From an Upper Floor

It Is A Gift. . . .

‘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 milk 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.

November 9, 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.
What a relief it is!. . . ‘me’ time at last. . . .

Emma E. pushes her chair to the desk, gets her favorite book and sets herself up for a
little ‘me’ time. . . .

November 7, 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.
it is all for real. . . we must care what we do. . . .

November 4, 2019—the night before, Sunday the 3^rd of November I read the following and it undid me. I will write more of this time later but need to post the edited journal entry of Oct 24, ’91. I have only been familiar with quantum theory since 2015 and Michael Talbot’s holographic universe. This has answered more about my life than psychiatry ever could or did. Even if you do not understand that all time is simultaneous, keep it in mind. It all really happened yesterday.)

October 24, ‘91 I woke up with the word pewabic and wrote it down in the dark. Later Jan did not know the word but Mark J thought it had to do with pottery. There was a Native American tribe known as Pewabic in Detroit at one time.

I scribed as follows. . .In the dream you were given instructions. You were working with the hands on a piece of pottery that stemmed from the area where you were. The ancient civilizations were using the tiles, borrowed from the more modern ones. Now you halt. But just take the dictation. You were seen working with the tiles and with the pottery from a distant past. The materials were not as ancient as you depict simply because they were of borrowed times.

Now when we speak of borrowed times, we say that within the past and the present, or within the past and the future, there is a melding that defies the linear description common to where you are. If we were to take for instance, the computer where you sit and work and transport it to another time, it would not have the functions, but the rudiments would be the same. The ability to work with the hands would be utilized and the time differential would be such that there would be little difference except in the illusion, i.e. the materials.

Even the seepage would be there and indeed the machine would be in some form a part of where you would be and what you would be doing. Hence, the term, bleed through. It seems that this area of thinking is common to you and presents so much difficulty, for you see what you see from a kaleidoscopic view, bringing into focus bits and pieces of several dimensions.

It is a difficult state to be in, but you can utilize this by taking a more comprehensive look at things and bringing to it what you can see from eyes that work a bit differently.

It would seem that from a distance all would be of a piece but when the eyes view a particular scene with so much input from other dimensions, a new dimension is thus created. You would then find that others dismiss as inconsequential what you see, which is not the case. For what you see is many dimensional and the differing perspectives that you propose would do much to enhance the ability of others to understand those things needing a larger premise.

When you describe your Pewabic dream, the dream of making with the hands, you already ask the question, what was I doing there? And when was this? You already have the ability to esconce yourself in the time frame you wish to work. You find that the dreaming is the dimension where you learn what it is you do and bring to your tasks the abilities to bear.

What then can you understand from the time frame? That within the dream you sashay back and forth , utilizing the classrooms everywhere you are. You mesh with the folks of the time period and oh yes, they indeed know you. You are visible to many of them. They wish for your arrival.

You speak the languages. You understand their desires with an understanding that speaks to their hearts. And how we ask does she do this? By simply thrusting the heart into place and using it as her springboard. What we would ask you now, since the dream presented such a vivid response in so small a portion visible, take your information and relay it in the best manner possible. We will give you impetus to what you do. It is time now to give to others some semblance of stability in a time of no normalcy.

artwork by claudia hallissey

November 6, 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.
Scribing Selections. . .

Scribing Selections. . . .

The world opens and closes to give us glimpses momentarily. But these glimpses of the view linger to haunt us forever.

*****

What you see is not what you get. What you get is what you see.

*****

What stays in the mind is easier to relate to than what is visibly present. Sometimes the moment is too rich to be palatable; a photo of the event can be enough.

*****

Freedom is a sacrament and sacraments are hard to come by.

*****

What is visible is visible and what is visible can be chosen not to be seen. The depth of perception only depends on the inmost courage of the individual in his capacity to deal with impending events.

*****

When to release the child in us is such a tortured event we must with courage ask why. We think often it means our death is imminent but perhaps we need this release for life abundant. But only as we observe with knowledge that life is neverending, is everlasting and the challenge is in the journey, is the hope that mankind will tolerate the fact that destiny is in mankind’s hands.

*****

What happens in the world we inhabit is but a reflection of the greater world and what transpires in greater degree elsewhere.

*****

When one proclaims his ignorance in life and death questions he also proclaims his negligence in the obligation of thinking.

*****

The split in Man is so dichotomous that his life is one mass of contradictions. He will volunteer his help or do work for the underprivileged in his three name suits and she in her Italian shoes will do charity and they will drive the ill to their chemo appointments in luxury vehicles . . . A complex situation to be sure as they wonder the reasons their children are in counseling. . . . .

November 2, 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.
You just gotta laugh sometimes. . . .

Grampa says. . . . when the grandparents are SLOW, you sometimes have to do the set up work

YOURSELF !

no job too big,
or girl too small,
we are kin
so do them all !

