From an Upper Floor

Connected Still. . with AAhhh Mann and Amen. .

I wish I had remembered when I was trying to convince a young grandniece that indeed not all people know enough to worry and that worrying is an advanced form of thinking. How can you not worry when you have made babies and commitments?

But when you are unsure of your own survival, it is impossible to concern oneself about an Other, even a small Other.

I was always a worrier and to the Trendies, a negative. Even as a child in grammar school, I ran home when sirens screamed every time knowing for sure my house was on fire and my mother dead.

Many people cannot make connections and cannot see the past having a bearing on the present and the future. They cannot see the who they are is the result of their history. The only way they say to live life is in the moment. They were convinced of the power of positive thinking on this but experience should reveal the possibilities of an action and its consequences.

They think bubbly is lost when consequences are considered because making informed decisions spoils the fun. Perhaps so. Perhaps the idea of fun considers true beauty in mind and body’s ability to clean up messes to bring order to the kitchen sink or the mountain of laundry that reaches the basement ceiling.

Or to match thinking to heaven’s thought and shout not fair! to an obstacle levied that should not be. And to have heaven relent. It was what I had to learn from kindergarten on about my own ‘why’.

Even as I prepare for the unknown and maybe disappointment, I cannot fall into the present with no thought. I would have to discount my history which had me alive in worlds and places that have no names here on Earth.

Unless the mind is cutoff (oh yeah, remember the shamefully devastating frontal lobotomy?) with the past having no memory, I am stupid to what my eyes see and not able to see how everything is connected.

A beloved says her grandfather god has his hand on her shoulder but she does not approach the question as to why the cries of the families of the holocaust were not heard as they were plunged into death clasping each other? It takes mental effort to even form the questions to start the uncovering.

How does one ignore the consequences to actions of wars and words dripping death in their intent and still froth treacherous bubbles of innocence? A dismissal of ‘well, that’s life and bad things happen’ does not cut it anymore. The width and depth of the abyss is too great for my humanity to leap.

Strangely, why when conscience is finally deeply seated in the brain, why also is it so deeply connected to the heart of who we are?

Yeah, well. . .AAhh Mannnn. And Amen.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

February 10, 2021

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.
Ordinary, but real. . . . .

Again, in that conference time when all is quiet, you cannot go back to not knowing, once having attained what it is you know. Quantum, sumus, scimus. You are what you know.

And what you know is yours forever. The talents, the Master spoke of, no one understood to teach. What moth and rust do not destroy you take from world to world because life is everlasting, but he taught that also.

They said we danced with the devil when we multiplied the silent talents of listening with our hearts and talking silently to minds that pleaded for help.

We were burned at the stake for this. When our eyes spoke the understanding of what was written on their hearts, it was peace surpassing this world.

It was compared to giving him a drink of water knowing that the world would be satiated. What is done for one is done for all. It is doing for one’s fellow so that the act will one day be everyone’s act.

It does not come easily nor without its pain. But having attained it, you are there. You speak a language most hunger for and know to be true.

And without doubt know that we are accountable forever and have but one face, truth.

Ordinary but Real . . .

There is question surrounding
the not so fair exterior of one who chides
the meaning from the leaves of the trees.

To say in truth the sun should shine
a bit more on the Maple to the north,
readying sap for nourishment.

Or the mushroom to elevate its wattage
with the feel good serum designed
to lift one up. . .

And what about the water in the bog
needing a bit of air to allow
the simple life to get on. . .?

All this is mine I hear, but I’ve
known it all for so long,
since first I fell in love with life.

Dragging a foot still wedded
to the firm stuffs holding me,
yet not willing to give me up,

since incomplete was the knowledge
to ferret out, but I said it was the best I could do.
And was affirmed to have held nothing back.

I hugged the life with all the strength
remembered from the time before;
from lives loved and loves, loved,

mistakes made good and wounds healed
and to write poetry from a world
not of this one.

