From an Upper Floor

Pieces Of My Heart. . . .for Emma E. . . .

I have not posted this past week because of some impediment in my desk computer, but thanks to my grandson who found the wrong and corrected it. I am grateful. I felt I had lost my voice.

But what I did was work to get some knitting done and the articles will be on their way. It will free up time for other things to get done and prepare for a visit from my first born and his illustrator wife Claudia. Both Tres and Claudia are generous with help for this blog.

The knitting this week had me sweaty because of health issues arising again due to hand spasms. Aging is a factor when hands lose feeling and become numb. Yarn is hard to handle and keeps slipping off the needles. And when the articles are small and require 4 double pointed needles, hell breaks loose. I think I forced other parts of my brain to work when synapses broke. Sweaty business.

But I wanted to master the spiral pattern and did. I hope now I can do it on a number of things simply by changing yarn thickness and needle size. It is amazing to me carrying this idea to a larger concept, that all things are connected in these universes. These are the talents mastered that my Mentor, the Nazarene spoke of that we should multiply. That are in Mind where moth and rust do not destroy.

I see the connection in all things. That all things are utilized and nothing is lost or forgotten. Simply, all things thought through, are connected. It is a concept that takes us to our knees because there is no place else to go.

I am pleased with the outcome of the spiral knitting and took photos. The other photos are colorful and were just plain fun to do. It was an addiction of sorts that the only overdose with the substance did not require me to take care with heavy machinery or driving!

I was not required to seek medical help as often with overdoses is suggested. I guess I am no fun at all.

spiral pattern

December 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.
Sufficient Unto Itself . . .is the day. . .

Big guy, our Newfie, came in to get me up this morning. It was early but I said give me five. Which means I need more time. He left me to take guard outside my room until I said let’s go. I grabbed a throw since it was dark and cold. And prepared for time while he had a long drink.

The sky was red and Sailor, I thought ‘red sky in the morning take warning.’ Followed by ‘red sky at night, Sailor’s delight.’ It was a melding for me, a uniting with All That Is. And whispering to me were the words, ‘Sufficient unto itself, is the day, thereof.’

I am able to hold conference with my constituents easily. But I would have difficulty explaining how I get there and you would have difficulty believing me, except you have my words in front of you. I tell you true within the frame of reference that is mine and though criticism comes with my alibiing everyone else, I have not done so with myself. I have loved my Earth, unabashedly and am in conference with my Teachers. (I had previously posted. . .excerpt. . .)

And when we left the city to breathe clean air I marveled as a young girl going to the outdoor privy and stopped at the back door before going up to bed and dipped my heart to blend the night sky to drink of a million stars and wondered how rich could a 12 year old be with the night so private housing so many brothers? And the air circled my pajama legs and I gave thanks to the clean air and promised to be a caretaker of a place I loved. I would dip into my bucket of stars and reach for a nugget and it would translate my efforts and keep me fed.

I would teach everyone to take care of our land because it is our home and we live here. It gives us what we need to live and heals us when we ail and loves us as its children. It is our mother and we must help her. And now after a lifetime, I am hampered by bones forgetting to bend, muscles forgetting to stretch and a heart that cannot forget how I have loved this parcel of a universe so generous with this gift.

How Much Better It Would Be. . .

How much better it would be
for this noble planet
if we cherished her like a lover?

Or loved her as a mother
who adored her child and
wiped the tears away with a soft linen?
Or as a father whose arms surrounding the child
are as steel beams supporting
the frame of the tallest building?

Who would not want these for himself
if he could articulate what would heal
the dichotomy within?

Too few of us around
who love our home so fiercely
we would protect her vital organs.
The sun sometimes is hidden from man
and the moon embarrassed
to see its light dimmed with shame.

When patches of earth split
from the shock of no rain and dust rises
and rolls across open land,
we wish then not to shake dust
from our boots but to greet a sunrise in splendor.

