From an Upper Floor

In Memory. . . Once Upon A Time. . . .

Still with talk across the dinner table I asked this philosopher-legal how my philosophy sounded to his professional ear. Well, he said, it is not new and I have heard it before, Plato, for instance. Uncredentialed and unbelieving, I still gulp. In memory, this day, of his leaving this Earth, we consider ourselves forever privileged to have known him as David Hallissey.

Once upon a time. . . .

As before, this is going to start out once upon a time when humans took form, there was an openness about them that we say was almost biblical. Until the fig leaf was needed.

When man first walked he knew from where he came. It was a large picture he held. In the classic Iliad, the gods involved with the physical characters were in various stages of growth. Both gods and angels created.

What is considered myth by the educated was really an openness that was not a something everyone enjoyed. There was a time when it was but came the nemesis of dis-ease, of fear, of flight and of desire and the brain’s doors were closed.

To this day a handful of mavericks with open heads are employed, scattered among the populace wearing the costumes of the day. They are depended on heavily.

What should have been a rapid rate of growth is a snail’s pace. The grinding of the mills is studious, well intentioned not to upset those who cannot handle the subject at all.

Survival has become the prime reason for being. Just to breathe and keep living being goal for both animal and human. One does not change horses in the middle of the stream unless the horse becomes too painful to ride and rides the rider. Change is then necessary.

Genetic manipulation has the strongest surviving. The how must answer in the head of the one needing to know. The picture of this planet must be a priority when negotiating for changes. This is the school for learning the rudiments of behavior for universal existence.

We broaden the premise from earth life to life elsewhere, other worlds. If a closed physical system is preferred and we all transit, more thought must be given to where.

If nothing but clouds are in mind, we must consider harp lessons since heaven is waitlisted with guitar players.

Overheard . . .

I hear them say. . .

I cannot follow
what she says all the time.

And you say. . .

I don’t either all the time,
so don’t blame yourself. . .

But then I hear. . .

But she says things I know are true
and I think I only
could know them. . .

And you say. . .

that is why she can say
what only you know to be true,
because she has been
to all these places
we don’t understand . . .

And you say. . .

I can only wonder how long
it took all those doors

to open for her. . .

March 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.
The Bread of Life. . .

Books, Learning. . . . Bread of Life. . . .

If asked if the journey was worth it, seeing how many dreams found not their time, what would I say? Looking at these two photos that came within two or so weeks of each other, I would have to say the legacy is priceless.

The mountains climbed, the roads thrashed out and the bulrushes piled and ready for pickup, I would have to say it took every bit of what I did plus everyone else’s journey, all who have been a part of this little person’s history, to create this Being to get to this day.

No one’s input is diminished nor history dismissed in the genetic ingredients creating Emma E. Other members will have their faiths and abilities to claim. There are many with reason, who do not view as crucial, the children of this world. Yet the cosmic sages view the four walls of the natal chambers as determining the futures of all worlds.

Emma E. is Hope personified. She is reason to keep this Earth classroom alive and thriving so the soul of who she is and who she will grow to Be has a chance to become what she destines.

This has to be the bigger picture we have in mind all the time. That each child in each generation is given the welcome with love and time as their birthright. And the means to be fed both body and mind for not only sustenance to survive but to thrive and expand their focus.

Beyond expectation because we don’t know yet what we are to become. The last chapter is not writ ever. And no laboratory nor scientist has the final word. For there is no final anything.

Emma E. already has opened the way to abundant life.
Her love of books, of learning has made her purpose clear.

The purpose of life is to learn. But we always knew
that, didn’t we?

Why did we forget?

Photos by
Claudia and Joseph Hallissey
(grandparents)

March 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.
In The Mirror Is The Answer. . .

In The Mirror Is The Answer. . . .

THE TEACHER SPEAKS. . . .It is useless to say that we can be non judgmental when we make judgments of necessity all day long. What we must not judge are the places an Other comes from when we look upon cultural ways.