I keep moving thoughts like furniture,
as I did the evergreens and the mock orange,
like summer loungers for the lawn.

And when there are no other
room arrangements peaking,
I will create another world.

With another house to make a home
to live in for life to be an example,
to teach the connectedness of All That Is. .

An ordinary person, real in this world
of ordinary days. . . . .
is never just ordinary it seems . . . . .

February 4, 2021

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.
Gleanings. . . a few. . .

Man’s kharma is his dharma, the coin he uses to buy for himself the peace he seeks.
*****
To see through the eyes of an Other will put one’s heart into divine orbit.
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Can man run far enough and fast enough to escape the swollen burden of coming to grips with self confrontation?
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The moments of glory that belong to the sainted adulthood of which we are capable are the redeeming moments of this world. The rest of it is the fourth grade.
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There is that point where everyone is eager to understand until the minute personal responsibility would be required for actions taken.
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As we stretch to pour the milk out of the pitcher, we are blind to the fact that it is only out of abundance we continue to pour.
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We are laughed out of the curriculum when our search involves basic origins and we find answers.
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Born into human reverence, can any male child grow into adulthood?
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Who we are, what we are, where we come from and to where we go are not confined to the adolescent search of most religious organizations. The adolescent feeds on glamorous charismatic assumptions. Often held on sadly to the grave.
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The premises of life’s purpose are the meat of our lives and the wine of our maturity.
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The hurts and bruises humans endure should be worn as karate belts. Black belts should be worn for psychic bruises.
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Words have a weight which carry an indepth report on everything. Now tell me what you think.
*****

January 29, 2021

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.
It Takes Many Lifetimes to Learn. . . .

Word reaches that there are issues with some of my posts that are unreal; that perhaps I don’t know how the real world works. I write what I know, not hope or pretend. As Lawrence O’Donnell commented on President Biden’s Inaugural, experience is something you cannot teach. We always knew it, I think, just never applied it to ourselves. Seldom are we lauded for our experience, mostly they say that we are simply old.

When I say we go to an earned place when we die, I know it. It has taken a long time for me to be upfront with memories and no, some of them are not good; have even put me in cardiac arrest.

Since teaching we are in the world creation business by the late Robert Nozick, contemporary philosopher, I would create a heaven dispensary if it were already not so.

If life were not everlasting, I would follow the daffodil or if hard pressed, even the mushroom because they come up year after year forever. It has taken many lifetimes to learn what little I know.

I understand that heaven’s remedial classes are now instituted to get a head start on Dr. Jonas Salk’s Conscious Evolution. This is evolution not to just survive but to evolve to a higher form of human potential, with the spiritual aspects of more compassion, empathy and the heart elements like love and the more stingy, sharing.

I came dragging a foot from a world where learning was held sacred and have lived a functioning life for almost a hundred years. Not easy . but doable. But thinking I should wear a hazmat suit for protection from cynicism which may yet do me in.

The Poet’s Memories

Torn from an event
with memories still alive
and placed in an incubator to breathe,
are poets expected to live.

Leaving a world incomplete,
they wander in vegetation
totally unfamiliar and expected to survive.
And give rise to credence
in a world with no root,
where trees are shades
of others more vivid.

Whose flowers whisper their names
in a forgotten language,
whose people are ghosts of livelier images,
all crowding the nimbus.

Where horizons are vast
and what eyes behold are stark lines
dividing two dimensional realities
pretending a depth that fools not a one.

Where snow sheds its stars
on a crystal night and the night becomes
a holy night eliciting unexpected
extravagances bestowing grace.

All grasped in a moment’s vision
to linger through worlds creating ulcers
by gnawing the viscera with dreams not completed.

The poet’s pen translates worlds
of mean existences from memories held
long in the heart’s pocket.
Translates the colors of those other places
where winds caressed and sun bathed
a skin unlike his own.