Offer me this, the Earth Mother says,
that you will raise your arms
only to surround an Other in love.
Promise me this, again she says,
that the swords will be laid at the foot
of the evergreens, now and a boot will never
crush an Other’s right to live.

And I will forever cherish your children.

photo by
John Hallissey

December 1, 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 Birthday Girl. . . and a happy two!

Two years ago we had word that Emma E. came to us at 1 lb 12 oz. Over 30 years ago we had similar word of her father coming early too at a similar weight. We have gone to our knees many times in these years begging for the best in all worlds. And we have been blessed in all worlds.

With great gratitude celebration was held as Emma E. had her 2^nd birthday. It was appropriate that Thanksgiving was celebrated also. She busies herself with her favorite books and talks a blue streak reciting her nursery rhymes.

What we miss in hugs we get to smile at her impish grin in photos. With an appreciative audience she performs for laughs. And in that laughter we have heard angels.

We would wish all children to have such welcoming and we work in what ways we can.

November 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.
How High Up You Reach. . . .

What is hidden will surface and cannot be forever controlled.

*****

Manipulation is the black boot sitting on the head.

*****

A broader view is the fullness of a larger life.

*****

How to teach Within is the treasure and without the Within there is no Without.

*****

Trying to stay sane in an insane world is not easy. Especially when you see what you see is a curse and a blessing.

*****

Old beliefs are a security blanket. But already they become bare when the nap has been plucked from them. It is then time for new thought to cover old butts.

*****

It is not the common lot of man to pursue learning what he only glimpses. The extraordinary man who persists is the one the heavens pursue.

*****

Given enough rope every man will hang himself. They will also pull themselves up the mountain.

*****

Race the night to its completion for the morning will arrive and demand something from you.

*****

How high up you reach is how high up you jump.

November 26, 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.
Enter Ye, Cautiously. . . .

Enter Ye, Cautiously. . .

‘May I enter your house?’ I asked
and you answered, ‘yes, but cautiously.
You must discard all pretense, assume the mantle
of charity and hold high the torch of love.’

‘Ahhh,’ I said, ‘but would I qualify?
‘This house I see has a green carpet
with blue ceiling, mystically supporting
poufs of cotton, shadowing and lined with sparklers.
It has spheres of light masking the dark outlines
of animation, movement in forms
different than my own.’

‘I have lived in this house and participated
in celebrations of great sorrows, have laughed in truth
and wept with joy. I have danced in funerals
and in great succession marched words through
battles of mind and spirit.’

‘I have accused myself and have hung by fingertips
grown numb and identified the faults of Others
only because I identified my own.
I loved and continued to love in the face of contradictions
because I did not know what else to do.
There is nothing left now, so I ask,
may I enter your house?’

‘What have you described?’ you chide as I stand astonished.
What else is there I wonder and
what is to be exchanged.

‘I hang a star,’ you say, ‘midst the night sky,
and in the quality of your God you will build
your world. It will not be mine but yours.
And when you leave the spot holding you hostage,
you will take your world and those becoming to it will enter.
But entering also will be the dark angels,
but with premises swept clean,
they will delay littering. But once established
the land will become familiar and they again litter
and your sights will be pinned on Me.’

‘And I will hear you ask again,
may I enter? And I will say, all ye who enter here,
discard pretense, assume the mantle of charity and
hold high the torch of love.’

‘I see,’ I said
‘and then the Father’s House will be swept clean.’

November 22, 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.
Wandering The Galaxies. . . again. .

(This morning November 19, 2019, I read that Bill Gates has unveiled a solar energy project aimed at saving the planet. I am excited about this and am rerunning a post from October 28, 2017 about my dream with solar trees I saw and drew from a dream and entered in my journal September, 1991. I rest with hope now about my planet classroom.

Wandering The Galaxies. . .(posted first October 28, 2017)

Again, I am here with pictures, primitive to be sure, that I drew of what I encountered in the dream world written on September 9, 1991. Previously I had shown the pictures I had drawn of the gentle fishes in the post on this blog called Worlds I know. . .to speak of. . . which was on September 3, 2017. I wrote then that as I continued working on cross referencing my journals with other work which corroborates them, I would share the pictures and the journals.

