From an Upper Floor

The Jenny Genes. . . .this Mother’s Day. . .

She was a formidable woman with a bundle of energy having the potential to create another world. She wielded this energy with considerable force. That said, the heavens took note of Jenny and decided that this creature would not be wasted.

And she wasn’t. Hand in glove she pushed her progeny. Told them all what to do and how to do it if they stumbled.

And marched them to church, whatever one was closest because her god lived everywhere, in the barnyard, in the fields, in the orchards and in the house.

She feared the health department would hang a contagious sign on her door unless we were brushed dry with a stiff brush. Altogether, she was a force to contend with.

There were no hugs, no I love you in my childhood. She believed the movie star as I read to her from a magazine that I bought with school milk money when he said he only kissed his children when asleep. He’s right she said. Let other people praise you.

She was in the orphanage at five and did not know of love. She knew of work at eight years because that’s when the foster family took her into their house and barroom to be a live-in helper. She knew that no one feeds you for nothing as she often said.

But memories are built with the security of the aroma of cinnamon breads and mince pies and angel wings with powdered sugar like the dust of stars. She manifested love in the good work of her hands. Home and children squeaked clean of her caring.

The warmth of newly polished stove pipes was sent throughout the house. Everything was fragrant including us children with the scent of Sweetheart soap. Holidays brought the pungent sharpness of evergreen and unbridled excitement of eight siblings.

What the parents didn’t know of love, we siblings brought our histories to teach each other and even our parents. They knew to care for what they brought into the world, best as they could. The public-school nurse marveled at us with our white starched clothes and wondered how our mother managed.

The last days she knew I walked with one foot in other worlds so was able to share openly her departure. It eased closure for us both. I now watch the jenny genes in all her progeny as they reveal themselves.

Not a walk in the park but I hope they find as I have because life demanded it, that she gave to us an unbelievable strength. With gratitude, I am your daughter, Veronica

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

May 10, 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.
Let Your Light So Shine. . . .

Let Your Light So Shine. . .

There are some souls who are among us that simply light up our lives. We often cannot say exactly why but they bring a feeling of it’s okay now, or now we can begin, or simply bring together parts of us that have no putting place.

It’s as if they are sealing together what may fragment at any moment.

They may not be the most beautiful, or the best dressed, or picture what is the most popular in the main stream today. They may smell of baby powder or motor oil or bleach. They may be wearing overalls with rips from what they work on, or flour from what they are cooking or frazzled clothes from a day with teaching a classroom of children.

They may be old and crotchety and disheveled, or they may be well dressed this moment or newly hatched as Emma E. is in this photo. But their eyes are wide and filled with awe at the day’s beginning or end.

They have this air about them as I have stated that fill one with an it is an okay world.

And they smile with a secret you hope they will share with you. They have a knowledge that has escaped you though you have purged the pages of all books searching for words that will be the answer you search for. They have that peace that passes understanding sought by all the religious in the world and their congregations.

Dressed fashionably or disheveled, mussed up or combed, this bundle of love called Emma E. is a welcome addition every time she appears. With her comes hope that the world is okay for this moment and tomorrow will come also with sunshine somewhere. And it will still be a good world.

There are answers for all of us should we take the time and do the footwork. It is our longest journey. Some are freshly minted and young, but come with a history nevertheless. From where, it is up to us to figure out. It is our job, our work, our purpose to learn, while we make a life and a living.

We are god participants in this world. The Divine shines within and our lives must match this inner Light. Some are here to remind us and give hope that we too, can find it.

photo by
Tresy Hallissey, grandfather

May 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.
Work? . . Are we god-enough to do it?. . .

When we are plagued with a problem and have tried everything we can think of and those things we invent and the problem is still with us, we then conclude there is no answer. If there was an answer, the problem would be solvable.

There would be circumscribed ways of doing things and we could impart excitement. With unsolved problems comes hope that somehow, someone, some way will come up with something to solve a situation that has not been thought of, has not been tried.

That is why hope springs eternal. Not because a god will step in but that man with his many ways and histories, will bring together thinking that may yet save a people, a species, a planet.

Hope that what has not been tried before or tried before with no results, a someone will come forth to overcome a barrier and the unthinkable, the impossible and the unlikely this time will work.

