From an Upper Floor

It Is What It Is . . .

It All Connects. . . .

This is kind of a sidebar explanation that I connected in my head from a long ago comment. But first I want to say that an errand had to be run because we are still in the reconstructing of a kitchen needing final finishes. I asked son John who has done the masterful job of pushing out walls and stuffs I could not envision, was there much traffic out there today.

He said quite a bit and I said that stay at home directives were hard on the American mentality. When go to the corner was a first understood punishment and the next, go to your room and stay there. . . was the true lamented of the average soul determined to run. There were exceptions who relished the solitude at a young age. Our two eldest always left the room with a smile when told to go to their room until I say to come out. (I saw those smiles)

But I was driving my visiting sister around one summer holiday and she commented on the unmowed lawns and untidy landscaping compared to our childhood yards we both remembered. People then did not leave their homes much except for the few who had cars. We were fortunate because our father had a Franklin, though at the time laughed at as a box car. But it did have wheels and gas for the weekend and we went to the farms of people we knew and had an ice cream cone on the way home. So I never considered us poor.

But on this drive of neighborhoods, my sister’s comment was, does no one stay home anymore?

And when John said there was a bit of traffic, I made the comment of how hard for the American mentality. Where my life was tied to a public person who became suicidal when forced to stay home and whose idea of the only life worth living was breathing the polluted exhale of the street people, his relief would only be to die. And I would hope so immediately.

We watch the boy child running from window to window wanting to run off and though the chronological age is 70 or 80 years, it still is the boy/girl child that cannot grasp the enormity of the health crises. And they cannot. It is what it is.

We give further thought as to why there is no ability to connect to what is happening. Have you not wondered why? We come back anon.

March 24, 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.
Education wears many booties. . . .

Knowing the comics section as I do, it appears that she’s studying Doonesbury, which thrills my heart! Of course she’s already read Dilbert (on the front page)…

Love, Emma E’s grandfather

I never knew the supreme abilities of the comics to educate. I remember when our two eldest, Tresy and David first took upon themselves to convince me that I should avail myself to the benefits of the education which life could not give me. I listened over the weeks and months I am sure, though I have no journal entry to verify that fact.

But I did listen and with trepidation, no doubt, began to look upon the comics in the morning to fill in what I inevitably lacked according to the two eldest. And I became hooked. It did not take long and my favorite soon became because I could relate with the myriad home crises, For Better and Worse by Lynn Johnston.

I have a couple of the celebrated anniversary books, the first one given to me by the son of Tresy, the fourth Joseph Harrison. I have loved these vestiges of another time and I think I will request the weekend edition of Chicago Tribune as a birthday gift. I miss reading the comics and realize that a diet of hard lessons with no relief in pictures, is a diet with little flavor.

This photo of our Emma E. reading the comics during this time of self quarantine of the family is a lifting of Spirit for me. Her grandfather Tresy takes great pleasure in sending this photo from her parents. Bless them all. It is a heart lifter!

March 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.
When Your I Am Is Recognized. . . life’s dynamics. . . .

When your I Am is recognized. . . life’s dynamics. .

The first time I became aware of being recognized as someone Other than this Veronica was having my brother Mike’s face light up like a Christmas Tree when I came to his house. He was in the process of leaving life and when I appeared in the doorway, I saw his inner light. He lit up like a high wattage surge.

Even my mother, the Jenny, beside his bedside, saw his glow and turned and said your sister came to you. He grinned with obvious relief I later scribed from my Teachers because what he was being taught was what I was involved with.

The next episode was during David’s last hospital stay. I was asked by his father to see a client’s wife who was in the hospital. They were of money so she was in another section. I appeared at the door and she was on her knees in bed facing the door and with open arms welcomed me.

I knew her but her welcome was for a trusted heart friend. You know she shouted, what I say is true. They are babies, all of them! And she continued on. Her husband stepped out of the bathroom panicky, (obviously) and said it is the medicine talking.

I wanted to differ but said nothing. She was on pain medication but this was truth being shouted and she knew this as well as I. All babies she cried who never grew up. She suffered the little children. . a world full. . .

I have written about my mother, the Jenny and mentioned that there was never a heart conversation of belief with her. She did not know anything of me other than what was evident.

She came when the babies were born to help out. I was grateful for that help because I had none at all. She could not understand why I was up after 2 days to take care of things. Even with 8 children and no money, there were old friends who insisted on her 10 days in bed after birthing.

Yet when the first near death experience occurred, she knew immediately my knowledge and started talking. My brother, at the foot of the bed, said over and over, the medicine talks. It is the medicine. I told him not so, it is truth. Being Catholic he wanted prayers and priests. None of that was her need. But teachers were teaching she said and they said. . . .everything I had been learning about.

I will write of my talks because of journals I kept. When I asked of Papa she said he is just waking up. And of David, she flicked her wrist, ahhh she said, you go out too far. Too far . . .David and I were called misfits by my inlawmother, Sarah. Not of this world.

I will introduce some of those conversations and their evidential. And the cost of life’s tuition in this class.

this cannot believe photo still by
John Stanley Hallissey

March 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.
You Have To Reach High . . . .

