From an Upper Floor

The Why of a Life. . . .

She was a young friend and unable to see the many aspects of ‘why did I settle for so little?’ with the direction my life took. When the full impact of the time of her birth with the battle for equal rights and the still emerging weight of the question she asked connected, she would know.

It took a lifetime for me to see these aspects of a life making sense. I drew from journals the events that started the journey from the first breath into a family of brothers who hovered and worried about this creature in dresses. And had a mother who if she could would have sent me back to wherever with an ‘I don’t know where she learned that!’ as her mantra.

But circumstances alter cases and turning sour after the birth of my youngest, the hand extended to say it was all right to leave, but I could not take it. I asked who will take care of the children? They grew beneath my heart, so they were mine to care for. And became the jewels of my life, priceless, irreplaceable and with joy.

Unforeseen circumstances demanded constant attention. Heard were the words, I won’t, not mine, I’m late already, you do it, or I can’t with surprised vomiting or alas, pleading the fifth! With a running out the door. I ask again, who will take care of the children? I already knew they were clutched within the hiding places in the big bodies.

We see only a small segment of this linear life. It appears complete but it is vast. In a teaching dream my brother Stanley said to me, look, let’s get this part of life done right! So let’s and as Dr. Heinz my dear doctor said, Veronique! All I can handle is one life at a time!

So we work with this life and try to get it right. Some of us just have more thrown at us that we have to deal with alone. So be it.

The following poem was written in February of 2017. The above mini introduction I hope explains a little the life leading to the poetry.

Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

What’s the harm in it?
one asks, sitting in the sun,
wind lifting tired hair.

She answers, no harm at all,
with two old friends breaking bread.
It is good to recall once fresh dreams.

Everything gained they agree.
Lives lived splendidly according to script.
Lives mortgaged knowingly so the Other
could know their moment in the sun.

They needed to learn they were worthy.
For us it seemed we chose it to be
a time out for us. We raise our cups
in tribute to the great plan enfolding us.

Evolution. . . choosing to make this difference.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

June 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.
When Words Wound. . .Evolution Halts. . . .

Words Wound. . . Evolution Halts. . .

Children are wounded when they first tell a truth that is uncomfortable or embarrassing to their audience. And no doubt it is a much loved parent the child is excitedly telling something.

But realizing they are saying something hurtful or worse laughable when the child speaks his truth, the next time the child is careful to doctor his words. And each time it becomes easier and finally stories change with each telling.

So is born a compulsive liar. Knowing the present version of what they are saying is met with no hostility and is okay, the practice continues.

That they are never believed is a small price to pay compared to the remembered pain of truth telling, which they eventually put to sleep.

I have long thought that to call lying sinful was harsh because lies are told to avoid pain. Lies are a learned behavior to give what information is wanted or more acceptable.

Misdemeanors are different than sins. Sins are different than psychological impairments. And impairments of judgments are not dismissed because lessons must be learned.

It is the deeply wounded child stunted in the adult who continues with the outright lies and dismisses these with a no big deal attitude.

It becomes a way of life and credibility has no meaning since they have never known it. And what you don’t know you cannot relate to and what you don’t know you do not miss.

Children tell truth with no premeditation. It is when they are punished for truth telling which generally is first a verbatim account of where they came from and what they remember. That they learn to whitewash the truth and stories seem more fanciful is no surprise.

What was thought would be ways to alleviate the pain but too often learned was to stay away from the place where the pain was inflicted. Sometimes that is home for the child and therefore becomes a place to run from.

Sometimes people, often parents, are causes and then they too are avoided. Often it is school and the child becomes a dropout. Often also, one does not learn new ways of speaking, but one learns how not to open oneself to more pain.

Evolution grinds to a halt and the adult in his dotage clutches the inner child to his grave. Wars continue and peace becomes a nebulous promise. But it is a work and it begins here, with us.

May 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.
By Whose Authority? . .I Am My Own Authority! .

When this photo came the other day I could see a young woman of stature and maturity in answer to the question ‘By whose authority?. . . whatever the problem. . . . saying firmly that ‘I am my own authority!. . . . ‘ because her ancestry endows her. I give a brief synopsis. . .

Her great great grandmother
the Jenny. . .

to the question by whose authority? ‘Because I said so, that’s why!’
I heard it often enough.

Great Grandmother Veronica when
over 60 years old answered the Literature
Professor. . . .

Not being a member of the Church how do you know what is right to do?
Grandmother great answers. .‘I have a heart and knowledge. I know what is right.’

Grandfather a retired Teacher
of English and Drama and
Grandmother an artist and retired
Teacher of Art

In love with this ongoing surprise of a granddaughter 2 days a week after 3 sons,
enriching her life with words and art and laughing with fun always.