In another place and time he walks
and because he does

his memories give rise to an Other’s dream.

poem written January 1988

photo by Claudia Hallissey

January 24, 2021

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 held your heart in my hand . . . it is whole . . . .

We need to come to a place now and again when it is necessary to find a mind matched to ours so we can for all purposes say all that is heavy on our hearts. With no explanation necessary because our route has been followed step by step; to hear the words, I held your heart in my hand for safekeeping and here it is, whole.

And in a whisper would come the words, I thought it fractured beyond repair! We are embraced knowing instantly that we were not abandoned to do it alone.

We prepare then to venture another time to come with the sweet knowledge that great songs will be sung again.

Great Songs Will Be Sung. . .

Should you find the need
to tell your story in words,
think mightily on them
and they will be caught up
in the air’s currents
and carried on the birds’ wings.
They will reach the ears
they were designed for.

You will find
you are not alone
and in this infinite universe
you will be heard.

And when the thoughts
reach the places
in the heart of an Other

great songs will be sung again. . . .

January 14, 2021

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 Scribing With Heart . . .

I wrote this letter to Jane and when I finished I realized that I scribed it. Because it was of my heart that I wrote, and it was a personal letter, I had to ask permission to post it. There are so many important sentences with lessons involved, that if I was a teacher with credentials here I would take them one by one and lecture each. I have permission to share from Jane but leave the lessons for each reader’s discernment.

Jane, I moved myself from the TV room and came into the workroom. A mess but better this understandable mess than the one in the living room of the insurrection portrayed within our country’s chambers. My heart breaks and I tire of crying because it takes all my energy. I cannot conjure up anger or sympathies or outrage by the behavior of adult bodies acting like children hardwired on sugar.

It all takes energy I do not have. But I was astonished by your post of the quilt. My first feeling is of amazement. How did you stay with it so long, working so intricately with details? You did not hurry and finish, but the last details if there were any, are just as painstaking as the first. That is what amazes me. 7

I could not take the time with things I loved doing because I was called on to help with the so called real work of my mother or the hurry up and finish because of what I had to do when married. I immediately see these in the display of people who obviously loved their work. And you are an example of that.

It takes my eye right away. What beautiful work you did on this quilt. The handwork and the machine work is so precise and so lovingly done. Thank you for posting this. You restored my faith in work that obviously took a good teacher when you were learning and you were a good student to adhere to principles of good workmanship. I could do a chapter on this quilt and your work without half trying.

My husband always said I read too much into things. It was because he did not see what I saw. We all see differently. You would agree to what I see in your work now and say I am on target. Even if it was not in your conscious mind before.

But your mother was a good teacher. Her work you have said you want to finish what was not finished. And because there was love between you, you were a good student of what she taught. And because of that love, she was the recipient of your loving care for a long time.

People don’t often realize character is revealed by the actions of their days. What goes into our rearing leaves its mark. And determines our touch on everything including the lives of commitments. You are quite wonderful, probably even more so than what we know.

Your hands have learned beautiful things. You lay them on what you do with artistry, and in that artistry is great love. Thank you for showing me this. Loving you, Veronica

http://Little House of Home Arts

January 7, 2021

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
To Speak With Heart . . .

(Because I feel iffy and at 6’s and 7’s, weighing in on me is where do I go. I scribed this journal entry December 26, 2020 and edited it for space. )

Sit a spell and listen. If we could enlighten you we would. If we had knowledge of this world to which you aspire, we would give a hand and tell you. But you again will find the same feelings facing you and wonder where did you go astray.

But there is no answer. You understand that. Take a listen right now and look at what it is you ask. Where you fit in and where is it you are going? We don’t have a clue, you know we don’t. Because you don’t have a clue or a blueprint that you follow. And so what can we surmise?

Now you wish to know where you head to.   Could be anywhere. Could be you take a sidecar to play awhile and think a time out for sure. It would be a breather of sorts for everyone. Us, too.

