From an Upper Floor

Hone the Diamond, Light the Candle. . . .Vote!

What I need to say are words that will convey the importance of the privilege we will let pass if we do not get people to their feet and lower the lever on the machine that will give them a future. Yet.

How not to give away the chance to make a difference as large as the next person beside them. It is a big thing we would give away, a chance for this classroom to continue and still be the best in the universe of worlds.

Would we be able to see our image in the waters, or in the mirror or in the eyes of our children or grandchildren and say that we did not consider the vote important enough to guard against what we saw written in our minds and hearts and walls and sky of our time?

How do we not become a throwback to the place we disregarded callously when called upon to do such a simple thing as cast our ballot?

Whether we believe in life everlasting or not or the means of our Being, the fact of the matter is that our souls and minds are evergreens, are daffodils and we live forever somewhere. And we do have memories and all of us are facts of those memories and we live them day in and day out. We live our lives trying to make peace with them.

And we are now on the brink of another election to determine whether only our country continues in the dream of a democracy which has been our heritage but also whether this world continues to be the best classroom in the Universe. We hold the action in our fingertips and it is as simple as holding a pencil in some places, or a lever in others.

It is as simple as writing off our climate as a pipe dream and leaving pollution in the lungs of our children or lead in the water bleaching the bones and brains of them also.

We are sending troops to the borders with weapons to ward off babes in the arms of parents and those babes are holding sippy cups. My father was an immigrant. I grew up on a street of immigrants. They paid taxes and worked and kept us in schools.

This democratic country was one they were allowed to enter to live freely, pray privately and work without peril. Their children grew up and married whom they chose. Over the years the work involved with assimilation continued not easily but continued. It has been a work of centuries to become civilized, to become gentle and kind.

We do not welcome rhetoric that inflames the mind and body to violence. That inflames the people to hate and insults the intelligence of common sense. We are dedicated to hone the facets of the diamonds we are, the best that a democracy has shown evidence to grow in its delicate atmosphere of acceptance and tolerance.

We are the envy of a world that knows what can happen when allowed the freedom that has been our foundation. And has seen how quickly it can be decimated. It is up to us to light the candle.

Eternity is a long time to live with regret. Pull the lever. Vote.

November 3, 2018

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Ripped, severed, broken. . .

The day looms with fierce emotions which will lay its colors upon the hearts of mourners forever. It is with little thought given by some that words have great power over the course of our lives. It is we who must teach the children the choice of words must be with care. And we adults who must alter our behavior when our words are met with misunderstanding. Words are the tools of our relationships and must be treated with great respect. The costly consequences are human lives.

The Word Is God. . .

In the beginning was the word
destined to touch the mind of man.
But the prevailing Spirit in its wisdom saw fit
to encumber each with the power to discern.

Meanings floated into space,
shaping themselves to fit the receiving mind.
Reaching their destination,
their shape changed to fit the owner.

Such turbulence! Such uneasiness!
Albeit because the word had taken life and
risen to meet the heart’s need.
The speaker’s heart had taken its intent

and placed upon the Ethers the heart’s desire.
It gathered cadence as it rode
to meet the receiver’s prejudices.
The sender’s intent lay silent, lost.

The heavens only acknowledged
its primordial meaning.
Can it be said in truth that the word be god?
It is.

For within its power to create
it moves with desperation to voice feelings,
to give breath to visions and to heal.
The word created creatures and dynasties,

wars and rebellions, held peace in abeyance
and brought us to life.
So speak softly when speaking.
Words carry the weight of the heart

with intent to topple empires
and worlds and men. In the catalytic movement
of the word, the world’s heart beats,
years are gifted and man’s future secured.

It is all we have.

October 30, 2018

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 Garden Gnome. . . .

The Garden Gnome. . .

Already Fall has sent her messages in the form of cold, rainy days that speak of Fisherman hats and boxy bonnets and warm jackets. And it would not be remiss to have warm mittens in the pockets of those jackets just in case.

These past weeks have spoken of the lush harvest gardens for the spirited gnome that inhabited them. Fun and games were the agenda and with mom and dad having some free time with the smiling elf, the photos will help us remember.

In the coming months of dark and wintry days they will again bring to mind a miracle year of good health and fun times and sunny days. It will be a year for Emma E. this next month since she came into the world determined to live her life as she deemed. And it has been another life like her father’s beginning as a preemie also when I said unbelievingly that he would have made it somehow in pioneer times on the prairie.

Somehow I think that there are those souls whatever the circumstances, even in the barest of times, would make it somehow. I am not sure how, just know it from observation of my nearing century mark. This is our Emma E. one month shy of her first birthday. Pulling herself hither and nigh and ready I think soon to tell us what it is all about Alfie.

We need reminders in these times that the real miracles go on within four walls of every home. For they are the barometer that judges the coming times ahead of us all. We cannot make mistakes with the children.

photos by Aline Stern

October 26, 2018

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.
Full Circle. . . .

I at first thought that everyone can do anything. But later realized that somewhere, someone has to show by example something that strikes home with another. A something that is meaningful to another.