Both parents working to maintain a home and lives of meaning and enrichment for a new family. Hoping also for some rest. This is only half of the picture that is mine to see. This is my side of Emma E. The maternal side I surmise and hope to meet one day is as rich because I know Emma E.’s mother.

Life always holds the sparklers and is balanced. And if in this world plans go askew, in another world they come to fruition. To the question at the top By Whose Authority Do You Speak?. . . Emma E. will answer with a curt, I Am My Own Authority! And she will silence the critic. With this Grandmother Great’s blessing, I assure you.

May 27, 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.
Honed Beliefs Made Manifest. . .purpose of lives lived. . . .

A value system is what is honed by a lifetime or many lifetimes lived as beings, and not necessarily only as the human that we know. It can reflect lifetimes of worlds not visible to the human system of values or cognizance of them. What the value system will show is what has been driven through the heart of one to become what it is they are, who it is they are.

A value system cannot be measured by words, nor can it be described by words. We can say we hold this to be of worth but the meaning to each will differ. What it cannot convey is what the individual’s heart holds as value.

When the values of one are betrayed by someone of worth to the individual, either by words or actions, the eyes will tell you of the hurt the wrong has done. Here again, that hurt to be felt by another, can be understood only when it is within the frame of cognizance, of reference.

Otherwise it will be a matter with little meaning and as easily dismissed as a flick of the wrist. Or a shrug. Aaahhhh they will say, a nothing. No big deal. But a big deal it will be to the one afflicted. It will be a devastation and it will tumble worlds that have taken lifetimes to construct.

Values are gifts we shoulder from one generation to another. The thoughtful ones gather the cores of the worthwhile that enhances the growth of humanity. It begins always within the four walls of where cognizance emerges. It is a responsibility; it is a sacrament.

It is long past the time we treat it as such.

A Belief System. . . .

It is a belief system designed
to hold together an idea.
It floats, this idea,
in the Sea of Tranquility
where the I of me resides.

Someday I will suspend my belief
that holds me to this place
hiding my jewels.

It is a beautiful spot I have made
to hide those jewels and no one
will find them.

They will be forever hidden
in a place no one chooses to look;
the hearts and minds of those who love
this Earth with passion.
Surprised they will be to see
in the palm of their hand

the keys of the kingdom.

The Farm by
Kathy Rybacki Qualiani

The Brothers by Artist
Claudia Hallissey

May 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.
A Divine Surprise. . .

You know what I was thinking I asked my younger this morning. He grinned at me and one arm with hand out flat swooped over his head and then bent to the floor palm out. It meant to me that my explanations are hard to understand. I laughed.

I was only going to say that we have found the right foods for our bear Newfoundland because he is smooth and silky and shiny and his eyes clear and bright. Leroy is one beautiful dog who loves his buddy and is fond of his food lady too.

I am ponderous at times it seems but my humor follows the pattern of my explanations. It takes work I guess to appreciate my puns. But I try, really do.

I came across this poem this morning as a change of pace. I laugh when I read it and hope you do too. It was after I read a journal entry noting that one of my readers said she doesn’t even know the language I use nor the words and thoughts.

She reads and rereads until she feels the weight. I am grateful. She is close to the kingdom because she learns and therefore teaches. I am the perennial student and worship learning. Truly grateful I am for my readers.

Physically Unfit or a Divine Surprise. . .

I muse that a derrick would be useful
for lifting an aging body from a chair
to legs that buckle.

My heart catapults out of its
protective cavity and I observe it
resting carefully in my hand.
Only to feel it pound against the ribs
Adam had broken.

I remember answering a phone with a voice
breathless and sexy as the once famous
Jean Arthur of my youth whom I imitated
by sleeping in front of an open window
in weather forty below.

On flat surfaces which children vacated
I play musical beds to silence
bones that creak.

Darwin is puzzled.
I should not be alive this day complaining
but rather quite dead.

I too, have questioned when entire species
have disappeared and I remain to complain.
But I have learned while he did not,
that the unfit do survive
while heaven still holds the sparklers.

Even to me, I am I find, a divine surprise.

May 21, 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.
Conference With the Sages. . .

As a good friend kept telling me, circumstances alter things. And as birthdays gather behind one, one seeks the comfort places. And at the keyboard with the mind in long conversations with compatriots, companions, in conference and in prayer, it is a comfortable place for me.

I asked Jon Katz of BedlamFarm.com to recommend a book on Kabbalah since he quoted the religion often. What I did not remember ever reading and did not know was that Kabbalah was the religion or practice long before the conforming Jews were praying.