I came across the notes I had taken when rereading the journals of the pictures you see here. I knew I had the sketches and showed them to my son John. He said I was ahead of my time. This week we activated solar panels on our home after much protocol. There obviously are worlds where other forms of energy are utilized to a greater extent. I share a part of the journal of that date. While I was not fully awake and the dream was fresh, I drew the sketches you see. My input to the dialogue taking place was
from the journal entry. . .

(The energy on the mountain. What I thought were trees in the vision, shaped like trees, were not were they? They somehow brought in energy to run houses without chimneys. And from those strange shaped trees I thought on the mountain. From a distance I thought them trees, but they were energy sources, weren’t they? I wish there were credentials to back me up, but then I wouldn’t have taken this seriously but just a powerful play . )

I could not have envisioned this on my own nor have thought one day to be living here in California where solar panels would be installed to offset the high cost of electricity. But almost 30 years ago I had sketched other worlds where gentle fishes and houses without chimneys were evidenced. I had heard Rachel Carson’s worries for this planet.

I told my sons I needed a Hazmat suit when I entered my workroom. The emotional vibes are hard on this aged frame from a life of memories relived. Memory is both joyous and painful and always entwined.

November 19, 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.
Given By Grace. . . .

As long as you don’t mind. . . .

My mother and my sister would be saying now, there you go alibi-ing again. Why don’t you just say that you make excuses or that someone is too lazy to try, whatever they are not doing?

Because I don’t want to think they are so shortsighted or so full of themselves they think there is nothing to learn.

Yet I have watched people who cannot put themselves at the feet of someone expert to learn something. They simply cannot. What that does to them I do not know.

Whether their self esteem is shaky or they are arrogant in thinking there is nothing to learn, is beyond me. I am willing to strip the knowledge of everyone; even a newborn I ask from where did you come? I want to know what they think or wonder but when they say they know something, I want it also.

I was brought aghast when I was so excited to learn that a beloved did something I literally begged, show me how to do that! She looked at me with disdain and said but then you would know as much as I do. . .

And I recoiled with hurt. My budding intelligence and fierce desire to learn was stepped on. I was pushed outside the circle. There was no embrace to lean against.

I have been aware when an idea or conclusion I reached has been used without assigning origin. Once it bothered me greatly but even realizing that there is nothing new under the sun, I chafed. Especially when my conclusions were met with derision but now being voiced and hailed as thinking outside the box.

A dear friend reiterated time and again that a lot of work could be done in this world if one does not mind who gets the credit. True? Very. I still make excuses or alibis because I cannot make judgments on what I cannot know. A red light or green light at the corner of Main street is easy to judge. But to judge a perilous shaky self esteem could be tragic.

A lot is Given by Grace to each of us. The source we cannot know for certain. Yet we know when it is a Given. It is by Grace, a benevolence bestowed I acknowledge often. And my good friend is remembered often when I think. . .

yes, a lot of good can be done in this world if we don’t mind who gets the credit. Thank you Jan, for that gem.

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

November 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.
Straight on Through. . . .

Emile. . . .

‘Do come in,’ she motioned to the visitor.
‘Things are not straightened, but they will be shortly.’

The large home had seen numbers of people
marching through the hall; booming voices, woman whispers,
babies’ tears baptizing the walls and christening the marble.

The gentle woman swished quietly to lead the way;
her skirt evenly hemmed and velvet ribbon
threaded through the eyelet collar.
Her hair glistened with care and was piled
neatly in waves as gentle as she was.

‘Come this way,’ she said as they moved through
a group of people murmuring importantly.
‘They will be going shortly,’ she said.
‘These people won’t be here long. We will take
the table in the corner.’

And they made their way to the table
and looked at each other for the first time.
In her eyes she hoped the pity would not be evident.
Within a moment the guest knew it was. But Emile,
true to the cut of her coat, rejected and dismissed
what she saw.

