From an Upper Floor

Truth is Costly. . . when pulled through the heart.

After watching Rachel Maddow last night with her interview with Mary Trump, I would like them to know of my gratitude and the gratitude and envy of all who watched MSNBC; viewers like me and their professional colleagues.

I think Rachel is an excellent teacher and should she teach in some classroom in another world still , I would find my way to her and sign up for every class she teaches. She sees connections like I do but I am tired of seeing connections for almost a hundred years.

It was an eloquent hour last night with a cost unfathomable. So much hung in the balance that required high wire steadiness, that even a few moments of banter with Lawrence O’Donnell was too costly as has been her practice. It is not often our gift to see such professionalism and I hope the thunderous silence at conclusion, carried the world’s gratitude to the two women.

Rachel’s questions were thoughtful and ones we wanted to ask. Mary Trump’s answers were answered in the same tenor. Much was in legal balance and consideration. There was extreme understatement by Mary in her professionalism as well as familial empathy. The dynamics in her family situation must have weighed heavily in the writing of this treatise.

What those who have lived long and introverted lives as I have, wondered, what understanding can we bring to our progeny to explain what we have learned simply by living and observing. And to keep loving those who brought us life for which we are grateful. Yet, it is a predicament because we see our fateful flaws caused by prejudiced perceptions in our upbringing as well as the careless emotional neglect we experienced.

And we cannot teach what we have not learned. Love and caring should be the security blanket we are first wrapped in at birth. And when the mother and father gods fail us, pray that there will be someone at hand who cares enough to love us. Someone has to do the footwork.

I was proud of my gender again last night. It was in awe of the tremendous courage for both to do such a professional work that those in their walks were envious. And should life demand of these colleagues such courage, they hope they would be ready.

Scholars, both Rachel and Mary, who showed why dedication to truth is arduous and costly when pulled through the heart.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

July 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.
The Simple Often Says It Right. . . .

The Jenny Genes are rightly sometimes a curse as well as blessing. It drives this writer to despair when the right word evades and the curse begins its perseverance work on me. And search I do for the precise word. For there is of course we think a precise word for everything. We search through the day and half the night compelling the word appear. Eventually we give up and lo! The imprecise simple one is used and the heavens moan in relief. And so the reader leaves the dictionary lay where it is. We all take victories where we can.

The Right Words. . .

She said the right words to the beloved.
Suck the fear out of it; it is the only way to go.

Because every morning throughout the world,
man does his ablutions in the privacy of the bush,
in the privacy of his very expensive room,
or in a modest place wherever he lives.

And hopes he releases his fear before
he appears to face beloveds and the day
overtakes him, leaving him soiled.

He whispered,. . . that is the way it is. . .
suck the fear out of it.

I don’t want a dead bird hanging
around my neck for the rest of eternity.
There is no final place but a place of becoming.

It is life everlasting in all its measures.

July 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.
Connections I know. . .

And you will know also. . .

Nine years ago, when I was 80, a grandson said I should do a blog. Not knowing what a blog was, he proceeded to teach me. This perennial student did not want to disappoint the good teacher. Edited here is one of the early posts where I try to explain my views. For those who missed the first years I hope this helps to understand from where I come.

On Connections

‘This is an idea spoken of since man first began to think about the purpose of life. Or perhaps his purpose on this planet. It deals with the idea that every thing is connected throughout the Ethers. That nothing happens in and of itself but is the result of an action happening because of a previous action elsewhere. However long ago. Our purpose, however wrought with meaning as we think or not, is the result of perhaps a stone let loose on some distant hill, rolling and crashing onto a field. The storm in the night is the result perhaps of an argument lamenting the arduous activity of sea lions in some obscure waters. The idea remains cleverly innate in heads looking for reasons to believe that of itself nothing exists. We are connected, one to another and one event tied us tightly to all of life. It is with this idea in mind that this poem came to be.’

Because I Know. . . .

I see worlds in motion
taking a portion of each one’s talent
for their own survival.

