From an Upper Floor

Time To Love One Another. . .

Since the beginning of December, we have been on a fast track. Upcoming was a family vacation away for the son and in law daughter I live with and their family and me on the premises here in California having my elder son and in law daughter visiting, keeping watch. They worked things out pretty neatly. I am fortunate.

And the visiting watch keepers went home to Chicago and the vacationers returned for Grandson Josh and son John to tear out the kitchen to be remodeled. Except it included building out a wall to the house and tearing down inside walls and ravaging.

I complicated matters by coming down with my yearly bronchial cough making me sound the ever coalminer. I sought refuge in my room because truly the cough took whatever energy I had to care whether school kept. I did not care one iota.

We are nearing departure for Josh with the end results of remodeling to be finished by son John. I could not conceptualize the ending result because it was so outside my frame of reference. I am more comfortable with worlds at large and their space in mind. More comfortable also with yarn and fabric in a wall quilt and Scandia hat. How I supervised the addition of rooms to a previous house we lived in I do not know.

It proves to me that if one by intention shows up for work, heaven takes that as a good to go sign and shows how. Workers have always been scarce. Just remember the vineyards that lay waiting even with the promise of all the wine on the vine!

Now that the holidays are over and everyone can relax or recover their normality, or perhaps the time this year for your family was good, we simply begin again. I take you back to a time before the devices starting eating up our time together.

Maybe we could try to bring back some of it by looking at each other whom we know and love and caring less about the likes of those we don’t even know!

I Take Your Hand. . .

Come, I take your hand. We go to
places where our hearts share dreams.

Sometime back, in our histories
having no years, we trod places
where paths had not been worn.

It was a good time, seeing how
we formed lives with no lesson plans,
loved with no time and lived fully aware.

We remember now when the hands
of the clocks tell us we have only so much time;
only so much time to check emails, to see
bank statements, and to note how many Likes
from those we don’t know.

And only so much time before
the next commercial break and then

we might have time to love one another?

January 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.
I Cherish A Good Hope. . .

Machiavelli’s letter to Vettori. . . .

In the Vettori letter, Machiavelli had written the following, “The evening being come, I return home and go to my study; at the entrance I pull off my peasant clothes, covered with dust and dirt and put on my noble court dress and thus becomingly reclothed, I pass into ancient courts of the men of old, where being lovingly received by them, I am fed with that food which is mine alone; where I do not hesitate to speak with them and to ask for the reason of their actions and they in their benignity answer me and for four hours I feel no weariness, I forget every trouble, poverty does not dismay, death does not terrify me; I am possessed entirely by those great men.”

(I have said so often to those who care about me, that when my evening comes and my world sleeps, I get a second wind and take to my books. And it is within the solitude of my self, I have the conversations and learn of great things that I, in this very humble human body, have not been able to afford either the lessons or time to dedicate my life to. It is only within the dark ending hours of the day that time is mine and my advocates take me into their charmed circle and from them come the arguments and chants of lifetimes of learning. These are served to me on dishes of great beauty and is the food which feeds the starving mind. It is a charmed circle I enter and I am a cherished participant. I could not write these words and mean them if they were not true and if this had not been my life. It would be impossible for me to conjure this scene unless I was part of it.

There will be those who ask what is it she smokes? And I only smoked the legal stuff when I smoked until my heart stopped twice and then I stopped. I do not drink so my writing is sober. But when I write it is with a heart beating to full capacity and words spilling onto the paper that I find compelling. They have been faithful friends through my years and here I am at the closing hours of a lifetime grateful for so many good things. And with gratitude that lessons were taught that have stood me in good stead when things were not good to my thinking. I pause and let the poetry speak.)

(excerpted from The Ancestor . . )

Mine (world) is shadowed by memories,
searching for a haunting place.
I make room for memories. They will live and move
and have their being in me.
They may forget my name but somewhere in time,
a memory will rise and a child will make room for me.
I will welcome her and assure her that I live

and that life is everlasting.

(excerpted from We Can Go Home Again. .)

I’ve taken the long way home and
nearing the gate, please catch me, I say
and pull me on through.
I will answer c’est moi, it is I,

to prove we can go home again and again.

Plato pronounced two thousand years ago, the reply he puts into the mouth of Socrates while waiting to drink the Hemlock. “I would not positively assert that I shall join the company of those good men who have already departed from this life; but I cherish a good hope.”

I cherish a good hope that I will be allowed to sit and listen and learn. I cherish a good hope. veronica

January 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.
We Are The Holder Of Memories. . . .

