From an Upper Floor

A Peace of Mind. . . .

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

*****

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

*****

Statistics are meant to sell beer and not to legislate the human spirit.

*****

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

*****

It is the lighted candle that sparks the heavens.

*****

Live and become that dream where you make a difference in a world that makes no difference.

*****

Bless the good day and blow the winds of fear as far from the ends of the Earth. The alternative is more of the same in a place where progress is not so swift.

*****

Wait not for death. Be vigilant only of life in all its forms, in its entirety. Embrace it all.

*****

One cannot break a will which heralds its own functioning and its own existence.

*****

When nothing is taken from our leisure to add to our proportion, it is debauchery and decadence. We have license to steal from ourselves the only thing we have at the moment and that is time.

*****

The hardest commandment to fulfil is the one to love one’s neighbor because it presumes one’s love for oneself.

*****

It is sometimes necessary to be abrupt or we lose our 30 second audience. We know the perilous times.

*****

You have carved a piece out of the night sky and you stand alone on the jetty in the universal sea. Who will you ask to dance on the ceiling? I would be honored if you ask me.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

July 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.
Do. . . and you will be shown how. . . .

Do . . . .And you will be shown how. . . .

When I was a girl Shirley Temple curls were popular and I sorely wished for a doll with real hair. I wanted my doll to have curls. My mother occasionally bought Honey Crush bread I think it was called and I coveted the orange colored cellophane wrapping it. I cut one inch strips and wrapped it tightly around a pencil. I glued them on my doll’s head. I pretended they were real curls.

It was a substitute and I never fooled my self but I was practical even then and knew with 8 siblings, a doll with real hair was not going to be. But it is my first memory of using what was on hand to create something I wanted.

Oftentimes to create requires a collection of expensive tools that dampens any desire to begin. The budding artist seldom has relatives with spare monies to help defray costs. Whether it is paper or pencils, or paint or fabric or yarns or whatever, it all costs. But if the desire is strong, begin. And ways will open.

Fortunately for us scroungers, we live in a throw away society with second hand or thrift stores. Older relatives can be lookouts for estate sales. The boys and I took their red wagon and walked the alleys to scrounge. After storms we hauled uprooted bushes and trees to bring home and plant. I picked up a book on sewing with knit fabric at a garage sale and I was off and running when the grandbabies arrived. I learned to knit when I was 15 and bought a knitting manual for 25 cents. I watched the guys with power tools and made a side table and learned carpentry. Do and you will be shown how. . . .

The brother next to me ran our farm because of our family’s needs so the job fell to his shoulders. But he was an artist. In what spare time he could muster, his tools of trade were his farm tools. He soldered and hammered and bent and polished nails and machine parts and screws and metals. He is a memory with his goggles and blow torch. He was a commissioned sculptor and his work still stands. Other brothers met their creative spirits on the city dumps to make bikes and radios and ham radio receivers.

Times change and new rules apply. Safety measures must be adhered to and caution taken. Still, we can work and find satisfaction in creative leanings.

The work of our hands still comfort when spirit struggles. Do . . . and you will be shown how.

click on photos to magnify . . . (Veronica’s Pink Feather Fleet)

July 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.
On Wings Of Hope. . . .

Once Covered With Dreams. . . .

Some may think there might be no choice on anyone’s part for any thing. All things may be a matter of destiny. Many think there are choices in all avenues. But supposing there are no conscious options. Supposing conscience already speaks on issues and there are no options.

But it is too much like work to think it through. It seems with today’s role models it is better to form a gut reaction with no thought accompanying; that it may end up being nonsense is a fact.

Fear speaks through them and as time narrows its focus someone in their circle of beloveds will be caught in the crossfires of their fear and what then will they do, be it the very bias of what they think, gay choice or gay marriage, unplanned pregnancies or physical or emotional abuses?

Those of narrow thinking we know. Too many times when voices carried anger I couldn’t speak without my voice carrying tears. Yet silence often carries assent.