This is what I do with my hands.
This motion of knitting yarns to form
a piece of world to fit the mind
of an elusive soul.

See here, I, content in what I do.
I free a soul to do the Great God’s bidding
in keeping a world in motion.

See again. . . I give of my Self in this time,
to free an Other to build what may be
the perfect Universe or many.

So content that this time is mine to see
a great plan, a strategy, yet unheard.
It may not be for centuries that

that my knitting fingers will alert the senses
of a soul to keep in motion
a Life, a Being, an Idea.

Sit here with me. . .and show my hands
what to do and they will do. The task so simple
will gather other talents and make for itself
the grand design, futures down the line.

A bidding, the nature of what
has never been seen before.
I know it and because I know

you will know it also.

July 11, 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.
And This Is What He ‘Membered. . .’cause It Is True. . . .

And I heard the young one say, and I know this true, he said, that this lady likes to work with blue cloths is ‘cause he said, that she said this is what heaven is like.   And I want to know he said,   how does she know?

And I told him that some people just know things,  not guess or they believe,   but they know.   What do you think heaven is like I asked him.   What do you think?

And he said I ‘membered ‘cause I only 5 fingers old, and she was right.   What he ‘membered was that the colors of everything was so bright, even brighter he said than the sun or even, he said, the moon in the night sky when everything else is black.

Then you know,   I said to him, you know.

And he said then that there were lots of things he knowed, but he did not like to say ‘cause other kids said it was baby stuff.   But he knowed, he said, he knowed and this lady also knowed he said.

Do you like the colors she uses, I asked.   And he said this is what he ‘membered and they are true.

July 7, 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 Build On Words. . . .

I have not been much of a television watcher but in retrospect I realize more people than not were. Not only watchers but some inadvertently imitators. Young girls mimicked teen agers with inflections and tones and even lilting questions at the end of sentences. Not knowing nuances but inflections their phrasings created.

Immature emotions in adult bodies were suggesting behaviors to others and I witless knew nothing except words which told me meanings learned with root honesty. I took words as they meant to me with no sophistication.

Sophistication is easily learned and ten year olds do so readily. Words and action intertwine easily in free society and become reality with a foreign substance. Television as well as the written word took on boldness which gave license to sensual behavior adopted by the young and old alike. It was called freedom from Victorian strictures but what it also did was put licentious behavior into the realm of normal.

Even the so called adults were greedily grabbing at what they thought the young were freely given what they had not. To view what we highly thought of elder role models suddenly becoming teen agers in acting out fantasies became doubly difficult.

Not only having no role models show what proper public behavior should be but also needing society to change perception as to accepting that improper behavior as okay in the so called role models themselves. Difficult? How to have the young with little experience know when what we say is not demonstrated by what we do?

To have those in high office exploit the young or take advantage of the less educated to the sophisticated ways of those who today are knowingly playing a game is criminal and immoral behavior. Our conscience should give us no rest.

Everyone who is manipulated feels they are played the fool. It goes by the name of PR. When honest it is building public relations, when not, it is a persuaded response, whatever one tries to sell and it could be ulterior or ‘not good.’

One cannot have a life with meaning when life becomes a game. It must be taken personally. Everything must be taken personally. Otherwise it is a slippery walk through with no meaning.

Verbal Juxtaposition. . .

I speak the words, hesitantly
and on my pauses
their meaning weighs heavily.

You take my words
and on my pauses your meaning
rests on your totality.

We touch at points,
harvesting our realities
singularly.

Astonishing
to see how we differ, yet amazing
to see the world we’ve created

moving magnificently.

June 30, 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.
A divine observation. . . .

A divine observation. . .

You take love
and wear as pearls.

Shiny tears they once were.
Shiny tears,

but they fell
to your breast

and now they are gems. . . .

gems. . . .

June 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.
This I Know. . because I learned. . .

This I Know. . . because I learned. . .