When we understand the cultures of other people, we then begin to understand ourselves. But we know too, just as the decisions concerning our personal behavior are a matter of conscious choice when we reach the age of discernment, then we know too, to hide behind cultural practices is begging the question.

When we decide how it is we are going to approach the questions of life, we then begin to know where it is we are coming from. If we sidestep ‘just this one time’ we are already setting the basis for future behavior.

Matters of character are personal decisions. They are not based on anything except as we view ourselves. And character is the basis for everyone. And character is formed early, within the safety net of the family. What is let go ‘just this time’ with no comment, is not to be viewed later with the question ‘how did this happen?’ when confronted with the larger implications.

This implies that we are going to grow up, that we are going to mature at some point. What is being said is that the process is never ending, never finished. For along all junctions we will be pressed with character questions. We will be expected to make character decisions. And the final questions will always reside within the individual, ‘what will this say of me?’

In the process we know that we can fool no one. Especially the one whom we look at in the bathroom mirror first thing in the day.

We know, know deep within us that we cannot be a better anything than we can be a person.

Small Bear or Large Cub. . .

We can interchange our adjectives
and the words take on different meanings,
depending on our frame of reference.

We may find that bigotry is the same as
prejudiced preferences and my color
may be other than what you are.

It is quite right for where you are, if that is
all right with you. But I ask will you clean house
and set straight your attitudes

so you can say gay with no malice?

art by Claudia Hallissey

March 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.
You Were Wondering. . . Mystic in Today’s World?. . .

I am often asked where ideas come from. In reviewing my life with journals (why was I so detailed about feelings?) I see where poetry came to life. I seem to have lived a life in conference, in conversation on a level understood with matched souls.

The photo is of our home for 45 years and I tried to explain to my oldest brother my feelings. I wrote ‘the walls hold the sounds of my beloveds. The hurts, the laughter, the tears and whoops of joy, the secrets and not so secrets; all the living and dying of feelings and thoughts proving nothing is lost.

There is a vibrancy of life that is eternal. The energies of all who walked within these walls stay contained within them. Much alone, why I am never lonely. When I think that I have been part of it, I realize that this is immortality for those sensitive enough to recognize it. ( the entry continued with)

Ophelia, I will say, do you think I am dead?
I sit on the very breath you breathe.

I will waft an orange fragrance o’er your head
and you will see me take form. I will crash
the air with cymbals and you will hear me enter.

A cat cries in the night and you will hear the infant.
The moon will send its shaft of light through the north window
and you will be plagued with memories
you will scarce remember.

You will warm yourself with the sun from
the south window and it will nudge a time and place
on the edge of those same memories and
you will know and still not know.

I have taken you to my bosom, held you and
pushed you away. And at once tightened my hold
so you will never be free. You think I am dead?

I ask you, Ophelia, who indeed is dead?

And Ed said that he has never felt that tie to a house. A mystic you are, he says. Am I indeed? Is a portion of my brain activated or aware or is it pain in the moving away? A cutting of the umbilical cord or am I my phoenix, consumed by fire of my making to arise again with the freshness of the pubescent and the agony of acne?

(another time I will write of the breeze coming in the south window then with the promise of Fall. All this was part of the entry, with the poem lifted from the entry I titled Listen, Ophelia…which I put into format. One mind or a concert of compatriots? And in the meantime the clock told me of schedules to keep and children to tend who said their childhoods were enchanted. The only permanent fixture of life to me was the everlasting laundry and exhausting pressing and ironing that had to be done. Such is life for today’s mystic. )

March 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.
In Memory of a Good Friend. . .

It is written that if you can count good friends on one hand, you are rich. I was right to count myself as a very rich lady. All have already transited, and another one or two still far younger than I, will follow long after me.

I want to write what is a good friend to me. What I had in a friendship with Jan. I met her at a crucial time of my life and we meshed upon meeting. The following is from a journal entry edited for space.

I was then about to enter my fiftieth year. This will tell my young readers that we do not appear full feathered just because we age. It is a process and encompasses commitments made even while the inner house churns about.

Less than three years after we met, my world fell apart. And putting it back together was difficult. One
never thinks about losing one’s ability to trust one’s Self, but simply stated, it is a hard road back.