When the Science Gods worked to contain this Covid -19 with simple measures like wearing a mask and distancing until the miracle vaccines take effect, until they knew in their private thoughts they worked on what they could surmise and hoped it was true, there were things they could not identify until they knew what to look for. They worked toward that Eureka moment to tell them a something they worked was valid.

The vaccine of the Covid was only accomplished by the footwork of all who have gone the route in their prescribed ministry. This ministry vaccinated decades of people wanting to keep breathing amidst all the virulence threatening them.

They have cared for the multitudes as a godparent for his children. As a healer would from the times he carried a skin with a handful of home remedies only the shamans knew about. Only the farmer knew from pulling the calf from the cow in the cold night in a cold barn. And the midwife knew as young girls gave birth from the first times to a houseful of babies.

You cannot wonder who did the footwork anymore. Miracles? Ahh yes, the miracle of man, in his nascent wanderings among his fellows trying to be of help. A ministry, of course.

One thinks of religious acumen, but in this case it is the discipline of Science lifting itself with dedicated purpose to ease the route of the fellow traveler.

Listening, studying, trying unheard of remedies with the likes of disputed therapies to uncover a maybe that turns into a miracle. Like a religious order granting discipleship, the Science ministry itself becomes one of service.

So what is the good news of Medical Science? To learn how best to serve mankind and to teach how best in this complicated time with all creatures determined on breathing the same air, to comingle in good health. It is a new world every day and we don’t know where we go.

It is as confusing for the invisible world as the visible. As feasible as the question of where was the beginning. Perhaps the answer and the one most cognizant would be when mankind’s mental capacity is equal to understanding where was his beginning.

To deny as mankind does, what is ever present, pushes conceptual information further away.   That would mean of course, there would be significant growth in the brain’s capacity to understand why he even jumped ship.

And with no capacity to understand his beginning, there is no ability to envision future potential and no vocabulary to speak should we even attempt description.

Who else says this? The philosophical bards shouted them equal and one and the same; Evolution and the Divine! You have a compatriot that counsels?

Until you offer us introduction, we know our offerings depend a great deal on concerted efforts. We appreciate yours.

Evergreen and roses
family gift from John Holmes

December 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.
To Answer. . . our very best. . .

This has been a hard year for all with unavoidable obstacles. We have wondered together if there would be Light beckoning to grant some reprieve during these holy days and holiday season. There was and is but we do not let up on our vigil until given word it is so.

The journey has taken us through some dark places but we have found Light as we are bent to do. We have come thus far and now keep our guard up until our commitments walk with us.

We miss the little rewards we needed to break from the work of dailyness that bowed us down even in normal times. During the health crises and political turmoil without them, our dispositions have been tested. But we are a dependable people and wish to prove we are equal to the task. Our progeny will one day question us and ask what did we do? . . .

Our answer will be. . . our very best.. . .

The Learning Place. . . .

Do you not think
that where you go
at night is the place
where you are healed?

And awaken
to a morning full
of exuberance, to face
another day to fight clean?

For those things you see
at night, every time
you close your eyes and trust
you will find your way. . .

to the place you know best
that heals the wounds
tearing you apart . . .the who you are,
in still this best of all learning places. . .

to find you do not run away. . . .
and with courage stay the course.

(Suzanne sent me this photo of another quilt. Another memory. . .)

December 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.
We Are The Music. . . .

I was nicely surprised by my niece Linda to receive a photo of this wall quilt displayed in her home; from an exhibit in Oak Park, IL in 2012. Linda graciously nudged my memory to help remind me. As in all memories, coming forward, tightly wrapped, deep within time’s measure. . .familiar territories. . . .to find we are the music. .

Following should be why the time and why the difference. Some of the why’s in our lives deserve our thought and some will require great courage. To even get to a why in thought requires footwork but we know that and avoid the work while we can. Rules change even while we breathe and I have learned to anticipate. Rule one, start now. And good luck.

