowledge to proceed.

                                           *****
To not remember is to lock the vault only to have it burglarized and be called to remember without those whose presence would have made the memories bearable, either in joy or sorrow.

                                           *****
To put memories into a vault, tightly lidded, is to crowd emotions into a body with only death as a release.

                                           *****
The ugliest thing is not ugly but incomplete. In its being incomplete, new references are being formed.

                                           *****
The right to truth is mine to uncover; the right to conceal belongs to the Other.

                                           *****
Nothing good is gained when the Other is forced to lie for survival.

                                           *****
Possibly consider denial of obvious facts as suicide prevention.

                                           *****
How great a problem is has already been decided by the forgetting.

                                           *****
To inflict pain one must stay around to heal. Eternally if necessary.

                                           *****

October 21, 2020

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 Cosmic Prayer for Mankind. . . .

Much crowds my head and I would wish to put it out like a grand buffet. But it would bring dyspepsia for the majority and who would turn away. But life is a balanced judgment. We seem to be fed what we need and purposely not what we want. And that is where good judgment is balanced.

This poem came from June ’93 journal and written in November 2013. It was meaningful to me then and meaningful now. It is something we as God Participants can do. As mothers and fathers we can love the children and feed them those things that will provide nourishment for growth in a world we cannot imagine.

The poet, Kahlil Gibran called people Earth Gods. I scribed from the Teachers that we are God Participants. Mother God, Father God, love your children and prepare them for the world when you send them out the front door without your shepherding.

It is the only gift that matters, for you will have given the best of who you both are.

A Cosmic Prayer for Mankind

We would wish for much.
We would wish
for the sublime love
that was preached
from every mountaintop.

We would wish
for a mother’s love
to be there for the infant
and the father’s hand
to caress the brow of every child.

We would wish for peace
within the human psyche
and learning to be brought
to the dinner table
and the breakfast table everytime.
And love to be served
as the main course.

It is much that
we wish for;
much that we yearn for.
But peace is designed
for the human in mind
from birth to the grave.

Bring peace.

October 17, 2020

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.
Make It Count For Real. . . . .

Since I know that no steps are skipped in Evolution, lest we have gaps in behavior even more difficult than what we see, I admit to fatigue as the years encroach. Coming to mind from a time past is our eldest as he waited for his father to drive him to the train back to Chicago. His words still echo in me. ‘You must get very tired waiting for all of us to catch up to you,’ he said. Taken by surprise I murmured something but what? Was I so easy for him to read? To this day my one regret is not being able to convince those I love most.

At the time this poem was written (journal entry, December, 2015) I had finished Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe. Affirmation, verification, understanding all plied their substance as I approached my 85 years. How much of everything is illusion, how much gravity filled draining away, siphoning of matter because of our Earth Hostess? And I, with a foot in another world, lived it every minute with a paper trail.

How much of everything, life itself, is lived in the head? All of it or much and neatly done but tiring if one is not a ‘walk through.’ The only way to make it count is to take it seriously and play it for real. Else the quagmire deepens and stagnation results and we are still on watch.

The Sound Loaf

Evolution or God
(perhaps one and the same)
finely grinds the meal ever so slowly,
while I cannot breathe with the dust in the air.

But there will one day be understanding
with the digestion of the bread. . . .
The wholeness of the grain
so nicely baked till the hollow sound
is heard when tapped
gives credence to the sound loaf.

I can no longer wait for it all to cool.
It has taken far too long for this bread
to be made and yet still to be digested.

The bellies are still
immature for whole grain.
Pablum is the mushed cereal
of sort for feeding infants
too long in the pram.
I suffered the parents to grow up

and now have no time to wait for the children.

October 11, 2020

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’s Biggest High . . .

Life’s Biggest High. . . .

Because of the pandemic, we get to see an aspect of newscasters working from home and giving home tours inadvertently.

When the sober and serious doctor was commenting on the President’s health, the doctor’s grandson played hide and seek behind the awesome doctor with a laugh breaking out all over the place.

And Elizabeth Warren’s dog rounding about her living room . . . I love these very vital live insertions of real life into what appear to be sober realities of existence. Besides, I marvel at such neat freaks who show no clutter or signs of coffee spilled.