When I look at who causes the violence I think they also were loved at one time. Brought into this world and fussed over and loved and no doubt covered with dreams.

Not going further than the newest greats or one of the many grands may be the child in the moment of courage who tells us that they always knew they were different. Will we strike out and say you are not mine? What will we do when the love for this child strikes us where we live, in our heart?

On Wings Of Hope. . .

I gather the day’s allotment
and present myself as altogether,
looking for your eyes
to shine with approval.

Spearheading into the day
with a visual containing
all that I hope
spells success in any language.

There is much riding
on wings of hope and I will know
the minute I see
your eyes fill with love

that I am cherished.

art by Claudia Hallissey

July 1, 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.
Show Me. . .the highest altar of the Mind. . . .

It was only in rereading the journals for August of ’17 that I happened to come across these words. Oftentimes I don’t get back to entries long after they are written. And then I am often humbled by what is given. I am in the midst of this mental conference and when fatigue overcomes, I shut down. When I go back, there is seldom memory of what transpired.

When I put these words into format, I can only say it is a condition of the heart and there is no reference. These words have come at a cost that is prohibitive. I read them over and tears form another ocean. A favorite doctor counseled and wondered the mystery to him of mystics in modern times and how there had to be something invisible that tied the hearts of one to another.

Proximity to like minds would disturb the ongoing work. It is often a life of isolation. It is tolerable because solitude becomes the favored state when rejection accompanies the mystic. Earlier times were easier on them because seclusion was more prevalent. Laughingly I have said to my sisters of the cloth that no doubt I would be in their convents but heavily sedated. Or in the monastery working in the vineyards. Alone no doubt.

I posted Show Me in late 2017. Speaking of prayers sometimes seems like public autopsy while one is still breathing. But it is a way to show a route that heals the dichotomy within. And we are in need.

Show Me. . .you are the more. . .

When I see you in your prayers,
you pull from me something akin
to obeisance of the highest kind.

I drop to my knees and want
to pray with you to the mighty of
All That Is who garnished upon us all
the sweetness that would turn the hearts
of stone awash with tears.

Tell me, how do you enter that
holy place so quickly when
your thoughts begin with the heart
of the child and take them to
the highest altar of the mind?

You almost take the highest and best
into yourself by some turn of mind
and close out the rest of us
like the door closing against the
onrush of minor thought. . .

How to get there?
Who lets you in?
Somewhere you go that closes us out
but yet. . . .your love includes us.

You step over what is invisible and
takes you to the promised land
which is not a place but a condition.
You know of what I speak and so do I.
I want it for me.

Because you are the more because of it. Show me.

Journal entry August 27, 2017
(primitive art is mine)

June 28, 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 Feed My Spirit. . . .

Lately I find myself not equal to the day’s events. And considering how close the century mark hovers, it is not unusual. But I cannot remember with this body how I rose to the occasions when events played havoc with my heart. So I take myself to the work table and create something from scratch. Normally it is to the kitchen but no thing seems palatable. So I am going to create from bits ready for trash, something still usable to feed my spirit.

Place a silicone sheet or a large piece of parchment on the ironing surface. Put a light 8×10 inch fusible web piece on it and then take scraps of fabric of a chosen color and cover the web. Place the colored pieces in whatever design you choose and then with a hot iron over another piece of silicone or parchment, press. Once fused the top sheet of silicone will lift off and the piece of now fusible colored bits will lift off the bottom silicone in one piece.

I free motion quilt over the fused fabric to make certain it holds together if not used right away. I don’t want movement in the fabric drawer loosening pieces of it. I use the fabric for wall quilts or small things. They make good mug mats or quilt squares.

I am still of the mind set that hands should not be idle. And every day is an adjustment as aging or illness takes what once were skills and of no thought. Even the threading of a needle becomes a major task when eyesight is not sharp or fingers become numb.