Mar 10, ’87. . . I scribed. . .

Where discipline is not thought to be self imposed. . .

To know when one demeans one’s own system, is to debase the spirit within. It is all a value system. A value system. And a value system worth its salt will not be maligned in any manner, not even systems beyond what one knows. (consider invisible worlds) The value system of behavior based on high premises will be honored. (you are known) But the source of the system so designed must be investigated and must be researched. You cannot adopt a belief system based on someone else’s work. It must be within the frame of reference of the individual who espouses the system.

June 25, 2019 working on syncing the stenos. . . . (this has brought me to tears. It finally is an answer to David’s question a few days before he left us when he asked, how did you know to do it? To do what? Keep on living when you know what you know, he said. I had 3 good reasons, I said. Tresy, David, and John. But I knew even then, it was not the whole answer.

But here is the part I never realized to be true. Though I took the Nazarene as my Virgil to explain the journey to me because I knew of no one else to do it, I never could adopt all his views. I studied and researched and came up with my arguments and argued my argues. Because for me in my time, his answers were not for me. Some were eternals, verities and with those I found no argument. Others were arguable and I found my own conclusions.

And it is with brief conclusions I find myself. They are to do no harm, to do some good and never, ever to be afraid. They were mine reached in my fifties but only now in full scope and depth. David laughed when he said I took a life of problems and created a philosophy to cover them.

And in one of our conversations he marveled that he watched Plato and Aristotle evolve across the dinner table when he slapped the table and loudly said but I know you never had time for the Great Books! But the philosophy has stood me in good stead. How did I know to do it?

I am wiped. Wiped out. To reach this time to form my trinity of thought has taken a lifetime. To do no harm, to do some good and never, ever to be afraid. The last was the most difficult. Because I had to learn that one cannot live when fear is a daily companion.

I am glad I stayed the route to get to this place that passes previous thought. The tuition for this class was horrendous but no university would touch a class of this nature. The mountains are too many and too high.

(an aside . . .March 8, 2020 . . . and March is a hard month for those who loved David)

March 8, 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.
When you are the ‘only’. . . it takes just one. . .

So Who Cares. . . Nobody I guess. . .

Except you do. . .
All it takes is just one I hear,
to look for the sun to rise each morning. .
to look at the moon at night and wonder,
where home is. . .
to keep the world turning on its axis.

Just one to hear the promise that
the rose will bloom in December
along the fence, in the dead of winter. . .
to have the promise true. . .
and the world to hold its shape.

To have just one
to care enough to rail
and fill the hunger for love
of just one child harbored to the grave
clinging in the aged body, still . .

Brains and body parts halt in growth
except to make another just like themselves.
But who cares? You do.

The Teacher said . . suffer the little children,
tolerate them for he gave unsparingly
of himself to assuage the Unmerciful God
from the first book, though for untold centuries
mankind tried to gain tender mercies.

The greatest hurdle. . the Everest to climb
is the not knowing.

Are you the ‘only’ who cares?
You think you are not so different. . .
like others? And they care too?
Not sure but you
might be the ‘only’ who cares. . .

to feed and nestle the babe
before you turn off the light,
. . . someone needs to stay the night . .

but who else cares . . . enough?

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

February 29, 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.
When Each Day Is A Victory . . . and our hands touch. . . .

Oftentimes we wish for words to say the wonderful phrase, that gives motive or impetus to a frame of mind that catapults our committed to things of highest value. Yet there may be no words to say what needs be said. What is upfront is already between the eyes.

I remember looking in the mirror angrily because it was not the girl I saw yesterday, but my mother. And the mate looks at himself when shaving one morning or swiping his beard and he says to the image in the mirror, I am my father. And with anger, hopefully not the same morning, sitting across from each other you both concur your irritating premises.

On further thought the day yields to brighter things and sitting again at the table there is a comfortable presence. The presence says to us that we have shared a number of years and have come through bruised and slightly jaded but agile still.

With the number of things needing time these days, each day is a victory, however small. I remember the times I prayed to pick up someone’s discarded victory. My need for one even discarded was so great, I would chase a throwaway.

We change into faded sweats and sandals and sit and do what the old folks did when we were young. Now since we are them, the fit of it all when shared says we are good, aren’t we lucky? And our hands touch.

As I Am. . . in faded sweats . . .

Love me as I am
for I can be no other.
It is not that talk is unwanted, but
have not all our allotted words been said?

Time now just for silence, a shared one, for
the years add up and there is no time for Others. . .

It is time for Being. . .

There is a time to accept
all that we have become
through years of arduous labor.

Not time for keeping up nor caring to . .
to someone’s elusive measure.
A time not to apologize for
our faded sweats and sandals.

We dress for the street to be seen
but this time now is private.

And being shared, are we not fortunate?

So much the better to love each other
and find us more than all right.
To say I’m good with no apology

. . . because we are.

February 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.
Ideas. . the power behind the horse. . .