St. Paul and those who had their road to Damascus experience could take a year off and have their groupies care for them. The times now have us blessed if we have a friend.

‘She has given me so much over the years. She has pointed out how good and unique I am and has helped build my self esteem bit by bit. From the first she had an open ear to what was said as well as unsaid. She pointed a possible direction but never once said I was making a wrong decision.

She understood from where I was coming. And rejoices where I am today. Everything teaches she says. You are where you are today and go on from there. She teaches. You do not spend energy on regrets, but learn from them. And she praises.

My parenting the boys she said had her and her friends wanting to throw in the towel. They actually talked to me she said. And we knew you thought we all were like you.’

We were best friends for over 3 decades. It is now 25 years that she is gone from Earth. It took a long time for me to stop reaching for the phone to call Jan. Laughingly when there was static on the line, we said that obviously there was cosmic monitoring.

We matched minds on many issues and ‘all time is simultaneous’ we accepted. She often said that what we learn is more a matter of remembering for those like us. I am grateful she was in my life. She was a good teacher.

From a line in another poem, I will say, ‘ces’t moi, it is I, pull me over.’

We Break Bread. . .

I have broken bread with old friends
for what seems to be many centuries.

We continue our conversations
begun when yet we were in other times
and were other people.

But it has been, you see, only a minute.
We bring to mind all things old and
some things new.

It was but a quirk of Nature, so that our hearts
would grow and become one heart.
It all has a familiar fit. Don’t you think?

All things will be new again
when we break bread in the next of times.
But you knew that, didn’t you?

All things new are really all things old.
Even some of us.

photo by John Holmes

March 16, 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.
Now, More Than Just Dogs. . .

I came across something in my metaphysical research years ago that has guided my relationship with animals, mainly dogs. It was written that when souls wish to taste Earth life again, but do not want to take on human bodies, they send a fragment of their soul into an animal.

It is a belief of many cultures and societies.

On The Farm I observed my mother’s relationship with the cows. She thought they were sensitive and much smarter than dogs. In fact she had a symbiotic relationship with them and was a marvel to watch.

Since reading the text on fragments incarnating, it explained much about human behavior . Haunting it is when I find our Newfie seeking me out to share my solitude and my wondering in mental wandering, who are you and why do we love each other so?

He takes my diminishing agility into account and knows when not to nudge nor lean against me. I slowly get up and down and he respects that. He is a patient one but alert and swift when something unexpected appears. I watch him watching what appears empty space and yet unblinking. Just a dumb dog? Not so.

Just as when we needed to put Prince down because cancer was virulent and I stood at the window and thought I just can’t, just can’t do it again having had too many heartbreaks. Yet turning to him found him watching me with the words as if printed above him ‘you’re not going to make me do this alone?’ I found myself saying out loud, of course not.

And followed him out of the house one last time.

We assume they see what we see but their perspective of the world differs. Just as it does for all species. We see only what we see. I cannot see what you see. Nor you hear what I hear. Do you wonder why your partner of so many years does not enter in your longing nor understand why you do?

And yet the furry companion looks and sees and is at your side in a flash.

When there are dogs with a vocabulary of hundreds of words, like a 3 year old toddler, who know the difference between a red ball and a blue ball, one does not in good conscience leave them to the elements. They have become a companion species, looking like dogs or wolves but acting more like pre-schoolers.

They know our emotional states so well is because we share ourselves with them.

Prince 05/02/04

They don’t say we are silly and reading things into events nor do we ignore their
needs when the clock tells us it is suppertime and they sit expectantly
waiting for us to get a move on.

We know there is something different from years ago when
these sensitivities were not so well honed. Technological changes in our lives
have affected all our rituals and habits. Our history has shown our growth
in technology with pride as well as our decline in manners. We mourn that loss.

Hopefully we will be open to what will always require heart and conscience
when we live with conscious beings, no matter where or what world.
Like when I told the Rottie to go to the front door and she turned and
went to the front door and I wanted to drop to my knees.