When it is a person problem, we will forgive and all will be forgiven.   We will have unlocked the door that bars entry for the pilgrim and we will be hailed the miracle.

To create peace within chaos will bring diverse peoples together. If only within our house and that would be all that is necessary. For if just one place has peace within its walls, all places would eventually have peace.

But we must do the footwork, be the ones to do this work as if fatigue is no problem. For the ones who have used all psychological devices and reasons know if they see it to do, it is theirs to do.   Others may walk by and see nothing.     What to lose? Nothing.   What to gain? Everything.

We may feel we are carrying the whole load but we know if we have been given sight, we must use it.   Others may be handicapped in ways not visible. If we continue to think that it is somebody else’s job, we are the loser.

If we see it to do, and it is not getting done, it is ours to do.   Simple as that. This is our world. It is our present.

We will not be tired for long because we know the why of what we do. When we do for one, we do for all and we are another step closer to brotherhood.

But we were told that. Ours to do because we see it. Are we god-enough to do it?

Hardest Lesson. . .

They don’t know yet,
the ones closest to me, friends and all. . .
why I do things the way I do.

It is because I know the good
in the work and the beauty in the body
doing what mind tells it to do.

It is a dance, a mind and body ballet.
It has taken centuries of many lives
to learn and it was no simple matter.

The hardest thing to purge was thinking
I was above doing such menial work.
While all the time I had to learn

how to be god-enough to do it.

photo by Kathy Qualiana

May 5, 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.
Roses and Evergreens. . . what happened to the dream?

We Are The God Participants and We Carry the Dream. . . .

My stamina is low or nil. I think I can do something because my head envisions, but my body does not follow. I spend time now waiting for this national nightmare to end and find others adding to the nightmare. I had such good hope for our officials and find that they are less, less than what they portrayed.

I seem to be not a good judge of character in this life. What should be ethical and lawful behavior is not the official frame of reference.

Am I gullible and naïve and unrealistic as to what keeps this world turning? Hopelessly out of step as I was called? But I still hold that what I consider good and ethical behavior on my part is what I expect of others also.

Is it so out of thought in this day? When it makes my mouth gape open stupidly and I am without words, does it show ignorance or shock at what I view?

Whose world is it I mirror? What do I hold highest and best and ethical? Am I so out of step? Yet because I frame the question, I know the answer. And I am in shock. I cannot believe what my eyes are seeing and what I am hearing. Do you not see it also? I ask you, do you not hear it also?

Why is it I cringe with open mouth? Why am I aghast? I am almost a hundred years old minus a bit over a decade. Yet appalled and embarrassed because I see a lack of character and cannot see a future for my progeny without a country whose constructs are honesty, courage, truth with love for its genesis that conceived its birth. Do I not speak clearly?

It goes against who I am born into this life with a head that had memory of some places elsewhere. And yet knowing this country would be a paradise for me because nowhere was there such a place of lush growth, evergreens and roses, and such high hopes with my word being my truth, my honor and my bond.

Yet watching what goes on within my government and listening to officials answering questions with whatever is convenient in the moment, makes me see once again my Mentor sparking blue with anger and turning over the money tables shouting Liars, ye are all Liars!

What happened to the dream? This has been such a hard time. That I am disheartened would be a mild statement. When I know we are the god participants of this Earth and the reason it either works or does not. And we might be the reason it goes down the tube again.

What do I want to hear? I am not sure I am equal to anything at the moment. Not sure at all.

May 3, 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 Mind’s Residual. . . .

The Heavens open momentarily and close but the glimpses from the views linger and haunt one forever.

****

The Self wills but the human spirit cannot be legislated. Statistics are meant to sell beer.

*****

It is not the Mystery of Life which stunts man and does not beguile him to further thought. It is the work involved.

*****

It is not easy for Wendy to become Tinkerbell in one fell swoop. Not without destroying Peter Pan in that one fell swoop.

*****

The long face of gloom does not become the human at all in the face of so many small victories, but the constant smile bespeaks an empty head too.

*****

Those who claim good mental health have it only as long as they keep themselves wrapped in their illusions free from self examination.

