From an Upper Floor

Two Best Buddies. . .

Two Best Buddies. . .

I was at the sink in our home in Florida when grandson Josh came in with this bear and I gasped! When I found my voice I asked if he was staying. The answer was we don’t know if he fits. Fits whom, what or where? After a few skirmishes, Leroy fit our hearts nicely. That was in May of 2015 and he weighed 120 lbs.

Locations changed and he made the trip with son John and Rottweiler Cooper in the car to California. After a few incidents we settled in our present home and Leroy and Cooper were at home again. He was a free dog (there is no such thing) because his family needed to find another home for him when conditions changed.

He is a Newfoundland and now weighs in at 185 lbs or thereabouts. I thought when first seeing him that he was not very smart looking and had a face only a mother could love. And he drools and has allergies. But I learned he is very smart but a goofball.

He is a love and here you see him sit with his good buddy sizing up the situation. Leroy waits patiently for John. I am the food lady with treats. He can tell time and alerts me to his dinnertime. He finds me wherever I am and I say give me five and I put up my hand. He settles down and is quiet until I am ready to get his meal.

He is still young so his enthusiasm shakes his entire body. When he has authorized a visit of someone, he allows them be. He is not just a dog, but a companion animal. He is a species we have created by our need for a kind of companionship we do not find in others; warm in comfort, profusely loving and demanding little from us that we no longer can or wish to give time to.

One can argue the merits of such companions, but cannot argue their presence among us, almost in every household. I wonder what we would have become without the loving presence of these animals in our lives.

I have a kinship. I speak to them and pick up their thoughts. It struck me when the back stairs were icy in Illinois and I told Cooper she would have to go out the front door instead of the back door where she was standing. She turned around and walked down the hall to the front door and turned to look at me. Now?

Granddaughter Jessie feels I love dogs more than people. I laughingly say if I have to come back you will find me in a high tower doing research and raising dogs to anchor my humanity. That conclusion comes at high cost.

October 2, 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.
A Convocation of Saints . . .

Not Fun and Games. . .but in communion . .

My eldest in a conversation at one time spoke of the torture of those given knowledge in the inner journey. He said there was no one with whom to share what has been given so they drag in nobility aspects of it. He was a young man then and he was right.

The need for physical arms around one is not lessened in the light of cosmic awareness. If anything it points up painfully how few there are who share or can share in this journey. It points up even how very few there are who know of what we speak.

The desire to clasp hands across the table with a like mind is so intense that the desire is quickly dismissed with uttered arguments. Yet they are just moments.

One learns to walk in communion with invisible friends and these times do make the empty house full. I walked through those rooms with warm woods and the empty house was full. The voices of long ago loves occasionally break through and ears ache from pressures of invisible friends. There is a convocation of saints and the company of good minds still present.

I can throw back my head and laugh at a thought co-mingling with mind and know the presence of a kindred spirit. You have too and to the questioning glances of those standing by explain. . . ‘a thought just struck me funny’ . . .and wish they were such good friends with themselves to be able to laugh out loud.

I can weep with unstoppable tears at ancient anguish hidden within centuries of genetic history. I am given love and have the capacity to love the Spirit within me and to love the Spirit and struggle of the Other. I am pieced and peace-d.

And in the company of those who love, I rest. It is a way station. The journey is unending.

The Welcome. . .

Come, we walk. Take my hand.
Lean on me for a time to gain
a respite for a work unending.

I stand by you, ready
to catch you if you fall.
My arms are steady and ready.

I will not stumble, so do not be afraid.
It has been a hard journey
and you tire.

I’ve stood the watch and marveled
at your tenacity, your perseverance.
Though you faltered, you stood upright

without hesitation. Now breathe easy
for a job well done. No one
could have done it better.

Welcome to the winner’s circle.
It was worth the run. . . .don’t you think?

September 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.
There Is A Balance. . . lest we forget. . . .

Too late we learn life holds the sharpest knife. Cutting the loaf accordingly and with compassion passes the butter.

Retribution for whatever deeds is a commonplace happening but there will always be those who think that the die is not cast by them. They are and always have been. That the intricasies of complex living seem too diverse and too extraordinary coats the attitude that all is coincidence.

But it is not. For every action there is an inaction and a reaction. Which are one and the same. An inaction is a decided action in zeroes. From this there will always be the decided game of chance being played and the players somehow think they will escape the consequences.

But in time, their time, there is a reactive legislation which prevails. And no thing goes forgotten. It is written in the wind, so to speak. And Nature will have her day. Always. Life will have its totality, always.

What is sown is also reaped. People understand this only in the most banal terms. But all these precepts are ideas of long standing and have come to their own fruition. Listen well.

Cliché’s are true and have a substance leaking energies which do not dissipate until satisfied. There is a balance to all of life. Lest we forget.