My god, what have we done here because we are responsible? Do you see?

March 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.
All Children: Righteously Entitled. . . my need to see. . . .

This weekend the grandparents of Emma E. came to visit and brought with them a book. This book is a creative endeavor of the artist Claudia who has graciously illustrated so much of my work. This time the grandfather of this child has charmingly caught both granddaughter and grandmother reading.

When Emma E. comes to their home ten minutes away they go through an entrance ritual. Touching, looking, identifying, naming all the favorite things Emma E. loves.

Emma has cupboards in every place she visits it seems. She knows these are hers with safe things to bang and wallop. Books are favorites and bookcases are treasure troves she frequents and positions herself as her grandparents do with the morning paper.

This book is one Claudia put together for Emma with her favorite things at the grandparents’ that have meaning and delight. It is an awesome endeavor and seeing the artwork and portraits of Emma embracing these events at their home has me wanting all children righteously entitled.

In a more perfect world it would be so and I wish it were. That circumstances endow all involved with talents honed making the arrival of each child a welcome addition but also a promise. Not only would the body be fed but also the mind and play would be the obvious joy in learning.

Years ago friends visited and in discussing my latest manuscript that they liked, the visiting husband said, it took courage to public autopsy oneself while still breathing. He then said the unforgettable and that was ‘it was easier to be philosophical on a full stomach.’

It applies to all endeavors and connects all, you see. In an equitable world as children we would be born and welcomed with a promise to be fed mind, body and spirit. Our talents would multiply and all worlds would benefit because our abundance of good would spill over.

The large animals like elephants and the wild jungle friends would not be lost in time and bees and butterflies would be profuse.

On a full stomach the mind can stretch to cover esoteric lives we may not touch but hunger for knowledge we would about all life. It is difficult to feign interest when hunger pains beg for sleep. The friend’s comment was apt.

If Emma E. needs art for her development, she made a good choice in parents. And we needed some laughter and joy in our lives. Hats and slurping pasta are such fun things to do! And we the appreciative audience.

Ahhh. . . you see and we know. . . .there is balance when there is patience. It is just that the mills grind slowly.

March 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.
A Cosmic Hug. . .

A Cosmic Hug. .

I had a dear brother in law who said he liked asking me questions because he knew I researched everything I opinioned. Unless I had either experience or knowledge, I refrained expression. I considered his a high compliment.

So when I learned of gravity or weighted blankets, I began the long sit in at the computer. And I read and reviewed the reviews from ancient corners of the universe. And decided to make a small throw to cover restless legs.

I thought plastic beads too pricey and searched out possibilities and then finally settled on rice for a try out. I took 34 inch by 43 inch muslin and decided on 5 inch pockets. I will spare the details because if you know of the blankets, you already know how to make them. I also made a cover like a large pillow case for it and ties at the end. In case I spilled something or the dog drooled effusively.

I used almost 3 pounds of rice. I laid it crosswise on my bed and slept the sleep of the righteous. It worked fine and still does and I love it. 3 pounds of rice is right for me for this size. For restless legs it truly works also.

It is a like a cosmic hug. Enough of a weight to anchor me lest I float away.

When I first learned of the blankets I was surprised at the number of teachers and parents, mothers mostly reported, of children with autism. The teachers lamented because there were not enough blankets and children were timed for use of them. Parents were enthused but funds were limited and plastic beads high in cost.

With children the beads were necessary because of laundering. Rice does not allow laundering which was why I made a cover. Chances for adults to drag the blanket around are slim but an occasional spill is possible.

The photo is one my niece made for a grandson. I think the result is super. It is not the answer for every problem but oftentimes it helps soothe the light sleeper.

Perhaps it would have helped the child I was to become more likable and less irritating if I had been able to sleep beneath a cosmic hug. It is only a perhaps, but we must remember that many children cope with memories still fresh of the world they came from.

Sometimes a reminder to get their blanket for a cuddle is all they need. They walk a high wire and when a parent is unavailable they need a hug more than a lecture.

photo by Jody Simons

March 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.
Every Day Is A Beginning. . .