*****

Considering the condition of the world and considering who we confine to psychiatric wards, the question should arise how does one define who is mad in a mad society?

*****

For one to see with eyes that wrench the closet full of tears open to view is to others an invasion of privacy

*****

Speak the heart and in like silence the heart will respond. In matters of the heart, doubt not.

*****

Bless the elements of design for they are all inclusive.

*****

What seems like a tragedy in the absurd and obscure indeed is a well thought out and prescribed drama.

photo by John S. Hallissey

May 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.
Rituals and Habits, A Practice of Life. . . . .

Habits. . .

The thud of the back door
as it swings shut, the sound of keys
clinking to their place on the stairs,
tell me even in my sleep, that you are home.

Small things noted,
giving rise to habits observed,
a sense of ritual to a life filled with them.

We continue rituals,
for without them is lost our practice of life.
We continue to do those things over and over,
for if we miss once, we may lose us
whom only we know.

And we do not trust ourselves enough
to know when a thing is good.

People differ in thought about rituals. Many, who lean toward independence, prefer the spontaneity of their lives. For me, whose head wanders worlds uncharted with no clock or linear times to claim my intentions, rituals are necessary to navigate a particular world. It is good for me to note the changing seasons, as it is to follow what the inhabitants are doing as the saying goes, in whatever world.

For some, rituals are compulsive and for those, they are an anchor. Habits show customs and rules for where I am. Rituals begin my day and close it. And allows my head the freedom to explore what piques my interest without boundaries. Rituals have helped me be at home where I find myself. And by adhering to them, I find myself welcomed.

April 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.
A Heart’s Commitments. . . .

A Given . . .

There comes to mind
in the space of time a leverage. . .
gaining for one a semblance of peace.

Silly, it sometimes is when the purpose
of life is to regain and reclaim this right.
It is of no consequence now in the sleeping hours

of a lifetime that knowledge becomes loose.
Here we sit and wait for life to be infused
but what is needed is simply to release

and be released. For this time now. . . .
look to the weaving of a lifetime’s pattern
and see the beautiful results

of a heart’s commitments. . .

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

. .

April 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.
Painful Perspectives. . .

The tablet is yellowed and the typed pages, crisped with age. The year is 1979 and I had to use my calculator to see that it is now 40 years old. But yesterday I read in a brochure for a health magazine that one of its articles states that the brain does not know how old you are and nor does it care.

All it wants from you is stimulation to keep dementia at bay. Well, since I have been told that I know not how to play like others but I consider it a luxury and play to do what I do when commitments no longer command, I can help out my brain.

I had just walked Princess, my German Shepherd and was doing an entry.

I felt I had mucked out my head by confronting problems but wondering from which perspective the confrontation comes. Was it a pitying pearl or an honest one by excusing others and justifying myself? I was 48 at the time, mother of three 20 something sons in varying stages of crises with a part time job that had become 10 and 12 hour days.

And I had made a gargantuan decision to defy an arguing mate to leave the family business at the end of the year. Whatever happened would and I would meet it best as possible. With the kind of head sitting on my shoulders, a job dealing with other people’s money was not good for me. I read the following. . .

(As I walked my steps ate up the sidewalk. I looked at the tree shaded street and thought it was not the street I had walked hundreds of times before. In the shadows the houses were not familiar and the street lights spatial and I wondered if Princess and I were walking in another dimension. Could we be focused elsewhere?

The legs were walking and counting off steps with familiarity, yet the brain had difficulty identifying the street segment. It wasn’t with relief that we reached the intersection with things familiar because somehow I knew we were correct in direction. It felt truly that we had briefly catapulted elsewhere yet sweetly focused.

Or possibly a bridge I walked with a foot on either side? Legs walking but much aware that all is not what appears to be. And marvelously comfortable with these perceptions.)

This entry was the first I have come across with a description of how my head works in words to be read. I may have written so previously, but these words jumped out. Other times now come to mind and I wonder the survival and painful coping techniques of differing perspectives.

Couched Memories. . .

Memories couched in images
struggle to be freed
of the encumbrances that
stressful generations had chained in irons.

So glad for the mind eager
to struggle also, but for the knowledge
to set free the life of fear.