September 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.
A World Made Manifest. . . .

If it was a certainty that world creation was a fact, what kind of world would you create? If you knew for a fact that your acts upon days upon days created just such a world, how would you change your behavior? And what would be the attributes you would enhance that world with?

What kind of world would it be? You think it would be different from where you are now. It would be filled with actions that would not break hearts by words or deeds . It would be filled with responsibility because loving carries responsibility for who and what you love. Children would be born of love and wanted for the best of what each parent was. And considered a sacred commitment.

Children will learn early that actions have consequences. There will be high standards and they will be considered the norm. There will be values carved out of your heart and experience. It will be a world of moral values and high hopes and the joy of learning.

And to sustain life, all systems will adhere to functions that steward the world and Nature in harmony. It will be a place of growth and it will be matched by those whose values are similar.

This is the world of your graduation dreams. One day it will be a fact we work toward because our father’s house has many rooms. But we were told that but did not know we were all in the creation business. How special will your world be?

A World Made Manifest. . .

This is a world made manifest
by yearning to touch what
the eye could see. To be felt
only by hands tender as a baby
still fresh from the womb.

It is the world of thought
that brings forth the birth
of worlds, similar.

Without the need of
fulfilling vendettas, old wars
never fought to frightful finishes.

It will be a world of fresh grasses and
clear waters without the threat of toxins
to maim the brains of those too young
to complain and voice their wishes.

It will be the world that thought
brought to bear on hearts long singed
by ugliness. Look toward the graduation
of a soul whose transit bears relation

to what life has chosen to negate.
It will be a graduation
of merit, a time for fruitful finishes,

the resulting birth of a yearning heart.

painting by Claudia Hallissey

September 25, 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.
She Went To The Wedding. . . .

                                                         Emma E. with her Grandfather Hallissey

So She Went To The Wedding. . .

It was an evening affair. Black and white attire requested if possible and Emma E. complied. With a flower in her hair. It was a union of hearts and arms resting about each other all evening.   An uncle was married to a winsome woman and everyone was happy.

Especially the youngest member of the small invited gathering who was never out of sight or hearing.
She even had ear mufflers, sound protectors, in pink to muffle the noise and music at occasions now that are magnified. I could not attend but I have some wonderful photos taken that have me smiling at how life proceeds amidst changes and fortunately some things virtually unchanged.

Emma E. is almost 10 months old and we are grateful with the wondrous care she receives because as all life should be called, a miracle. Born at 1 pound 12 ounces, she has blossomed into a growing, outgoing and curious baby. Her checkups are wonders in themselves. Soon she will be walking out the door. Pray that her guardian angels are alert and not sleeping. She will try to outsmart them, I’m sure. And she will.

                                                                       Last week’s photo

photo of Emma E. with grandfather
taken by granduncle, John S. Hallissey

September 22, 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.
With A Little Bit Of Practice. . . .

I was very young and just married facing much doubt by the new family as to whether I would be equal to being the good wife required of my time and so I worked very hard at being good. And good meant doing all those things I read in all the women’s journals of the times.

Looking back at my youth and being hard wired my eldest tells me now to working hard (I passed those jenny genes on to our sons) I learned to knit argyle socks for my husband because they were in style.

And he having the Scottish genes of the tailors and seamstresses and rag people as ancients called them, yarns and fabrics were their livelihood and in earlier times they took the name of Taylor. Those talents were not passed on but the love of good material was.

I came from a large depression family and learned to do without, so being tightly budgeted in marriage I knew how to carefully shop. I remember using double pointed needles to knit argyles which I did by the drawerful, (they also required hand washing and steel stretchers to dry) now I use those same bobbins for these hats.

I had leftover bits of yarns which I have used through the years to make colorful hats on circular needles but I wanted to do something different when I thought of the argyles. And with a little bit of practice, these are what resulted.

They are a fun project and good therapy and are unusual. You will be limited only by your color sense. Or non sense. But with arthritic hands I wanted to not measure my time by spasms so have used straight needles to make knitting with bobbins easier.

I will also in another post show my good fortune in finding larger circular needles and super bulky yarn to make fisherman hats which are great fun. I already have a request for three of them.

I was told by a teacher long ago in my journey that the work of my hands would be an anchor for me in my last years. It was a wise counselor to make that observation and a puzzlement to me at the time. But it is the work of our hands that ease the last times as the physical body begins to close shop. I am ever grateful to have been born yearning to learn.

September 18, 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.
To Walk My Fields. . . .

Succor the Night. . .

This she-man, this daughter of a brother
whom I loved and now with whom I speak
was asking. . .
”do you walk the fields at night auntie,
because I am walking with your essence.

You are the essence of who walks,’
she says, ‘succoring the night with me,
succoring the night.’

And I know I am lost to the night,
to the fields of my youth,
giving me back to who I am.
I was lost for so long
believing I was a nothing for so long.