It was a form where what we call Sages were gathering and chasing down their thoughts and giving gratitude for life. One sees the connection in the first chapter of Genesis. Upon their death they were able then to enter what was home.

The Sages when they died would be thought to be as in the next room. They were as close as thinking could be and were visited. Part of the Sages’ knowledge was that they could be visited in graves and could be spoken to and they would answer.

And I too, now sit and converse and religions call it praying as easily as I do right now. The Divine Within is the I Am of the each. We are in conference.

The Road to Damascus. . .

And Paul,
on the road to Damascus, unaware
of forces pulling at his thought,
was none the less surprised.

In the privacy of mind, how could
an invasion of thought not his own
be in conference?
So it is, in the wars of the visible

and invisible worlds, the
supremacy for power does not stop.
Our worlds! Claim the gods. . .
My world! Claims the pilgrim. . .

One in partnership till man
tasted the lust for power.
Lest we lose this,
the best of all classrooms,

brotherhood is still the dream
and our hearts still too unripe
to embrace its benevolence.
But its power of magnetism

still attracts
what prompted this dream,
that catapults us
to give search to the meaning

to the why of us. . . .

May 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.
Later Comes Too Late. . . .

Not now! Later! . . . .

It is time to be reminded not to spend recklessly what we cannot recover. It was a late night comedian we were watching and he was interviewing a married couple who were both American song stylists. Already you know it was some time ago.

Asked how they stayed married for so long (over 25 years and had grown sons) she said, we have never had an indepth conversation! That was my generation’s lifestyle though not everyone’s choice.

This poem has words for those who would like sufficient time to put thoughts on the table to be picked up one by one and allowed to be heard to completion. But what is heard going out the door is, not now! Later!

But later comes too late.

However long the night is. . . .

However long the night is,
is however long we’ll talk.
A tongue dismembered from its throat
is punishment too severe to be humane.

It has taken a life of silence
to filter through its members,
lessons enough for the toughest skin to break.

I have marched with your words
through endless tasks, through nights
not filled with magic.
And heard the harangue from compressed lips
tearing even the plea of forgiveness from Me.

Now I promise.

In the stillness of the life you know
I will come for you. In the light of the night
I will make my way and no walls
will bar my entry. I will sit the night and
across the table a hand will clasp
the one you call your own.

And in the magic of words spoken,
I will listen to the story
built to house lives of wonder.
It has taken too long.

And we the each will speak and listen
and as the words flow like rivers
toward their delta in ribbons of courage,
we will stay the night. And
however long the night is,

is however long we’ll talk.

(haunted forever by a photo such as this when time and place to talk were held sacred. Where and when memory does not reveal.)

photo by John Holmes

May 18, 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 Spoken Moment. . .

The Spoken Moment . . .

There are moments rare in our shared history that are so special that they must be spoken aloud. I have too often not spoken them, and I regret that. Now I speak and they may inspire you to speak yours out loud.

We were sitting at the island between the kitchen and family room and chatting at dinner. Grandson Josh was chef and ably slicing what he had just grilled. He is our chef and just plain good.

We had come through some difficult times and I was grateful to be among family. In my gratitude I blurted out I feel so at home! And Joshua caught my words immediately with chin lifted and carving knife in air responded, you are home, Gram. You are home!

And I knew we were on the same wavelength. It happens and if we are swift to catch these moments, they are ours forever.

When they happen, it behooves us to be aware of them. We know the child or children born to us who are more of one parent than the other. Biology teaches though there is more of the grandparents in the grandchildren than parents, whether human or fruit fly.

So, when everything is in sync, working as it was and I felt at home, Josh responded from the same source as mine. There have been other times in my life when I failed to exclaim my joy fearing to be embarrassing.

My gratitude goes out when feelings sweep over me for shared times. My thank yous are profuse and not expected I am told but regrets are too burdensome for me.

A heart will respond in like manner when it speaks in truth, either in joy or sorrow. It must. The consequences are dire, truly dire, if it does not. Because our names are attached, we must pick up our mistakes.

Owning them, we must repair, however long it takes. Eternity is a long time, so consider it.

To Savor the Minute . . .

Could we take the time to savor
this minute and hold it close?

There will be more minutes but none
more special than this one.

It tells me that you treasure our friendship
to show our true feelings

that connect us, one to the other.
I will remember the marks on my life

you put there when you took time
to rescue the self I thought I lost.

Today I am whole. Forever drawn as a heart
beating steadily as if with an inserted pacemaker,

but with gratitude transcending its beat.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

May 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.
Its Own Amen. . . .

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 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. . . . .

Sometimes it takes awhile and then the words pick their own photo to illustrate their intention. And I cannot find argument just awe. VRH

May 12, 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 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.