From an Upper Floor

For Me, it is Eternity. . . .

I was sitting and looking at our landscaping and thought I must remember this. This is for eternity for me. It was the end of the day and the sun was setting. I feasted my eyes on my surroundings. And my eyes took in every detail and when they fastened on the next door tree of flowers I thought out loud, Look at what the Great God wanted my eyes to see! And not just a bouquet, but a tree of flowers! Goodness, mercy! A tree of flowers, not just a bouquet.. . . .and the sky was fading but the sun stayed on the tree.

And my next thought was of my Mentor, the Nazarene, and his words of Father, forgive them for they know not what they do. . . And we desecrate and decimate our land and pulp it to a nothing. We obliterate the species in numbers and prevent the trees of flowers from succoring us and the species who hover, supporting us.

I have long argued that this planet should have been kept for graduate students. Those who have earned the right to live on her by doing the footwork, not necessarily those only educated by the elite schools of thought but by those educated by our hearts. But the argument was that Earth’s obstacles would be so difficult that the heavens thought this lush land of beauty would soothe and nurture the soul to health and progress and life in all dimensions would benefit.

But it seems in great numbers the sophisticated had soon developed street smarts and were loathe to give up their toys. So now we work hard to keep what we still have and guard with our lives the beauty of this planet while we live so that our progeny will yet taste of her goodness.

And I repeat the words of my mentor and friend, Father, forgive them for they know not what they do. . they know not. . .

August 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.
Apriori. . . (before now). . from where. . . .

Apriori. . . .

Oftentimes what is considered decent, normal behavior we label a success of magnitude. In this world of the aberrant we have lived so long that the decent is a surprise. There are souls among us who have volunteered to help heal this behavior. And have put themselves in jeopardy doing so.

They have known worlds where deeds of good are commonplace, the norm. These are the expected of daily life. These persons are versed to the enth degree with worlds where they are familiar. They are souls born into this world of linear measurement but are already familiar with a thunder rolling quantum god of whom I write.

They are also versed in worlds where decent civilized behavior is mandatory. Here they are met with reckless abandon of institutions which have been centuries in the making and are tossed into what is kindergarten for them. Coming with the intent that growth would be on the agenda, what is now found are the young lost in the maelstrom.

The young expected courage and find spinelessness. They see panic and fright in adults and greed in powerful hands. That icons symbolizing centuries of man’s desire to translate the divine into the material shows that the past is still happening. Not only are the icons being smashed but the humans who built them.

The sibling grandfather, born with the desire to invest in the greater good, was homeschooling his exceptional grandsons and puzzling, asked, why must good behavior be taught while bad seems innate? Are we at home with the bad or is it a result of frustration?

Is it why this Earth is the best classroom in the Universe and we work toward education as a human right for everyone? It is the only way we wipe out bigotry with its stereotypes. Where man notes that please and thank you must be learned, we are surprised that even love for one’s children of one’s body must be learned and demonstrated.

Do you wonder why the latter comes as a surprise and a hesitation to so many? We were told as the twig is bent. . . apriori? From where? It deserves thought. Begin.

August 15, 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.
Favorite Aphorisms. . .

Favorite Aphorisms. . .

We are the cabbage and the rose at once. Earthy and ethereal at once.
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Memories are the bridge to the future.
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To go over the same road again and again, until the pain as well as the joy no longer overwhelms, requires tough love.
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Life was not meant to be a vehicle of convenience. Breathing itself is an imposition of sorts at times.
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Education is a thing of the heart and spirit and no learned institution can impart what is necessary to complete a life.
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Man can strike the essence of what is wrong in an area the heavens cannot reach.
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Man must process an enormous amount of garbage in the place where integration of the human is of vital interest.
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The sounds of mortal life cut deeply and quickly and with great pain to those who have ears to hear.
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Television is the answer to a lifetime prayer for some. To be entertained without having to participate is the ultimate dream.
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It is always more enlightening to apply criticism of an Other’s behavior to oneself.
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Rehearsed rhetoric is a game to use for one’s own justification.
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Humanity’s progress comes quarter inch by quarter inch. Not even baby steps it seems.
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Mass evolution is an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms; never a fact and never a reality.

photo by John S. Hallissey

August 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.
I Don’t Know How To Be Deaf. . .