Lullaby Last

The moon assists the drama,
heralding the arrival
of the event,
locked within memory.

A place, deep within time’s measure
nudges from familiar territories
the clockwise turn of events.

Incense, sweet hay,
pungent holly, sweeping palms,
evergreen.

The eye follows the moon rays
to find the final beam
lodged in our heart.
The ear strains to hear the lullaby last

to find we are the music. . . . . .

(if you have one of my quilts, I would appreciate a photo to nudge my memory. It is a gift when I look upon something hand done and see what was accomplished. I guess I took seriously not to let the left hand know what the right hand was doing or something like that. This was a real pleasure to see. )

December 14, 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 Past Is Still Happening. . . .

I looked for the journal entry until I had to stop last night because of a heart willing itself to stop if I did not. My eldest son as well as a beloved friend once called my persevering tendency unnerving. Both vowed they could not live my way. I learned much later to call it the jenny genes. I make myself sick with them.

This morning in picking up clutter I looked askance at a first hand written journal to open on July 23, ’73. With Hello!! I read the following in firm 42 year old handwriting in ink. . . .Our pianist sons were playing a new LP of the Canon when I first heard it. Later in Munich, at a travel conference we stood at Christmastime alight with old decorations in a nightime fairyland. I realized it was not a first time for me.
I wrote. . . .

I hear Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major and I yearn for a time I can see in my head. I am there in my hooped dress with cinched waist and I can see a swarthy looking, paunchy violinist (forgive me) bending close to the dancers. There is an ensemble but the violinist I can see expressly. Where is this taking place that it can move me to tears?

It’s not so much memory but participation, complete with all the emotion. Why does this move me so and why does it have power as if I am in it now? Who was I and where was I and where am I traveling now when I hear it? No past or future, just eternal now?. . . .

The rest of the entry deals with various elements of time and intensity and psychic talents. Rich stuffs in explanation but having been clueless to this aspect with no one in my immediate circle versed in these subjects . If family has no knowledge or the subject taboo, where does the child go who only knows to be called weird or different? Ahhh you wondered why I obsess on this subject?

I still look for the date on which the following poem was written. The Europe business trips were in the ‘70’s. I posted this once in 2015 and a reader was overwhelmed with did it happen this way? Exactly.

I hope when one does not fit the outlines for normality, one will be given space for being unique with a welcome to this world. We all might learn something. Parents and siblings especially.

December Confirms The June Woman

It is June and I stand poised on the landing of the half circular staircase.
I am hearing the strains of the Canon not heard in this, my lifetime.
Shocked still, caught in the shadows of half remembering and
yet reluctant to confront the shaded memories, I wait.

She is visible, the young woman gliding with joy to the music
which carried her down the long hall. She curtsies to the throngs
lining the great walls.

I stand, not moving. Her joy is mine, translating to an emptiness
in my heart. The tears scald my cheeks and the rest solidify
in a mass in my throat. I cannot swallow. I am in danger
from within and without.

II

It is now December. I am before an ancient building in a city
bearing her years gracefully. The snow is circling my feet and the wind
is freezing my eyes. I am rooted to this spot. The air is ringing with
the sounds of holiday; lights flicker their ritualistic colors in harmony.
Yet I stand immobile.

On the second floor of the ancient building, caught in the winter of my memories,
I see the long hall stretching before me. The strain and refrains of the Canon
carry the young one still, waltzing yet. The violins smooth the way for her
memories to be built The red vests of the rotund violinists complement
in contrast their black , slicked hair. They bend and bow in homage.
Their music locks her destiny forever.

My eyes are again in danger, this time of freezing in their sockets with the
salted tears that cannot stop. The memory does not move, not to one side nor
the other. My will forces my eyes to play again what can only be seen in my
throbbing head. Courted through centuries with great care to remain hidden.
I unwittingly jarred the box housing those memories.

In retrospect, I was ready. It was my time. I turned away shaken and knowing,

the past is still happening.

December 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.