‘The people here are not for long,’ Emile said.
‘The family has so many parties I cannot keep up. The house
is hardly large enough anymore to hold them all. But soon
it will be quiet. It is getting late and time for them to go.’

The rest of the visit was not a replay of times long gone;
no memory of dreams dreamed or books discussed. No
memory of philosophical turbulence enjoyed.
The guest in time stood up to leave.

‘Emile, it has been a wonderful visit. But I must get home
and see to dinner. We will do this more often.
With so much to do each day, we seldom have time to visit.’

And Emile led the way to the door, rounding the tables
like the lady of the house seeing to everyone’s comfort.

At the curb was a car waiting with a grey haired man
standing by. ‘Hi, Emile! Hope you and Mother
had a good visit. Sure do miss Alan and John now
that they’re gone. We were good buddies.’

Emile waved her hand and puzzled to her guest.
‘He looks familiar, but who is that old man? Is he
the grandfather of one of your children’s friends?’
The old friend took Emile’s hand and said,
‘he is my youngest son, Paul. You remember Paul.’

Emile smiled blankly and withdrew her hand.

‘No ,’ she said. ‘I only know you.’
And she thanked her friend for coming and
promised a neater home for the next visit.
She then firmly closed the door.
Her friend walked down the stairs.
Emile was right for the guests soon followed.

Paul took his mother’s hand and helped her to the car.
He looked at the imposing Home and whispered,
‘I wish we could afford such a place for you.
The Largess is the best retirement home in the state.
And we can only give you a room in our house.’
Sighing, ‘where to my lady?’

And in a clear voice allowing no nonsense, she roared,
‘home, Paul, home! To where I am no guest and do not tire
from using energy to keep a dream alive. Home, Paul, home.’

And the rest of the journey was straight on through.

November 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.
We Take One Step. . . the most difficult. . . .

A moral choice. . . .the long view. . . .

Those of us who dream, have those dreams we hold tightly. And know there has never been time enough for those dreams to be fulfilled. We have made commitments and the needs of those commitments take precedence for whatever humane reason. These commitments take the energy from those dreams and apply it to their cause.

So the girl who wished to write became the mother of children she taught to write. And the girl who cooked for her brothers with creativity has children who benefit from that creativity. She teaches them to use their minds, their hands, in fields and in all weather, the glory of creation.

We are that step ahead because we see progeny encompassing what conscience insisted doing. And they see where commitments made take a portion of dreams dreamed, yet moral choices must be made if worlds are to benefit and progress. Moral choices are a long view.

Is it failure and giving up? No, I think realistic. Genetically deriving their creative heritage, children commit themselves with decision to their own causes and these causes where humans are involved, especially when they have made them, or they rest responsibly on their shoulders, because of even broader commitments.

By their dailiness they will learn even greater things than the world hands out with its glitterati and kudos. The awards will hang on their hearts and not on walls. Those intrinsic values not learned by television, not uttered from another human mouth, they learn early that their hearts teach in ways
the world cannot.

Also learned early that what is not finished here is finished elsewhere. This is the long view, is beyond earth life, whether genetically impregnated or morally ensconced or simply a dream hanging on to their soul stuffs. We will be equal to those dreams of noble quality because they demand dreamers of noble quality.

This is the groundwork, needing footwork. And when comes time for another world, another birthing, another change in the long view, it will be time for another commitment. And other worlds benefit from the dreamer’s dream.

For too long this world has been thought to be the only world. It is long past time to view our species as best with differences being not as good as us. The neighbor praying differently and we who hold diverse thoughts all come dragging feet and open heads from valid worlds.

Death is in our common future. Acceptance, tolerance, forbearance, and above all love should be alive in our humane repertoire. Lest we deliver ourselves to another round of linear Earth life without the comforts we think earned.

We kick start the stagnant evolutionary wheel because we are one within All That Is. Now.

November 11, 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 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.