October 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.
What Will You Do?. . . .

What Will You Do. . .when they tell you?

Only by observing on a constant basis the differences of genetics and environment on your own children, can you begin to see how unequal we are born. This has been an ongoing study for me because of my own differences and peculiarities as compared to my 7 siblings and also these same differences and similarities in our 3 sons.

The topic has been repeated with added nuances and differentiation as the years progress. Strangely there have been fewer inconsistencies simply because time kaleidoscopes into simultaneous events with my scribing.

When reading Doris Lessing’s Shikasta series the psychiatrist raises the significance in quality of thought. Just two percent difference in the quality of thought puts both people, the talker and the listener in different countries and maybe worlds.

2 % is enough truly for different worlds. All we have to do is look about our world. Within families at the table, one notes the differences in emotional maturity. When listening to the arguments, especially when tempers rise, one wonders who are the children and who the adults.

It is staggering to the senses when one notes with alarm the maturity assumed by the sons and daughters with the preponderance of classes in debating. The elders, whether in Congress or in business depend greatly on sophistication that comes with experience. And assume those will carry their argument.

My generation still assumes that all are created equally. I cannot come to any word describing even one characteristic having no exception. Coming to mind are the two girl playmates on the train to Chicago. Both beautiful, different skin colors. . . overheard talking about birth marks, with one having a large visible mark.

Some of us have them on the outside, said one and some of us on the inside. They both agreed. And some still harbor the notion that all are a clean slate at birth to be written on by our compulsory education. Even though educational systems differ throughout the country but this fact escapes their thinking.

We must stress the abilities of unique differences. And how these enrich our lives. When we look into the eyes of children we should see angels walking into our hearts. If you are fortunate they will call you Baba knowing you are the safe one. You are the haven they require if the world is to progress and they are to contribute.

When you see how much you invest in each child to instill needful habits you realize the great differences. And muttering in exasperation where did you come from? What would you do or think if you truly knew from where?

And what will you do when they tell you?

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

October 25, 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.
Claim The Difference. . .

Claim The Difference. . .

From a July 24,’84 entry—-because I have integrated simultaneous time during my adult life (it was not easy and I also am familiar with dimensions of no time with dream frames posted on my blog), the following was an early topic of discussion (from a cosmic view, yesterday). I have quoted Albert Einstein on simultaneous time and also philosopher Robert Nozick on World Creation (0thers also) during recent years upon discovery. Since I am not credentialed, these have been in over half a century of Independent Study I have researched.

I was told and I scribed the following. . . I asked. . . was it a different world?

It was, it was. It was a world where belief had the power of logic. Where prayer was direct communication with what was the belief at the time, where the arch angels stepped between man and his desires and procured them for the supplicant. It was all those things and more.

Man did not roam the Earth without an anchor at will or put his faith in the machines that mimicked his mind. He conquered what he needed with the virtue within. He did those things because he did not know he could not.

With all that he was he was able to do. Anything.

With all that he thought, he was able to bring under his dominion all that he thought had life. And he brought these under his dominion. Until he tired. Until he became less entranced with the trivialities of the dailiness and became enamored with the glitter of his toys.

He could do these things because the thought that he could not do them did not enter his mind. Think on that for awhile. It was a different world.

It was a world where the jester could make the common man laugh. Because the jester was comical.

And the common man was not conscious of what made the comic a comic. And now everyone is a comic. Everyone is what he thinks he is by mimicking what he sees, what he reads and what is heard.

We do not resent what we see here. Instead we ask what did we not do? We take into account that you say the difference is slight. We say to you then, claim the difference. Do not allow those who are limited, limit you.

Knowledge is innate. You know the difference in worlds. Use it.

Prayer in Concert (excerpt). . .

now you tell them
in languages understood
how deep the hunger for knowledge
can be as if for bread; to keep alive
a mind from sleep;
(like scourge it contaminates
all minds of men).

We wake them up and
put to work the fathers
of the children forever seeded

with memory from a place the angels tread.

October 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.
The Farm Woman. . .

Someone probably said, considering there is nothing new under the sun, I knew the journey my spirit would take would be the one closest to my heart. That would be the earth and sky of course, a farm.

The details would be only as difficult as I could overcome and not more than I could handle. I would of course argue that premise. In retrospect it was the most influential segment of my life.

Directing and encompassing the who I became to love the Earth Planet as the grandest classroom ever given to viable, developing creatures with potential who worship learning.

Having said that, my wish is for overwhelming intellects equipped to keep our planet safe and prospering healthily so the young need not worry they will have no dotage.

It is a beacon to the Universes and we are more than one. And nowhere are the conditions as ripe for ideas with materials becoming expressions as this planet. Pray that we take only good what moth and rust do not destroy when we terminate our stay, so that we only enhance life elsewhere in whatever form, in gratitude for what we are gifted.

The Farm Woman . . .