I had been struggling with the newer hearing aids for over two years. And the audiologists kept saying they are the state of the art but my ears were itching and my brain hurt. It was irritated, my brain was. With the new hearing test, the audiologist said you work very hard at hearing, don’t you? I could have wept with no reserve, I was so relieved someone noticed.

There was more loss in hearing, but he said I can do nothing for your brain. It is not registering always the switch necessary for human voices. And because I focus so deeply on thought to shut out head noises, it is tiring and aging does not have much energy in reserve.

So to engage in conversation with more than one person is very hard work. It is not because I am not paying attention. And when you call and I give someone the phone to talk to you, it is because I do not hear. Not that I don’t want to talk.

I am grateful for the people in my life who help me. Especially family. They allow me space to work my work as long as I draw breath. I hope I am worth my keep.

I Don’t Know How To Be Deaf. . .

I am among you whom I love,
and try to understand your words.
I read your gestures, your body language
and your eyes telling me again
what you wish me to know.

I am desperate to understand.
Your impatience runs through your body
and into mine. Shackled am I
with emotions as mine tumble
with yours and consume me.

We have shared our histories
through decades but now you run ahead of me
and I take my silent world and retreat.
I piece your words, the ones I hear
with a history I secured in mind.

What I have learned to read
by eyes that speak, are words that run
like rivers into each other to form
a crash against walls I hope I did not build.

Aged now, rubbed raw, there is nothing left
to flex against, to tell me how to assuage the deficit.
There is little energy at the end of Now
to make it work. . . no lessons offered
along the way but to be left dumb. . . .

I just don’t know how to be deaf.

August 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.
Time Is Now. . .

Events of this past week have shaken us all. Time is now that changes will be evident. Time is now that much will be demanded. And the young whose memories now of the violence that has taken their friends and innocence will demand restitution and behavior that comes with adulthood.

The children shall lead us. And force the children in adult bodies to grow up and let loose the behaviors that have kept this beautiful planet hostage. It is time and the children shall lead because they have memory. Of the worlds they have come from and where they exhibited behavior that showed accountability.

It is time now for all of us to grow up.

Kindergarten. . .

It is kindergarten, this place of play
that tells us that we are just boys and girls
and everyone wants us to be happy.

And we vow again like Tinker Bell
that we play the girl at heart and
like Peter Pan we will not grow up.

And we are adored to be just as we are.
Never growing up to do those things
of pain we see. Never growing up because
to grow up means to grow old and hurts
not only bodies but feelings we drown in.

There is no one to save us so
to grow old means we die.
We all know that song, don’t we?

There is no fun like ours when we stay young
to play with the wind in our hair and someone
pushing the swings higher and higher.

Nothing is expected then, is there?
Every day is a day to play. And if we are lucky,
we will die in our sleep and never have to think.

We ask, where is the fault in that? Where is the fault?

August 8, 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.
Ripped, severed, broken. . . again . . . .

(I am running out of words and energy at this time nearing the terminus of my life. I find that what I have written in the past of these earth shaking events are words that still wring my heart to shreds. And yours, too. I cannot find other words to tell their story. Our language does not hold them for me. We are heartbroken that there is another occasion to repeat them.)

The day looms with fierce emotions which will lay its colors upon the hearts of mourners forever. It is with little thought given by some that words have great power over the course of our lives. It is we who must teach the children the choice of words must be with care. And we adults who must alter our behavior when our words are met with misunderstanding. Words are the tools of our relationships and must be treated with great respect. The costly consequences are human lives.

The Word Is God. . .

In the beginning was the word
destined to touch the mind of man.
But the prevailing Spirit in its wisdom saw fit
to encumber each with the power to discern.

Meanings floated into space,
shaping themselves to fit the receiving mind.
Reaching their destination,
their shape changed to fit the owner.

Such turbulence! Such uneasiness!
Albeit because the word had taken life and
risen to meet the heart’s need.
The speaker’s heart had taken its intent

and placed upon the Ethers the heart’s desire.
It gathered cadence as it rode
to meet the receiver’s prejudices.
The sender’s intent lay silent, lost.