My knowledge has been such that whatever is fed into the mind is what will determine what world we inherit or how we are used when we transit. Everything teaches and it is up to me to feed that addiction I have for learning. These are what rust and moth do not destroy. These are the only gifts we take with us.

So today I share this with you. If the pieces are too small to handle with comfort, iron them onto fusible web and create a larger piece that gives rise to a something that has a wonderful outcome. You are limited only by boundaries you erect.

June 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.
White Anglo Saxon Protestant. . . what it means to me. . . .

White Anglo Saxon Protestant. . . what it has meant to me. . .

The families had gathered for our marriage and we were getting ready to leave. The favored aunt in my new family said in parting, I hope you are good enough for him. I gasped and stumbled and was silent. There was no argument from anyone.

During these recent times, coming to mind because of the immigration problems have been these slights to the heart that are constant to the minorities, be they of any color or station; anyone not having been born white anglo saxon protestant. One may be the same color but the position was clearly inferior if lacking any of necessary qualifications.

Years into the relationship with this family, a contemporary and I became great friends. She was visiting and she was going to her first Big Ten game and her joy was infectious and envied by me. How could one be so enthusiastic entering our dotage about a game of football that caused her to jump with glee?

Only after much thought was the realization that though life changed for her, what was not lost was the image and the self esteem that she had been born with and no one stepped on. That was what I envied and was granted to the genetic heritage of the family line; the elite of the purest. It was never spoken about in so many words, but it was an accepted condition of birth.

As my own family had theirs, the newly acquired family for me at the tender age of 20, had bigoted perceptions which engrossed family traditions. These perceptions were prejudiced for various reasons. The new ones I could not understand anymore than I could understand my family’s prejudices growing up. What I grew to understand, as I do now more than ever, that our behavior is based on fear.

The fear of soil, the fear of change, the fear of losing who we are because of slights and insults to who we were in ancient times. We have agonies of memories from ancient times clouding the genetic heritage that somehow we are going to again lose who we were as we did before.

So we kneel on the necks of those who bring that fear in us again. We must look thoroughly into the genetic heritage given each and relate intelligently. Are all men created equal?

When listening to a teen talk about how his contemporaries hated the Irish Americans because they felt they were rich and had everything, I remembered signs which read Irish Need Not Apply.

Another countered that having a mother and father and house and a name made one rich. These were young ones, saying these things. When any of these components are missing, one is then inferior? What are we doing to our children?

I spent my most learned years on The Farm. I was the farm girl whose father came from the Eastern continent. All over Europe the harsh voices are rising to keep borders tight. The rhetoric is such that not one of us qualifies for this ephemeral condition of purity. We each have worn coats of many colors. When that knowledge is ours along with our shame for our behavior, heaven’s door will be closed.

Who will take us in then?

June 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 Full Knowledge of the Song. . . .

The Last Bird Sings. . .

They said the pressures were such
that would have put a pipe fitter
under the foundation. . .

I, naive, thought when I heard
that she would not know
she was between waxed sheets
under a hot iron thought
they talked of you. . .

And I, obviously impaired of intelligence,
continued to listen to your tales
of woe and wondered
how you kept your sanity. . .

How did you do it. . .
and still found the joy in the antics
of people devoid of reason?

Aahhh, that is the secret
of vengeance is mine
saith the Lord. . . .

I will put joy, He said, in the laughter
of her who comes to your door. . .
and exuberance in the attitude of you
whom I call on to work in the vineyards,
you, whose body cannot
tolerate the taste of the vine. . . .

And I will put the song
in The Last Bird who will have

full knowledge of the song he sings. . . .

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

((I have some copies yet of The Last Bird Sings. If you are interested, contact me.))

June 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.
We Are Heaven’s Reflection. . . are we proud?. . .

My readers are the most intelligent of the top one percent of the reading public. They teach by their comments all the time. Some of them wish not to be quoted which I respect and cherish also those who comment publicly. I grasp with eagerness what they say.