Woman of the Earth, you are loved.
You gather the fruits of your labors
to your bosom and feed the children.

You’ve inched your way along the
dusty path with back bent in great fatigue
and cultivated rows yielding wise fruit.

You would feed out of your mouth those
you think hungry and then beyond measure.
The fruits are the heart of your labors , the harvest of
your mind’s philosophy, spilling indiscriminately.

Who is left to feed you, farm woman?
What commissary is left open to feed your
hungry soul after hours? What bookstall will
house the words between stiff covers
to increase your harvest?

Labor, till the sun closes its blinds on the day.
Restless legs will speed you through the night

to find the bins ever full.

October 20, 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.
When Knowledge Obligates. . . .

The Teacher speaks. . and I scribed. . . .When you realize that understanding is a bigger or heavier burden than not understanding, your behavior or course of action is already decided.    The reason is this.

When you have the knowledge, you have the obligation. Not knowing the reason for a person’s behavior gives one the right to rage. Knowledge takes away this right. Yet who is to blame for this behavior, if blame is in the picture? There is no one. There never was.

Each person is a result of a compilation of errors destined for the head of man. And yet within is the spirit destined also for refinement, for an attuning that would bring the human species to the finest place of all. It is a testing ground for angels; each being the angel that decided to try his wings in a place that doesn’t allow flight but instead demands a rooting.

Some behaviors one can ascribe to fact. Yet most things properly belong to a generation of characteristics. Or many generations of characteristics. Not all things are a learned behavior to gain certain results. Some things are passed through the genes. And do not need to have anything done about them except to talk of them and aired.

There is generally a self righteousness about ourselves because we have nothing else in our frame of reference.      We do what we do because anything else would be foreign to our natures.

When you understand the why of behavior you realize that understanding does not necessarily make the behavior easier to live with. But when you understand, when knowledge is yours, the obligation to do the correct thing is yours also. It is an incomparable growth experience. No one said it was going to be easy.

(In retrospect I see my life lived the only way I could in good conscience. Born with an open head and memory, I did the best I could . There are still some things to reconcile. Those may be easier when I am not in human skin. When you know you know, you know also that the way narrows and there are no options. As my granddaughter Jessie says, you suck it up.)

Genetic Memories. . .

Lurking behind every door are ghosts
from a shadowy past, eager to be translated
to a dubious present.

Impregnated in genes are the memories
of these ghosts, split second DNA with desire
housing the delicate substance quoting life.

Stupid am I to allow others’ memories,
lurking in my fresh Being, to
suck life out of my present.

But power filled even to think that I could
release their tenacious hold from a life
unfulfilled and requiring recompense.

Helplessness rages simultaneously,
pleading a judicious balance
to satisfy life’s imbalances, yet knowing,

I cannot do it.

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

October 17, 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 Are Not Invisible, either. . . .

In February of 2001 I journaled that I had a feeling pass over me that said (not the first time) that this world is but a fragment of illusion. The reality is that there is no reality.

That when we leave we take our world but it stays in our memory bank like a rolling file, where we go back to see what was and how it came about because of who we were.

Last week I sat and watched a micro something swim in the pool and expand itself as it swam. When stopping, it was a speck of something. But when swimming, it was lit with 10,000 bulbs and glittered.

Brighter than the sun on the water but in shade, it still glittered. Nothing else glittered. I watched spellbound.

Son John came to the door and I told him what I was seeing. He did not see it even when I said it was glittering. Walking to the other side of the pool he saw a moth, the white fleck in the water. Amphibian? Creature of land and water? I told him it elongated and glittered. He thought it was the sun.

When he came out later, he got the net and fished the moth out of the water. I said if it is a moth, it is able to swim from the left side of the pool under the hose of the vacuum and had fins to weave in the water. In the shade as well as the sun the water moved on both sides of the creature.

I remember my friend Jan saying when I described the butterfly swooping up the spider’s web and carry it (I repeated that post two weeks ago) she said I only had eyes to see that. I thought again of my Mentor, the Nazarene, who said in Mathew 13:13 that having eyes you will not see and ears you will not hear.

And again as I have repeated in my blog when my world crashed Dr. Cassidy asked me what I saw when I went down Michigan Avenue. I closed my eyes and told him what I saw and when I was through he whistled through his teeth. ‘You understand not everyone sees what you see? You don’t.’ I was too afraid to ask him what others saw.

I never related that conversation to my husband. He grew up next door to Salem, MA and knew what happened to witches.

I want to think the moth was set free to soar. It did light brilliantly so I could see it swim distances and stop if tired? I can now feel sorry for my husband being married to me. I said if the government knew people like me existed, we would be treasured quietly and used.

The science gods have made it terrifying for families to have the likes of me among them. I bless them all.

Illustration by
Lucinda Cathcart, (my niece)
of TinyStudioCrafts.com

October 14, 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.