I watched as Olivia Troye (resigned) who was the vice president’s aide speak of her experience in this White House, and I noted her wall hanging. (If I paraphrase, forgive me)

Always find time for things that make you glad to be alive.

It made an impression because I have lived my life like that. With three babies coming in 4 years there was no time other than care for them. But I was parent on premises and became proud; my joys were soon wrapped in their accomplishments.

Heady stuffs teaching when classrooms are the fields, libraries, books, and hands on. As a girl I learned to knit and sew and manipulate my environment on the farm because we were a large family needing sustenance and no money for frolicking.

Marriage found a fledgling family with professional standing but poverty status. My upbringing allowed me to recycle and make do as we all learned during WWII.

Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without. . . . .

I learned well; money did not go out for services. Nor was there money for entertainment, or for what was taken as truth to spend freely. . . because you’re worth it. . . Aren’t we all? Of course, of course. And some feel so impoverished, every cent goes for their shoring up.

So the wall hanging took my attention and reminded me without anyone saying this was to be held tightly. To find that learning, loves, learning something every day, was going to be the biggest high of my life even in my terminus.

My mother in law said to me in her endtimes that ‘you do so many things so well that most of us would like to do just one’ . . . she also wished I’d been her teacher.

Even now when I perfect something even commendable, I shine with pride. Spastic hands, no hand and eye coordination, wobbly on foot, but would you like a piece of my addictive taffy?

I only learned to make it in these last two months. But I learned. . . . . . . . and it’s a keeper.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

October 4, 2020

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.
Running Late. . . .

(Of late my head has too many ideas wanting a voice, even when I sit and want to write a simple catch up note. The Muses, or my Spirit Within or God About seize the moment and wish it learned. . .so Jane, here is the letter I meant to send. . . )

Jane, how can I at 89 be running late for anything? But I have just finished dinner for son John and I or is it John and me?

First off I made a good meal. We had a hot bird in the fridge so I pieced small cubes of the chicken and sautéed them in butter. Cooked some rice and made a tossed salad. Simple? It is when you put the rice in a bowl and your salad over the rice and spoon the chicken pieces over all. Then put your dressing of choice over all. We like Italian dressing since it only needs a simple dressing.

I learned late how to use and when to use leftovers. The dinner today is simple but all the ingredients were fresh. And when you cook simple you need fresh. Old leftovers require a crockpot or pressure cooker to make yesterday taste like new thought.

You would see the sense in that. Son John found unbelievable cherry tomatoes . They are about 1 inch size, like an iron alle. Growing up with brothers, I knew iron allies. You bite into the tomatoes and get a surprise. Crisp and juicy and tomatoee. I almost ate the whole package.

I also wash and dry Romaine lettuce and put into towel lined plastic container in fridge. Crisping clean it tears into pieces and our Newfie breathes heavy hoping for his pieces.

You guess I make even lettuce a spiritual exercise? My eldest says I make vacuuming one. But it is the difference between just eating with no memory of either the meal or the people or making it a nurturing event for the cook and all.

You know my thoughts on putting heart into your work. I have seen where it makes a difference to the ones sitting to a meal prepared with love and respect for food and the farmers who have dedicated lives producing it. All deserve those thoughts in mind. It shows even in the way we serve food.

We can fill plates with indifference; no thought and it makes me sad to say this, disdain or carelessness, because such feelings would make the sensitive ill. There would be some who say I read too much into this and make drama. . . but I would have to excuse myself because to be sick at the table is too much evidence.

I will talk one day of our best gourmet dinner of beans and frankfurters and why it was and give the necessary evidential. Simple? You bet. Good? Extraordinary. I will take it to the next address in my memory bank. But I will leave you the shortbread recipe. . . .

photo by John Holmes

September 28, 2020

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 Must Learn From Our Past. . . . .

It was 1974 that I awakened early and wrote what I remembered. The past is still happening, the future has already happened and here in the present, we race to catch up with it. . . . . forgetting the years of my walking around the neighborhood when presented with concepts too hard to absorb.