That will be of value to him or her. Then when something comes up there will be an instant where there will be only one course of action and it will be the correct one for them. And that will be the beginning of a value system that will guide all action.

And then you will have the beginning of a philosophy being built. And then we go for home.

The Farm Woman. . .

Woman of the Earth, you are loved.
You gather the fruits of your labors
to your bosom and feed the children.

You’ve inched your way along the dusty path
with back bent in great fatigue
and cultivated the rows yielding wise fruit.

You would feed out of your mouth
those you think hungry and then beyond measure.
The fruits are the heart of your labors,
the harvest of your mind’s philosophy,
spilling indiscriminately.

Who is left to feed you, farm woman?
What commissary is left open
to feed your hungry soul after hours?

What bookstall will house the words
between stiff covers to increase your harvest?
Labor, till the sun closes its blinds on the day.
Restless legs will speed you through the night

to find the bins ever full.

October 23, 2018

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.
Imagine. . .the godmen. . . .

Not many understand the full meaning of unconditional love. By being kind and thoughtful, loving and caring, can these be given without ulterior motive? To many these things given unconditionally speak of a people eater. To some this loving seems conditional because by loving so you intentionally will demand some kind of response.

This is a big lesson to learn. That someone could love you because of who you are and not demand a piece of you. Unconditional love is given from abundance. Conditional love is an oxymoron. You cannot give what you cannot spare.

If spoken from what cannot be spared, it will demand a piece of you. Like a pound of flesh.

Love is not earned by physical acts. There is nothing required from unconditional love but much given. For the just reason that love is not earned by doing something but because you see in the individual what he himself does not.

You give from what you are. From abundance. You give from what you have because it was a Given to you at some time. Someone you respected saw you for whom you were and loved you. All that was required was to accept it.

Most do not know how to accept unconditional love. A catch to it? The only catch is feeling worthy of this gift. Who first told us we were not worthy?

Conditional love shifts. Unconditional love remains steady. And benefits all whom you come in contact. Imagine a world where love is an evolutionary step. Just imagine the godmen. Imagine.

Abundance. . .

In my abundance, I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
This love shackles you not
nor binds you tightly in chains.
It gives you freedom to soar
where your spirit wills
and in the same abundance
finds you winging back to me.

Run quickly from a love
which possesses by need.
Its momentary satisfactions
bind you to a life of servitude.
Its very negation of freedom
murders the giver and the recipient.
Love beckons not out of desperation,
but out of abundance.
It is life, calling to life.
It is life, begetting life.

Come to me,
when in your abundance
you would find annihilation in not giving.
When in your joy of living
you would find death in not loving.

Come to me then.
For in my abundance I come to you.
In my abundance, I love you.
And in our communion,

the Spirit lives.

art by Claudia Hallissey
Poem Abundance in Psalms of Love
available on Amazon

October 19, 2018

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.
It Will Be Said. . . .

It will be said. . . .

(It will be said that I talk to myself. If this is the case, I challenge all to find words for what I do and ask that you find words to describe and do likewise. Perhaps you will find not words in our language but a symbol that could be understood.

Some will find my work unpalatable. I walked the streets with a rumble in my gut and a head ready to implode and wondering again if my world was going to crash. I had to keep it steady for three good reasons which were my sons. So I walked until I steadied myself. There was no one to lean on.

I thought of the roomful of psychiatrists I talked to who asked me to tell them what happened. They could not find a diagnosis in their references to label me. They thought me articulate and rational and coherent and obviously alive to question a something not familiar. Some never heard of the road to Damascus.

If this is my Greater Self, (I call them Teachers) then find yours. If yours does not answer your thoughts, are your thoughts not worthwhile?

In the past year I have written about the worlds I am familiar with in concentric circles and gentle fishes called Nords and Kerns and drawn pictures of mountains with trees I later learned to be solar catches for homes without the need for chimneys. Look through the Archives in my blog and see what I try to say without upset.

Time has us by the throat. We must educate or lose our blessed classroom. We start again with the children who understand quantum theory. They have lived it. Carefully listen. The following is an excerpt from a lecture by the Teacher dated February 1, 2018.)

On Simultaneous Time. . . We deal with linear measurement where you are. It has stabilized the environment making teaching easier and learning a respite for the tired mind. We say that the child’s play has to stop. Because children now being born are versed to the enth degree with how it is in worlds with which they are familiar. And are thrown into the hodge podge of linear measurement which is kindergarten for them. They are already versed with the thunder rolling God of whom you write. Your version is what they understand but is not the easier grandfather god being taught who takes the child in his arms and forgives all. Since we are dealing with becoming and already your readers have taken upon themselves to think as becoming other than what they are, we make progress.

So now we insert that all this has connection. It is of importance that the simultaneous world of time and events are still happening is essential to growth. We have here your ability to live almost to a hundred with the idea sustaining you through the years. You take events and artifacts in your night travels from one culture and take them with you and display them with artifacts of the world you are in.