In researching I came across these two entries and I found them mirroring quantum physics that all time is simultaneous. And surprisingly found the original poem in my files. All surprises since memory falters and am glad hard files keep .

Journal entry April 6, ’92. . (.Edited only for length) Vault of God. . . .

Mentally I was expounding in front of a blackboard. With concentric circles I say that I am the inside of the outside of the inside of God. I am the spirit of the extension or the separateness yet united to the father or to the mother. Or I am the spirit of the expression of the Father or Mother. God put out an arm to sample the air and I took form and am the spirit of him who made me. We walked and talked and had our being and because of our need for expression we became man. Sweet Jesus, what a route. How did I get here after so many years?

I use this vehicle, but this Veronica is spirit. Separate yet part of the great god. And when Jesus said I am the son of the loving father, this is what he meant. We live and move and have our being in God. Paul Tillich. Beingness. Paul Tillich, I haven’t thought of you in a long time.

October 4, 2015. . . journal entry. . .

In scribing I lost my train of thought but capturing with. . . (gaining access to a vault of memories. That was what I was thinking yesterday when reading. That somehow the more active the brain or more access different portions of the brain had to centuries of memories, or archtypes, or cultures of humankind or possibly other are the differences in us.

The larger access one has the more painful is the human life. Because like me, for whatever reason I chose to come, or whatever reason my head had access to humanities’ memory vault, was what makes me the way I am. This goes for what is happening in the world, as we access humanities’ memory vaults.

We in evolution with the brains that are ours, either when we come in or as we evolve or are traumatized by what shocks our system, is why we behave as we do. And we have a history as the Nazarene said, as the twig is bent. . . )

Original Vault of God (journal entry April 6, 1992)

And the inside is the outside
of the inside of god.
And I am he.
I am the holder
of my mother’s memories.
I am the vault of her
who had me as an expression.
I am the vault of god
who expressed himself
through me and I am
the holder of memories.
God put out an arm to sample the air
and I took form and am
the spirit of him who made me.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

January 9, 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.
An Argument Still. . . .

My mentor, the Nazarene said, seeing you will not see and hearing you will not hear. Why is it when we profess to be followers and even from the pulpits, do not venture to ask, what did Jesus mean when he said those words? We think because we see what we see, it is all that there is to see! And hear what there is to hear!

As humans all, if we do not even hear or see the cry in Crisis, we are in peril.

An Argument. . .

It was an argument
persisting its stuff as
all of them do.

I say. . .
the camera portrays
what the photographer perceives.

And he insisted. . .
that the camera sees
the fact in nature
and records it as such.

I say. . .
a fact in nature changes
as the person perceives it.

What do we do. . . .
if what we see is not
what the photographer sees?

I say. . .
get thee to an altar and pray.
Rightly so.
Go find an altar and pray.
So that what is perceived
as beautiful, as poignant
or a crime to humanity
is what we see.

Quickly. . . .
Go find an altar to pray
for your heart is in imminent danger.

January 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.
Sometimes, more than cola. . . of course with hot tea. . . .

With all that is happening on our national scene and our global scenes, we all need something that will settle the dyspepsia. It seems I have run out of tonic water and cola so a good stiff drink of something we should find, with hot tea, of course.

I was again reminded that heavy thought like continued heavy dinner fare soon brings on cardiac problems to the neophyte. Those in my peer group have time given in survival techniques using some long tested straight shots of oblivion.

I scribed the following in 2016 and the requests have been heartwarming. Even the Sages took issue with my discipline of ‘serious business’ as you see with the poem’s tone. But are we not again in the midst of serious business and needing a touch of levity?

And this soul of no fun at all. . . had to laugh.

Around The Bend. . .

I was told you have stretched
your boundaries as far as you can and the rest
will require another world.

You work too hard at this, he said.
Break the pattern, because you do not need
more information to underscore what you already know.

What good to understand worm holes and
black holes, white holes and time warps.
You work with them every night when
you flutter in and out of worlds, and
know your way around the bends of light.
You don’t need anything more.

You need a good stiff drink of more than cola.
Love, take a bender. You need rye, straight.

I say, around the bend
there will be a hand;
someone to pull me up. . .

around the bend will be a someone
to pull me up. . . . .I know.

January 6, 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.
Children Carry The Light. . .

When Maria Wulf of fullmoonfiberart.com showed the paintings of Blue, I saw Blue’s particular bent added to this art form. I had one of her works for granddaughter Jessie and wondered when Maria talked of my writing to Blue what would be her thinking. Her response was that I came to bring a message.