I had no one to lean on nor to talk about this. It was a solitary journey. Yet I read recently (years ago?) that Albert Einstein said unless time is understood, there would be no understanding of the ‘who I am’ in us.

(Feb 1, 2018—I scribed . . We deal with linear measurement. It has stabilized the environment and made teaching easier. Children now being born are versed to the enth degree in other worlds where they are familiar, here have difficulty with this Earth’s time element.

So now we insert the thought that all this has a connection. It is of utmost importance that the simultaneous worlds, of time and events are still happening is essential to growth.

We have here the ability which you display to live almost to a hundred with the idea which has sustained you through the years. You know that simultaneous is what you do as you cross boundaries in worlds that have no name. You take events and artifacts from one culture and take them with you and display them with the artifacts of the world you are in.

Where do ideas come from? You already have the makings of technology that other worlds already are using. They are brought through dreams, through meditation, through conference with other entities, beings which are in silence sometimes but vividly portraying the ideas through icons. The emphasis is always on progress with integrity. You get that. You see that.

What is being displayed now is reckless abandon of institutions which need to be respected. It has taken mankind a long and arduous time of it to come to this place where there is respect for law and enforcement of ideas which are good for the majority.

What we are seeing is the abandonment of courage which was hard won and now trampled on by spinelessness which is an embarrassment that must be contended. The panic and fright of grown people is not to be tolerated by the stubborn greediness and lack of respect which surfaces.

In the concept of simultaneous time we have a religious leader who tried to teach the concept of many worlds. When the man Jesus went to the mountain and spent time with the invisibles he was able to bring to man, then in the primary state, the concept of my father’s house has many rooms.

It would have been impossible to bring the idea of worlds such as the earth planet into thinking when man thought the horizon meant the end of the world he knew. The idea then of a universe full of whirling planets was impossible to conceive. What you have is the simple concept of a large house with rooms and you have gone into that many times.

When Jesus said to give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s, he already knew that man had created a better and bigger version of himself. This is what the Grandfather God has evolved to.

It was impossible at the time of the Master and impossible now for some to think of the undergirding principle of the universes as the sacred as well as spiritual underpinning of all creation. That a sparrow is noted as well as the human is difficult but somehow spanning the abyss man does by the magnificence of the god he has created.

You go into this all the time with the ones who feel that the hand of God is on them but he was deaf and is deaf to the millions who scream in pain from hunger and mutilation. How to bridge the gap?

Take it one thing at a time. You place and rightly the spirit or sacred within man. How he is to claim his spirituality and become the divine soul in his right is what your work indicates. How to do it? You do it. Just do it. Inch by wretched quarter inch and we make progress.

The past is still happening. The future has already happened. And here in the present we race to catch up with it. This is the first concept that must be integrated. All that is necessary is for man to relate to his history.

See where man has been and where he is today and what he has not, not is emphasized, learned. Because if the lesson is not learned, we redo the lesson. Except the circumstances are not going to be as conducive as they were previously and may be more difficult for the student.

The past is still happening; the icons are being smashed, symbolizing centuries of man’s desire to translate the divine into the material. Take the thought, take the thought and emphasize it.

Not only does man smash the icons but also the humans who built them.

September 26, 2020

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 Important Words . . . .in all languages. . . .

My head is still spinning with things surfacing as if I am on memory enhancers. My take on this day is my word, my bond, my trust, my love and my honor by my teacher.

It seems the meaning of those words have been lost in the jargon of our days and everything means whatever you wish. Except for truthsayers. We learned the meanings in kindergarten and we do not forget.

And neither do you when you look in the mirror straight into your eyes. And do not flinch.

Sadly we all know now there are souls among us who do not, because they cannot know even the meaning, let alone their strict employment within one’s life.

When I was working on this wall hanging (I had just learned to print on fabric) my grandson Josh was watching and asked if he could have it. That didn’t surprise me because he knew the weight of words and knew meanings. I was deeply touched.

I have seen him go out in the middle of the dawn’s breaking when one of his frightened peers sat in their locked vehicle and did not know why it stopped nor how to restart it.