The heavens only acknowledged
its primordial meaning.
Can it be said in truth that the word be god?
It is.

For within its power to create
it moves with desperation to voice feelings,
to give breath to visions and to heal.
The word created creatures and dynasties,

wars and rebellions, held peace in abeyance
and brought us to life.
So speak softly when speaking.
Words carry the weight of the heart

with intent to topple empires
and worlds and men. In the catalytic movement
of the word, the world’s heart beats,
years are gifted and futures secured.

It is all we have.

August 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.
We Had Such Promise. . . severed still. . . .

August 4, 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 Gate Opens

BOTANIC-GATE TO ENGLISH GARDEN

I wrote ( journal 1985) that what is visible is visible and also what is visible can be chosen not to be seen. The depth of perception depends on our courage and capacity to deal with impending events.

But only as we observe and have knowledge that life is never ending, is everlasting and the challenge is in the journey, no matter what worlds we inhabit, destiny is ours to write. What happens in the world we inhabit is but a reflection of the greater worlds and in greater degree elsewhere.

Unless words find a bed in us, like everlasting and forever come alive, we simply walk a death path and cannot give houseroom to what our actions by omission and commission work upon life.

We repeat the cycle with a difference now. Circumstances will not be as favorable nor the planet as hospitable as it has been. But mistakes will have familiar names and our mistakes will have our names attached.

As children we are taught that unless it can be measured in a laboratory it isn’t real. Yet when we dismiss a vivid experience which changes us, we cheat ourselves when we say it isn’t real. And when our slights or mistakes are not noticed we dismiss those with a who cares?

When we discount a larger reality that physical life cannot include with its linear measure, we are as a non entity but still responsible for our actions. We close a door that has given us a glimpse to this larger reality from the Divine Within.

There are connections between us and our material world. Perspectives are unique, we construct our own realities and connect by shared principles. When we see those connections, we will be able to see the connections between the visible and invisible worlds. And speak of them.

What we struggle with in our country, other countries also struggle. Just as the injustices are rampant here, Russia has jailed 1400 persons for demanding justice in municipal government. Hongkong is in turmoil as is the United Kingdom.

The Universes also tremble. They reflect what happens on our hearths. Strange to our thinking, but here again familiar to those whose eyes and hearts are open. Where is safe? Your head? Your heart?

There is an overriding good that belies the insignificant. The invisible good overshadows all. There is that so good in All that includes us, that nothing is impossible to us. I said long ago , or maybe yesterday in quantum, man is basically good because man has Divine Within. We can enhance life in all Universes.

Because as the boy child said of the Blue Cloths, we are watch-ed. We are watch-ed.

photo by Joe Hallissey Sr.

August 4, 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 Wait Is Too Long. . .

From my eyes. . . .

Father, I said, go greet your son.
And the father did and their arms
wrapped themselves about each other.
And the world was then all right.

From my eyes, from my eyes. . .
And from my heart, I hear . . .

Why did they wait so long?

Heart had given its yes when the son
was given his father’s name.

At this moment,
the stars call you by name,
and the moon searches for you.

The heart has already transposed its own heart
by the songs written and sung
through the night skies.

I hear you love, I hear you and you are singing my song.

March, 1991

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

August 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.
One World At A Time . . .is enough?

Our focus is a small world. . .

When I read this poem I take on another perspective. It is a small world that we focus on here. Never aware that there is another world to the left and one to the right and beneath . Vast. . . I see me holding tight to the frame of thought simply to get through. Still conscious of too many things. I feel like a stick figure when taking on this perspective. And yet my head feels ‘out there.’

I wish we were in class so I could hear your thinking.

We Trod The Path . . .

We trod the path, hunched
and pull our faces in.
We bend our heads. The wind
is strong when you walk into it.

But I take your hand
and we struggle against
the icy rain pelting our faces.

We’ve walked this route
in centuries past, guarding ourselves
from saying too much.

We were different then.
Simple, direct and not fashionable.
We were honest in our appraisal.

We’ve become alien to our prior selves.
And I can’t say it improves us much.

What do you think?

October, 2012

photo by Joe Hallissey Sr.

July 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.