From an Upper Floor

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.
Conduit For Good. . . .

Conduit For Good. . . .

We have all heard go back to where you came from in the past weeks and have been hurt and scarred and taken umbrage with the phrase. For me, being where I am in life, I say, Sir, we all go back to where we came from eventually.

Today being Sunday, a large portion of the world will be in different houses of worship. And in our minds is the final appointment we all keep and it will be a similar place we meet. In what condition we arrive will depend on the route we travel.

Some of us today will meet in cathedrals, some in abandoned stores, some in plain houses and some in a corner where we hope for quiet to think. We kneel, we stand, but we all lift our faces to our Source from where we come. Our Source is cosmic, Sir.

I, at the end of my life hope that I have been a conduit for good. Uppermost in my life I have tried to fulfill what I saw to do and hope that I have. I have been conscious of commitments of obligation and love. My Teachers have stressed their lessons of do what is directly in front of you with the adage of what good to save the world when your own house is falling apart.

That does not give awards to hang on your walls but they do hang on your heart. And one also has the gratitude of the hospitals, the police, the civic halls of justice, the remedial teachers and social workers and all those who play hammock to catch the fallout when we neglect what is our responsibility.

Besides the gratitude of our children who need the presence of a parent or grandparent or someone waiting for them to come home. Welcoming arms are a blessed gift to coming home.

This conduit for good doesn’t buy exotic trips, 5 star hotels, red carpet treatment in countries with laundered monies to buy decadent favors, but we teach values such as respect for family and neighbors and life in various forms. We teach how to be careful of rituals where cultures have strived for centuries to survive, but mostly we have loved one another and held life sacred.

Because what comes out the front door of homes (not houses) where children are raised and taught in love will determine what happens on world stages. It is a small world after all. And the devices have become deadly.

It is a simple thing to be a conduit for good. It starts with thought to do the kind and decent thing now. We all can do that. You find loving the hard thing to do? Fake it till you make it was the phrase when I was growing up. It works. But conduit for good? Starts right now.

July 28, 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.
In The Quiet Of This Night. . . . . .

In The Quiet Of This Night. . .

In the quiet of this night,
come to me and we will hold hands
and talk, and I will show you
from how high up you jumped.

The night will love you and
envelop you and you will find that
in the cold moon there is a heat
that sustains to show you where your home is.

Within the skirts of who you are, you will
gather the children around you
and we will love each other.
The heart knows its own Amen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

From the Psalms of Love for sale on Amazon

July 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.
Worn Like A Second Skin. . . . .

The Teacher says do not worry about what others think. They just think differently. And this difference lends a diversity to life that will peal our heart and make us wish to be among humans living time and again.

We will wish to work within the limitations, knowing that the things we have learned are tied to the heart and not to the outward conformations. That what we have learned has been written into the fabric of who we are, that no matter who we are, we will not forget ever.

For a time things are lost but they are found time and again. And at some time peace is made with who and what we are. What we’ve learned we’ve worn like a second skin.

The application of a philosophy is hard work. And the hard work must begin with the stripping of who we are and what we do. When we send crossed signals and the emotional response is too extreme, we are not getting our story across.

When our mouths are saying one thing and our actions another, the disparity will be seen especially by our children. When the dichotomy is healed within because the philosophy has been worked on, the memories will help us survive during our last times to make life of better quality.

Medications keep our hearts going but not in the manner where the operation of the brain would be intact. Our brains need our footwork.

A good place to start is with the word ‘why?’. Always a good place. Open a book and start running.

In These Sweet Hours. . .

In these sweet hours of the morning,
I sit in my chair, borrowed
from another room, where old bones
had not yet broken it in;
missing the familiar one,
much loved but grown musty.

Like me, I think old and
with thoughts well worn but
suitable for the mind
inhabiting them.
They’ve stood the test of years
that proved their mettle.

They’ve worn their courage
to the extreme and now will go
into the pages and take their place
as reference to a time long gone
but stable. They worked.

They upheld customs and behaviors
and civilizations. And families
when they could have crumbled
never to be restored.

But when hand crafted was
a work of pride, so was the work
of the mind. . . .

stored now like vintage wine.. . .

July 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.