He has driven incoherent peers from too much happy time and not allowed them to drive home. I only knew the gender of those peers by shoes dropped in the hall.

And he only in his twenties but knowledgeable about vehicles and construction and computers so he was called upon often. I was proud of his talents but more so the size of his heart.

We talked with no need for explanation when he lived at home. I remember asking him if his friends knew what they asked of him when they called for rescue.

They have no idea Gram, no clue. But they knew he would answer their plea. He sized up their predicament instantly. The Jenny genes? Not easy to live with this DNA. You are worked to death for free.

Look at the words, trust, bond, love, honor. Applied to everything and life is mortgaged because we want to make a difference in life. A new way to care for life because of love and respect for it and humanity.

We may never know what theory brought this world into focus, if it was a something or someone, or many somethings and someones when growth required expression and we needed more space for greater life.

We were told and it was written in the big book no one reads but sits on many coffee tables. We are encouraged to look at the slim reads called the new testament or lovingly, gospels.

You do not know, do you, when you entertain angels unaware? Demanding? Mortgaged for eternity it seems.

You think you go fishing? What will you do when you find you have been caught? And the Big Fish has you, hook, line and sinker?

September 22, 2020

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.
Closely. . .on the altar of our hearts. . . . .

This has been a difficult week for me. Health issues put me in the hospital for 3 days and I am grateful for this time to sort out the rest of my days.

I wish to share with my readers some thoughts again that have been voiced on my blog.

When you know, actually know something and do what you prefer instead of what you know is the right and correct thing to do, and do not do it, there will be accountability and the shoulders to carry the consequences will be yours.

For those who thought they could outsmart the growing ethical undergirding which has been written, talked about and because there was nothing or no one to show or leave a blueprint to follow to lay on the consequential offshoots of decadent behavior, well loves, all the games have been played out.

The nice words have been said, egos have been stroked, and charismatic antics have been viewed to see what has been taken as right when trusted talents have been parlayed to feed decadent behavior with the cries of you don’t know how heavy and hard the burdens are!. . . . and that from the privileged. . . .

Changes are afoot. Meaning the God Aloft that most worship is down among us common folk and listening hard through the real cries of those busting butts with work around the clock to feed the babies we were told to make because all souls would be cared for.

But who would feed these babes was not in the package. Just making them and giving the fruits of the labors to those who would profit from the taxes into the pockets of those promising care.

Changes are afoot. The once God Aloft moves among us to give power within the souls of us who find our hard work of these blessed hands has given power away for a nefarious keeping which we are capable of doing ourselves.

And improving the lot of our children so they can dream this important dream of becoming their own desired potential and worshiping the Divine Within for life and breath and the chance to do so.

Their God Within has potential also as mankind has potential to become.

And the sparklers are built within the ethical system undergirding this remarkable Universe destined for the each of us when it is earned.

We don’t know what yet but our work habits and love for our world has shown that we will treat our world as best as those who have walked before us and have given dedicated lifetimes of care because they thought life of worth and sacred trust.

Life has always been the greatest Gift Given. Some have disregarded it as a nothing. . . no thing. There are those of us who have known and continue to work our lives as sacred trusts.

We hold our children on the altar of our hearts closely because we desire for them what we know and cherish.

Today finds us celebrating the life of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I am glad she had the support of a mate and birth family who saw her talents. And she knew their love. Her obstacles to a fruitful tenure only were used by her to motivate and energize her unforgettable accomplishments. She will continue to be used to enhance life in all its forms.

We all hope in some small way our lives will enhance the greater life in its forms whatever its forms are.

The masked, silent gathering of people in front of the Supreme Court is a testament to the courage and POWER, of souls in human skin to show the confounding and unknown yet power of people to change the course of history through thought.

When that thought is pulled through our hearts to show we have given our best in what life has demanded of us and we have done it because of our innate knowledge of the good undergirding the universe and our behavior has been of the highest ethics we know, the power of our congregation will change the course of human history.

The silent gathering, masked to protect others because of caring for human life, carries divine power and our one thought should be. . . .

Life is a sacred trust. I write to protect it in the only way I can with words holding a blessing. And a Promise. . . .

September 19, 2020

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.