I folded my wings then,
thinking they were broken
never to fly again but no,
unfolded I began to flutter kick,
giving them strength to soar.

Soon they will give the span needed,
wing tip to wing tip,
to lift the heart of me home,
with knowledge given the all I had
back to the All in All.

Weave through the air softly, weave gently,
allow the wind to lift my Spirit.
Directions are

imprinted on my heart.

September 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.
I will give you a white stone. . . . .

White Stone. . .

I will give you a white stone.
On the stone will be your name
and you will read it and remember it.
I have called you over and over
so you would not forget it.

I have loved you long before the earth was,
even before we first walked the heavens.
I have shown you how to love,
unconditionally and forever.

I have been generous with your love.
I have spread it profusely
and the earth greens.
I have sprinkled it finely and with
long fingers I have pressed your love
into the heavens and you call them stars.

I have taken the heat of your love
and put it all together
to warm the earth and you call it Sun.

I have stood you on a hot rock and
you molded it into a cool sphere and
I took it proudly and set it to light the night sky
and we call it Moon and man loves by it.

The moon warms his passions when they flag
and the sun browns his body when it pales
and the green earth eases
when the rocks pierce his feet.

But the stars are for you,
for you counted them and found
the heavens could not hold all of them

so I put the remainder in your eyes.

Psalms of Love is on sale on Amazon and
White Stone is included.

September 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.
In Good Hands. . .

Many times I have said that this is a classroom and recently I was made to understand it will always be a classroom. This is what is its purpose. And my heart hit the floor when I realized it. Our purpose here is to learn and to change ourselves into what we need to be. Any fallout on an Other is from our abundance and by example, we teach.

That was the kicker. All the effort, all the work, no matter how hard, was not for others as I thought, but for me. Any good from me was because my cup runneth over. Good that came from abundance was good, from duty, resentment clouded the issue.

Coming to mind again was the vacuuming I was doing when my grandson saw how tired I was and asked why was I doing it. I shouted because I love your mother! And his head swiveled and to this day I remember his look of surprise. He does so much for others gratis because he is multi talented that I knew he didn’t realize that he, too, worked this way. He was loved and what spilled over he gave from abundancy. His good given would be everlasting good.

We feed our belief system to build ourselves into what we need to be. The good benefits us first.

It is a small hope that I harbor that the purpose will be for this planet to be simply united peoples. With learning being our prime purpose of life, to learn of cultures and languages and what unites us all. The only requirement is that we love life and think we can make a difference and Being is worth the work. In all worlds, all worlds.

In Good Hands. . .

I will invite you to sit beside me
on my couch. . .
to lean into my arms to wrest
the fatigue from a body
grown weary with age. . .

It will come to nothing, this fatigue
with aging because the heart of you
is alive and well though failing. . .
Alive for the world you have prepared yourself
with work, with love, with patience. . .

How do I know this?

You invited me in to have a time
of repair of Spirit when I needed. . .
to sup at your table full of good talk
with laughter,

at the fire with corn in the one bowl
I shared with your sons. . .
to have sat to converse with topics
scraping the souls of their transparency. . .

These were the times I knew
my choices were good ones
and the futures of my worlds

in good hands. . . .

September 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.
The Roses Are Yours. . .for keeps. . .

Long before the world ever was. . . .

As co-creator and creature both of the universe, it is man’s prerogative and innate yearning to stand erect. To bow down all the time leaves one eventually on one’s stomach. Man rose from the crawling position. There are too many yet who find the child’s position too comfortable.

To stand erect means that certain responsibilities must be accepted. And that includes responsibility for one’s person and attitudes. There are worlds yet where man will find the child’s position more comfortable and comforting.

To be adult means that one has to survive the inner turmoil and the outward condemnation which the world applies.

You do not defame the heavens. The heavens are not all that peaceful and without its own turmoil. There are many cliques yet which aim to destroy what man in his finest moments tried to accomplish.

We continue to say at every life’s departure that we go to a better place. Unless our life’s pattern has been to work toward that better place, we may find ourselves again learning the lessons we failed to learn but in lesser circumstances.

Like primer on bare wood, being and doing good must be innate. The Source of our impulses must be the Greater Heart.

The Roses Are For You. . .

I tell you true. You were known
before you came here to this vast land.
A waste for some, a paradise for others. . .
for one a dim place, for another the sun shines.

You took upon your spirit a work, a job,
looking to make a difference.
You said to send you where your heart
could change the world. . .

You were given your wish, hard as it seems.
You have not failed. Your ripples are felt
on unnamed shores and even the unborn
know your thoughts well. . . .

Come, be kind to one the heavens
sing praises for. Your work is virtuous
and your talents creative. We make bet on
the one winning the trifecta.

The roses are yours. For keeps.

September 5, 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.