This is from a journal entry shortly after my cardiac arrests. Again I mention since my head works in quantum physics, it is as yesterday. The scribing is as true today because time is our measure, the measure our planet works with. I had been slothful I wrote because I read immersed in family sagas for relief from the physical maintenance work. Also I had word of a heart friend who was hospitalized and being moved to a facility with more state of the art machines and died enroute.

I was weeping on the phone to my younger and he said ma, she had an offer she couldn’t refuse. That doesn’t make me feel any better, John I wept. But he was right.

We think anyone leaving us no matter when, is too soon. Yet the very young have fulfilled destinies we probably cannot understand nor give credence to. And the very old we see clinging to life like Hera to a love lost.

Sunday school for adults may look upon this entry with interest tomorrow. Give it some thought.

I scribed the following. . . Oftentimes people say that a soul is dispensed before its time. But this is not the case. For we work on many levels and because we do, when the purpose of our existence has been served, we then are free to move on. Notice how that term is used. Free to move on. Not tied anymore. Not tied to anyone or anything.

Physical life gives the illusion of permanence and material things, items, give the appearance of being in a finished or unfinished state.

This is to give continuity to physical life. This is the linear measurement which is necessary to prevent a chaotic mind. For it is far easier to deal with permanence in a positive material mode than it is to deal with nuances or illusions or concepts.

Yet ideas , concepts are just as real, just as permanent, if not more so than the so called material or permanent things which indeed decay with rust and rot. But ideas are clear items, they are undying. They may disappear for a time, but reappear when the time may be more precise.

Concepts are pie in the sky many think. Yet concepts are to be grasped, grasped to be used to build a life on. For that is all we have in mind when we come to earth. We have an idea, a concept and proceed to chisel it to make it permanent or concrete. A something to be touched. A something that can be handled. Yet the concept with its energy and power is the permanent thing.

It is the power behind the horse.

excerpt from His Purpose. . .

My God, he said
when first he saw himself in light of day.
Hidden with full knowledge was Creator,
Implementer of dreams
gathering raw data to circumvent
the mind’s illusions.

My god, he said
and picked up the mallet
with his own hands

to chisel his own destiny.

(poem written 1980/81)

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

February 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.
Among the earth’s persons. . racing toward his truth. . .

We were sitting at dinner on the Farm visiting with my beloved burly brothers. I had been the first sister amid 5 brothers born and never doubted their love. They were my introduction to the world of men and they could do everything. And when I first talked with words of meaning, I announced my intent to marry them all and be their slave! I think I was about five years old when I stated my premise.

At that dinner, my brothers were talking about what they did to help, the meaningful work of life. And when they got to the fledgling newly wed they asked what do you do? In a loud voice he proclaimed. . .I pay the bills! And a thoughtful response from my quiet brother. . . that is the easy work. The hard work is within four walls.

And my life of nearing the century mark in a decade taught? That the hardest job in the family is on the premises as parents. That it was with cosmic intention birthing would be the extension of the mother’s heartbeat and the father’s process would be the soothing open hand on the child’s brow in love. This was the paving way to brotherhood among the earth’s persons.

Both would be required and life would be lived with promise and the living made with talents sorted. Where the talents the world used would be the living made and home where children reared with love.

In this new country settled by immigrants, life would try on and keep trying on the many ways to make a living and a life. We still are in process for a more better fit. With working it out, transitional methods are tried and in flux. But we continue with hope to work hard.

The caring, the uniting, the intention of belonging to the greater humanity was what being human was all about. Before going on to other worlds, we must learn to accept and respect the differences in ours.

Life everlasting means that chances are given in many worlds for Beings to work on themselves, to bring forward the good within each. We were told of fields ready for ploughing and farmers needed to feed mind and body.

Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms and this is but one of them.

It Is Said. . .

It is said that the heavens
care not what goes on the world stage.

It is too late to change
the outlines of a world gone mad.
But here. . .

Within four walls are children
eager to eat the bread
of the parent gods
to feed hungry minds.

Those the heavens note,
for within these walls
is the outline for peace
on the next stage.

And here, the nurturer, the feeder,
will be given what is necessary
to begin the new world,
the brotherhood of man,

that could not be dreamed
with the old man’s dreams.

sculpture by Stanley Rybacki

February 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.
You are invited. Come, we eat. . . .

We become what we feed our mind.
*****
Become the person you want to meet coming down the street.
*****
When you form the question, you already know the answer because you form the question.
*****
Hopefully the added years bring thoughtful conclusions. You feed your mind what?
*****
It is not said that understanding behavior makes it easier to live with.
*****
Sometimes the only faith you have is that you can do it whatever needs doing.
*****
Maybe all that requires doing is you; nothing and no one else.
*****
The world is a canvas to our memories.
*****
Imagination is memory and memory to be executed and made manifest requires ‘hands on’ in this world.
*****
Memory becomes knowledge in this world when it is faithfully executed and applied to enhance humanity’s evolution for good. Not to argue the word ‘good’ when we use the word ‘enhance’.
*****
Kindness should automatically accompany action with our second breath without thought.
*****
Self discipline shrinks or expands to the breadth of one’s Conscience.
*****

February 16, 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.
All My Heart Required. . . .thank you . . .

February 13, 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.