Reading into all chambers
the ultimate on freedom,
the mind of its own volition

listens to its own teacher.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

April 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.
Our Connection To All That Is. . . .

We Honor Your Life

(Sometimes there is a need to be reminded of the good the best of Mankind does and this is one of those times. This essay was one of the first I did for my blog and there may be new readers who missed this. In these times when we have been stressed in ways not known before, we offer our gratitude to those who have dedicated their lives to better the greater life. Our lives have benefited and our gratitude extends to the families for generously sharing what was theirs.)

I received an e mail with photos of several large elephants making their way to the home of a man who had befriended them. This person was Lawrence Anthony who spent his life caring for elephants in South Africa. His death occurred on March 7, 2012.

Two days after he died, elephants showed up at his home led by 2 large matriarchs. Up to 31 of them walked over 12 miles to pay homage to his family. The question was asked how did they know of the death of this friend and how did the word spread.

Growing up on The Farm I saw old farmers in the area in direct communication with their animals not only verbally but with body language. There was a symbiotic relationship between them and they were of one heart.

This is how word spreads in the wild or anywhere when the relationship is of heart and is understood. Our vocabulary has no word for this.

Having read where some dogs have the intelligence of a 2 or 3 year old toddler, I am in awe. As one who has talked to animals, mostly dogs, and listens to them, they tune me out as often as children do when they see no evidence of need.

Elephants paying homage to their friend, is not surprising. We are all connected. There is a common thread that unites all to all. Most of the world believes that souls can participate in physical life by sending a fragment of their souls to inhabit life at some level. Western culture is a small segment that does not hold this belief.

Elephants, most jungle life, dolphins, whales and others, have long been known to have language and systems of thought. We cannot close out whole systems of life simply because we do not understand them. Those who spend their lives in service to an assembly of creatures have learned to understand them.

Lawrence Anthony communicated at a level that went deeper than most people’s understanding of deep. This connection to all life, to All That Is, is in everything. I have written to say God in a Rock and beneath it also.

Earth day is upon us. Every day has too many of us shaking our heads and saying it is a mystery when something happens when we should be framing the questions and looking for explanations to why or how. You are worthy of answers. Do you have courage to ask the questions? I know it is hard work. I know.

April 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.
Everlasting Life: caterpillar to butterfly. . . .

In this spiritual week for us so inclined, memory is mine of those who have transited from my life. All my beloveds come to mind, but one incident from the children’s younger days stays with me with more clarity because of my path.

I was standing at the door of the room shared by the two older boys. The eldest was working at the desk which was a veneer door on wrought iron legs to serve both. (memory details stay) Our David was lying on his bed and his legs walking the wall which I have seen him do many times.

He was lecturing to us of his dreams. I wish, he said, to be a star in the sky in some future where I can shine down and give energy to whoever needs it to live. He was about thirteen or so at the time and I stood there absorbing this idea and wondering at this child. I see the time vividly inked on my mind.

His was a different head on his shoulders. Coming to mind also is a psychic friend in her seventies when she and I discussed again life after death. She wanted to be whoever she was then forever because her identity was locked into who she was. But then I said the caterpillar would never be a butterfly.

If a mushroom and a daffodil come up blooming life after life could she be right? Or perhaps the mushroom one day becomes the daffodil? Like the caterpillar becomes the butterfly? I like to think I graduate after giving what I hope is my very best to these times.

There is time and space for all thought and life is kind to grant dearest wishes. And fairly balanced for consequences to redo our calculated and unwitting behaviors. That, too.

Taking the Nazarene as my Mentor through this life, I have pulled everything through my heart. Which probably explains two cardiac arrests. It has not been a walk in the park.

But I wonder if faith had been in my carpetbag would life been easier this time and then I think of a beloved whose life with heavy burdens and her faith been more bearable with a head like mine.

The Teacher said only my head would frame the question.

A Truth. . .

I was told
that life is everlasting,
everlasting and everlasting.

And when my mind and my heart
and the fabric of who I am accepted this statement,
I found I was very tired.

I am reminded that still to come
are worlds of promise
whose substance I have only glimpsed.

I, too, remember the eagerness to taste of the apple.

April 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.