Where do ideas come from? In your world you use technology other worlds are already using. Brought through dreams, meditation, through conference with other entities which often are silent but portraying ideas through icons. Emphasis is always on progress with integrity. You get that and see that.

The past is still happening, the future has already happened and here in the present we race to catch up with it. The babies are born knowing this and if their vocal apparatus was mature, they would be shouting at us. This is the first concept that must be integrated. It is necessary for man to relate to his history. See where man has been and where he is today and what he has not learned. If not learned, it is repeated and circumstances next will not be as conducive. The past is still happening, the icons are being smashed, symbolizing centuries of man’s desire to translate the divine into the material.

Not only does man smash the icons but also the humans who built them.

October 16, 2018

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.
Life Anywhere Is Our Destiny. . . .

Life Anywhere Is Our Destiny. . .

It is sweet breathing the elixir of rarified air and to be alive anywhere always is our destiny. Life is everlasting. We seem to forget that in the midst of making a living. It is necessary knowledge in making a life.

The Master said suffer the little children to come and we suffer as they refuse to grow up. Somehow to continue the playthings of the child is thought to be appealing and charming and essential to enter heaven if there was one.

As a result we see no progress being made where growth is necessary for the betterment of mankind or peace amid cultural differences. We see ‘king of the mountain’ and ‘my god is better than your god’ still the games of the big in body children.

The Master spoke from a knowledge which was written in blood and bowed only to his greater self, a participant to the becoming of the Greater Mind.

The Our Father, Otche Nash of the Universe is the glowing ascent of man’s bowing to the Greater Mind. All minds contribute to the vastness of it. All input is regarded of major dimension. We contribute to the All in All.

It is time that man sees what it is he contributes. He is here to grind out a living from rock. He is here to chisel an understanding with mallet in hand.

He has to grow up and be accountable.

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.

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

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

October 14, 2018

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.
Great Songs Will Be Sung. . . .

We need to come to a place now and again when it is necessary to find a mind matched to ours so we can for all purposes say all that is heavy on our hearts. With no explanation necessary because our route has been followed step by step; to hear the words, I held your heart in my hand for safekeeping and here it is, whole.

And in a whisper would come the words, I thought it fractured beyond repair! We are embraced knowing instantly that we were not abandoned to do it alone.

We prepare then to venture another time to come with the sweet knowledge that great songs will be sung again.

Great Songs Will Be Sung. . .

Should you find the need
to tell your story in words,
think mightily on them and
they will be caught up
in the air’s currents and carried
on the birds’ wings.

They will reach the ears
they were designed for. You will find
that you are not alone in this universe
and you will be heard.

And when the thoughts reach
the places in the heart of an Other

great songs will be sung again.

October 13, 2018

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.
Mind Benders. . . .

I consider it fun doing research and often I come upon something that deserves more thought. With the quote comes more research about what the author meant. I call them mind benders. It is about discovering what meaning it has given to my life. The following are simple but a storehouse of depth within.

Mind Benders. . .

A house needs a Grandma in it.                Louisa May Alcott

*****

That which is not good for the beehive cannot be good for the bees.
                                                                    Marcus Aurelius C161AD

*****

The battle for conservation is part of the eternal conflict between right and wrong.                                                                                                                            John Muir

*****

Sometimes I wonder whether the world is being run by smart people who are putting us on or imbeciles who really mean it.                                                                                                                           Mark Twain

*****

The intellect of the wise is like glass; it admits the light of heaven and reflects it.          Augustus Hare

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To believe what is true for you is true for all men.                                                           Ralph Waldo Emerson

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We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the Light.                                   Plato

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You become what you feed your mind.                                             Veronica Hallissey

photo of Northern Michigan
by Joe Hallissey Sr.

October 11, 2018

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.
Sometimes From a Distance. . . .

Sometimes From a Distance. . .

I recently told my readers that I would post the fisherman’s hat which I knit with thick and burly yarn. Aging plays havoc with arthritic fingers and new ways have to be found to do the things I once found great pleasure in doing.

Or told myself that I was contributing to mankind’s evolution by holding conference with the sages long forgetting what contemporary earth life was like. I knitted in various colors shapes of sweaters and mittens and socks, waiting for loves to come home from whatever dreams they were dreaming.

An aged one was asked how she became so wise when her life could not afford formal education. She simply said, I knit. And they who know don’t speak and they who speak, don’t know. It has always been thus.

Once one sat hunched with crooked fingers and heavy thread boiled in herbal waters, subtle as the earth was, and knit the garments that did not pretend other than keeping out the cold. Her thoughts were in conference with the sages and questioned what plagued her mind.

And I sit here now questing still because the hunched back of one sat and with gnarled hands knitted into my mind those questions centuries before me. And I am grateful. The quarter inch progress in evolution has my progeny accessing what I could not.

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 only one 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, this that is mine to see, a great plan,
a strategy, unheard of. It may not be for centuries
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.

(Modeling the fisherman hat is Mela , our
newest addition to our family.)

October 8, 2018

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.