From an Upper Floor

Gleanings. . . a few. . .

Man’s kharma is his dharma, the coin he uses to buy for himself the peace he seeks.
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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.
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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.
Grandparents. . . the best magic. . . .

If I could wave my magic wand and grant a loving wish to all children born into whatever worlds are chosen, I would choose to garnish all wishes with the best wish of all. . . to grant a curious mind. And the curious mind announces its arrival by the first simple ‘why?’

To accompany that mind I would grant loving grandparents down the street to whose arms I would have the child run when life would threaten to overwhelm.

And the child would learn that when the appropriate lessons for community living become a bit much to live with, the grandparents would grant surcease. That pause to refresh that only they could know would do. And bring out the paints and the music and the ideas that flow profusely from them to the child.

For Biology 101 teaches that there is more of the grandparents in the grandchild than either parents, whether we talk of the fruitfly or the human being. Children and grandparents are on the same wavelength.

And therein lies the salvation of the future of our species. For in the embrace of the grandparents lies a wealth of experience that promises the child that this too shall pass. That herein lies what we hold sacred forever. What we learn to do because it is fun to learn, exciting because it is new to us and we can do it! Or because we feel good about ourselves. It makes us feel stretched bigger than we are when we make ourselves better.

And to learn to feel good about ourselves, we will want others to feel good about themselves. So we will do the good thing whenever we have the chance. Until it is always a part of who we are. And it brings to mind, doesn’t it, that this is what being human is all about ?

When we know to do the good thing is what we are born to do, we wear the right thoughts for the mind of the world we are in. And find also when we do it right, we grow into a universal mind. The universal mind being the one that qualifies us for what will be demanded of us.

Amazing that we get parents to teach us what we need to learn and grandparents what we want, to ease what we have to learn. And it all begins with a ‘why?’ . . . . .

photos by Tresy Hallissey. . (grandfather)
they paint and make leaves for the window

December 1, 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.
It Takes A Solomon. . . .a war of words. .

August 30, 1990–I scribed Teacher observation. . . .

When we speak of values we talk of those things making a difference in the single understanding. We do not talk en masse but of individuals and when one does that, one’s footwork begins at home with oneself.

It takes a war of words to begin a lifelong analytical study of oneself. It is not for the timid of heart. It takes a Solomon not to divide but to make whole.

Identify the problem and reveal yourself. . .

When you have identified a problem because you have revealed yours in duplicate, you wonder whether your effort in helping an other’s problem has been worth it. From where we are in all honesty, it cannot.

When you have given of what you value, your thought and energy and time, what you have done is encouraged, prodded and shamed into growth. You have shown a caring that did not yield to pity or sympathy. Both would have deleted the growth.

Your caretaking did not stop at the fears of the one but by high expectations more was done than thought possible. Too often when we identify a problem we think we can fix it. Too often the one to do that has already departed the scene. We can only ameliorate the problem and instill the ability for the individual to find inner strength to overcome the poor self concept feeding the fear. It is no small work that is done on both parts.

What the caring one has done is teach and though the teacher is forgotten the lesson will sustain lifetimes in the making. They will know that a someone sometime loved them enough to press them forward into acquiring something of substance for themselves.

There was a someone in our lives who taught us the value of love, of honor, of commitment and the holy meaning of the weight of words. My memory dims as to who and where but the lessons have been my legacy.

It is an astounding venture of the correctness of things, the meaning of life and the total commitment of the value of the soul and person. No one is irredeemable. No matter what.

With Gratitude. . .

As in all things,
let there be light.
As in all tides
let there be depth,
and in all wind,
let there be motion
that sways us in
thy direction.

November 27, 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.