Only with deeper understanding is there any basis for understanding.
*****
To love oneself presumes a selfishness man cannot abide in himself.
*****
Yet to be selfish presents an attitude of self acceptance, of tolerance that can only begin to be outward in the employment of attitude toward one’s neighbor, the Other.
*****
Unless emotional excesses, like ancient affronts are released, they will continue to be genetically transmissible.
*****
The split in man is so dichotomous, that his life is one mass of contradictions.
*****
When advancing age stiffens the limbs and makes the mind less elastic, we will find the inner ear listening to what the heart stirs.
*****
To say it is mine to do and do it is to take the bull by the horns. And to say I will take responsibility for it is to tame the bull.
*****
Where will the young generation turn if not to those who pride themselves that their advancing years have brought a degree of wisdom?
*****
Who is going to teach when all about are denying that they are getting older, never mind wiser?
*****
Why is it considered cool to say you ‘know nothing’ when your body shouts your age to say you should have learned something?
*****
When our years pile upon us, why do we feel embarrassed when our experience has taught and we learned from it, to say ‘this I know.’
****
The persuasive voice is well trained to manipulate. Today we call it selling.

photo by Kathy Qualiana

June 25, 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.
Love Is Reason Enough . . . . for sisters. . .

I look upon this photo and am grateful that what my life emphasized is factual for me in this moment of time. That what was crucial to our sons’ lives is what I see in their progeny and therefore, mine.

When asked when mountains became impossible to climb how to go on, I said there were three good reasons. Tresy, David and John. They were all I needed no matter how high the mountains . Not climbed poetically, delicately, or gracefully, but lumbering mostly. With this photo, I have what I need to see.

The sisters portray exquisitely what love does. Its power and capability is evidenced. Bedded in love they will grow in love. They are loved wisely and well as their parents were so loved. And showed. Made a difference? A big difference.

Generations previous show us what poverty burglarizes. Too many generations have looked upon children as simply clones stealing what little they were given. Love and education mainly. Food, clothing and weather protection being important of course, but crucial to well being and emotional growth are nutrients for the human spirit.

To catch a moment such as this gives hope. This is a heart moment for Emma E. and a safe arrival and moment for Norah Claire.

They portray everything poignant and alive with meaning. They are a visual blessing.

photo by Merideth Hallissey . . parent

June 23, 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 Strange Bequest. . . .

Tomorrow is Father’s Day and this is a late regret to chalk up to a life in ebbtide. But with the head on my shoulders today, I wish there had been times to talk of heart concerns. Life was to be mountains for me to climb and I could have used his hand to hold. Talk while you both are within arm’s reach.

The Strange Bequest. . .

There was a man, a slim man,
whose head was bedecked
with a white cloud and
whose eyes saw dreams
he could not articulate.

He sat one day staring into space
and when I questioned him, he said
‘I am sitting and watching the grass grow.’
I hesitated far too long and have lived to regret it.

I wish the courage had been mine
to have asked him to share his dreams with me.
For he bequeathed to me a mind
that does not rest.

I have the thought that his father and
father before him wrestled
the same misty vision which now
is mine to set in motion.

I question this strange bequest,
for I have not the staunch heart required
to lay to rest my ancestor’s anguish.

Papa, I plead now,
to replace my heart with hot ore,
inject me with a vial of celestial courage,
to fuse my spine with tempered steel.

There is so little time.

June 21, 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.
a soft goodnight. . . . .

A soft goodnight . . .

as night arrives and blankets all,
we take rest that is ours
and allow it to heal . . .

for it is no small thing given
but as with all, we use what is ours
and gently put the day to bed .

the night still arrives on tender paws
to silence even the heart’s beating.
it is a soft bed we enter. . .

the day will have its demands
with another morning borning,
still we use our hearts .

never to disregard thought,
but hearts must be followed.
so we take the night, love, and

wing it to the place of recovery and,
and bless. . . sometimes it is all we can do . . .

journal entry 6 april, 1989
formatted 6.17.2020

photo Joe Hallissey Sr. 2012

June 18, 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.