I was asked to go back to the first journals to throw some light onto the path I had taken. When approaching the last decade of almost a century it is hard to imagine me ever being young. Coming into the world with an open head, meaning one with vivid memories, it was an old head to begin with.

So when I speak of how it was, I kept journals and speak from my written word. Lost somewhere was the first journal handwritten in 1963. The poetry survived two floods and I began the 1973 journal with the following poem written in the 60’s. I was a mother of three sons and in my late 20’s.

The mist that sustains me
sustains my images also.
Perhaps I am the illusion.
Perhaps I will find myself
greater than my images.

How many of me are there? I always knew this intuitively but when I wrote the entry, I knew intellectually the meaning. I edit for space concerns the following written in January 1973:

‘Would it be possible to meet another me somewhere in this time? I know I am ‘locked in time’ and nothing is ever lost. We are so attuned to linear measure with past, present and future, and yet everything is in the NOW. There is nothing in eternity that is not contained in this present instant.’

Since I started blogging in 2011, I have mentioned many incidents and experiences to introduce my readers to why my thinking is perhaps unorthodox. I have related that in a convention held in Europe I was confronted by a man who worked for the Government of the host country with why I did not mention I would be coming to Munich when we talked the previous week in Paris?

I have never been to Paris as I wrote and he was incensed that I would question his veracity because he was upheld as excellent in his ability to remember people and where he saw them last. It was a high level position because tourism was becoming important to the economy. And our talk was a delight to him.

It was in 2015 that I read The Holographic Universe by Michael Talbot. I learned that I lived the quantum theory all my life. The premise of quantum physics is the past is still happening, the future has already happened and we in the present are racing to catch up. All time is simultaneous.

Every day is a beginning. We don’t necessarily need to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Some things are meant to be saved. It is up to us to know the difference.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

March 6, 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 Endow My World. . a hyacinth for her soul. . . .

A hyacinth for her soul. . .

When I first started blogging, 8 years ago in 3 months, I was given a voice. I had just had my 80^th birthday and hoped to crowd the ethers with a particular view. I was told I was ‘many dimensional in kaleidoscopic perspective.’ Come again?

In the vernacular the complaint was ‘ not everybody sees what you see.’ But a grandnephew, in clarity and wisdom, with a many dimensional demeanor says, ‘everybody sees but not everyone is clearly focused.’ Thank you, Benjamin.

This attempt is to answer what I see when I sit in silence. I endow my world, simply with what I say and see.

I am the girl in the mid east all boys’ school whose father thought she would be a smart lady and I am the monk carrying the cross on my back up the cinder street in the French Revolution. I am also the girl sitting on her haunches with the clay pot in front of her and reaching for the Pewabic tile to the back of her.

I am also a carpenter with tools of my trade who sands and saws and bleaches the woods to a faretheewell. I am the farmer who plows the field to feed the bodies of bloated children with grain I literally pull from the parched earth.

These things I know and endow my world and have written about them with dates from carefully kept journals. From the farm woman looking through the window to see her love with swinging pails coming to her because he has been too long hours away.

I step over boundaries separating worlds stumbling over one another and with worry that thoughts contaminate and are contagious.

Some are of my choosing and some choose me, penetrating my world of sight, smell and touch. I have seen other hands over mine on the steering wheel of the vehicle I drove when conditions proved hazardous.

There are starving children sleeping too much and too ill to stay awake. There are broken windows , broken spirits and broken bodies. I would like blue skies and green grass and happy children.

There are sharp edged people arguing their argues, slicing hearts yet whose eyes with tears fastened on the horizon do not see the pictures they are painting and pushing into the memory vaults.

We bring to the world who we are and what we see. All of us do with disclaimers to be sure. And we say not mine, not mine. But we say your name is on them. Not me, not me. We endow our world with who we are, what we say and do but do not see our input.

So today I photographed a hyacinth. It has been dormant and because cleared away was debris, it breathed and blossomed. Today I endow my weary world with a hyacinth for her soul. Do likewise.

March 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.