The painting is now framed. It is where I can see it from the computer and I love it. Blue called me Star Seed. I feel that way. And my message? For those who have followed my work you know the theme runs throughout my work. Teach the Children. Love the children. Be the example you wished you had had. And love their differences.

Don’t step on the children, not on their hearts and their heads, and not on their questions. Listen carefully to them and if you are a safe one in their lives, you will be told of things you have long wondered.

It is not a perfect world and too many parents are still emotionally adolescent. Too often the children bear the strife of the parents needing to grow up. A grown up parent wants a better world for their children. And they take pride in the growing knowledge of their progeny. It is with surety then we transfer the wand to those in our keep.

And they will carry the light into a better world. Perhaps even a more sane one.

January 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.
Grace To Be Trusted. . .

Grace To Be Trusted . . . .

(The following was written in another period when we worried whether our democracy would endure, with the lack of moral courage and steel spines apparent. Unquestionably, with knowledge vested, Speaker Pelosi has shown the example of behavior required of each of us.)

It is impossible to live or continue to live with a philosophy that covers one’s personal life and not one’s public life. To have it cover one and not the other is asking the observer to believe a portion and to close out the other as not applicable.

The dichotomy will rear itself.   It is illogical to say that my philosophy applies here but not there. It is impossible to continue to live outside one’s root assumption.

Hiding beneath the obligatory assumptions is the aphorism which tells the child to do as I say and not as I do.   It is excusing oneself as the adult human and expecting the children to assume divine obligations.   It is a humungous lie and ought to drive the parent, the politician, the teacher, those in power positions to knees asking forgiveness.

There is not a one among the huge numbers who has not been pressed against the wall, to demand of self behavior a higher moral order.   It is not that we know what not to do, it is telling those trusting us that better behavior is expected.

There will be times when pressures will be hard driven upon us where we know our behavior will be questionable and we will tell ourselves that for the greater good we are doing whatever we must.

How to face the child or student when questioned that hopefully in the future explanations of this nature will not stand to be looked upon as the best that the human could deliver.

Do we expect more of our leaders, of our parent gods, or our teachers?   We do.   And we must.   We must have the perfection of individuals to push against.   We must have our goads so that we will test ourselves against what we know will be testing us at some future point.

Some may be too young in chronological years to form this thought, but intuitively we know that at some point we will be pressed to show our divine nature as opposed to our very human one.   And we will have been shown how to discipline ourselves to deserve the vote of promise that we receive.

We will have demonstrated the spinal fortitude that holds us upright and shows those who have placed their trust in us that we deserve their confidence.   Because we have chosen to fight the battle on the same ground as they have we will show . . . .

that the Grace that upholds us all is to be trusted.

December 30, 2019

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 Keep the World for Them . . .

Put the sabers
at the foot of the evergreen.
The dove sings high;
gargles her song at times
but she knows,
she knows. . .
Peace

December 23, 2019

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.
Some Things We Need To Hear Again. . . . .

Do You Hear?

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 Gllloooooooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa 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 come to you, he said.   Before I come.   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, 2019

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.
Peace. . . .

Many times for many, the comment is forget the past, the moment is all. Some even say too much time is spent in the past but rising thought is not enough is given to understanding the why of it and to rectify behavior which we have dressed cunningly in costumes for battle.

To protect the innocent in our midst from the burden of our unsolved issues is reason enough to pursue the past to its resolution. The weight of our unsolved wars can be devastating enough to stop the hearts in the ones who love us.

The average person thinks that today is born immaculate without the impact of yesterday. If one does not understand its lessons, today is sterile and we go blind into tomorrow as one with no memory who approaches members of family as strangers. The greeting would be good day and where are you from? From your yesterday sir/madam, from your yesterday.

We should gift ourselves with the only gift worth giving. It is to promise to give time to quicksand parts of us we close off. With gained courage we strengthen ourselves and find we even like and can forgive who WE are. And also find we don’t need to camouflage ourselves anymore. It may take a lifetime or two, but we are beings of second chances but who is counting?

No Yesterday . . .

We don’t even have a yesterday
when we forget the past.

And no use looking for a tomorrow
because today does not happen.
It takes a yesterday to make
a Now today.

We can costume our yesterday
and dress it up to be fashionable.
And then possibly you think,
we can walk together.

But I think the proper thing to do,
if not courageous, would be
to stare down yesterday and
suck the fear out of it.

Then perhaps we’ll have a today
as bed for tomorrow.
That assures a future only. . .

If you are okay with that?

December 18, 2019

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.