One said there are places I would not be allowed to voice my thoughts or concerns. I have lived my almost my entire life being cautioned as I left the house about what I say. I had no intent but to do good. So why?

It became a constant worry and dampened my enthusiasm, so I seldom spoke in public. A well placed innocuous question kept whoever was speaking, holding the floor, so the public was spared my stuttering.

Another reader commented on my hero’s journey with much sensitivity that it was difficult at best and unbearable at its worst. Only when one is knowledgeable can one surmise this. They teach me from experience with coping when life blind sided them with balls thrown from left field, with chronic illnesses and pain and insensitive cruelties to their psyches. These are people of conscience.

I began journaling because there was no one to talk to. No one was interested in subjects I sweated. What transpired in my entries is worth further explanation at another time. Now I simply touch base with the overriding problem that arose when I was ten in 1941 and has since consumed my life and caused relationships to freeze.

Born with an open head and memory alive, any question I asked was the wrong question. Amid the daily occurrences were the philosophy questions that plagued me. Like the one when I was ten and silenced many times, where was the cosmic intervention by this god who we were taught watched our every move so that we wouldn’t embarrass our parents and strike us dead? Were not 6 million reasons enough reasons in war for cosmic intervention?

I was ten and asked where were the smart, important men in this world, where were the church’s leaders, who knew important things and were powerful enough to make the world run but could not stop Hitler’s war? Where was this god of my parents?

It is a long journey to integrate thought, discard painful, useless dogma taught under penalty of death and still find my beloved planet reason to keep breathing. But only as we emerge from this life where we wear human skin, can we even see the immanent god is the power within.

With a world of pacifists, artists, artisans, we see a world of sensitive and gentle souls who will forever wilt in the confrontation of a peoples equipped with weapons and the ability to arm the dark side of humanity with the power of thought.

It is what we see being done by the elected with a buffoonery that verges on the hysterical. It is a dangerous specimen of humanity.

This is my thinking. I drown in my tears when I think of the immense love that holds this Universe afloat. Free will is free will. And I do not like to think that the god within has not evolved further than the human who houses him.

As above, so below was the dicta when Christianity’s mentor stood on the rock. We are heaven’s reflection. Are we proud?

Photo a gift given by Jon Katz of BedlamFarm.com
Photo framed by my granddaughter Jessica Hallissey

June 15, 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 Cut Of The Cloth. . . .

Several years ago I wrote that an elderly once said to me people only know what you tell them. My reaction was a gasp! because she believed that.   There was no exposure to people more knowledgeable or more observant than she. Although she would adamantly vow her God knew everything and nothing was forever hidden.

Such was her focus. And many can relate to this thinking. Huddled with their own preferred prejudices and religious dogmas which forbid dabbling with so called devilish dervishes, much was undisclosed.

With many who think that minds are private and secrets can be bought with hush money, there are still those who cannot fathom the innocent bystander upon whose head thoughts settle unannounced.

These are the souls who take to the woods and live out lives in solitude, or with the natural world. Or simply close the shutters. People cause fatigue to these innocents who carry information that has no putting place in their lives. Besides, they spook people out.   Oh yes, they do.

They become vaults of knowledge with nowhere to dispense it. People will say about them, ‘never knew them other than just in passing. Kept pretty much solitary.’

I have written poetry about subjects like the above and am surprised when I come across the poetry years apart. But interesting are the perspectives and sometimes I find they change little. Many Truths was written in 1986. . . .and Overheard was in an involved work of last week.

Many Truths. . .

I tell you true,
if my eye caught it,
a picture has already
been taken of it.

If I know something
I can tell you true,
the neighbor down the street
or the unknown one
around the corner,
knows of it also.

If my ear has caught your cry,
or the deception in your words,
the heavens have heard the cry
and the deception, however layered,
in time is betrayed by you.

If my song is sung,
the heavens and my god
have heard the melody
and whipped the wind
and carried the joy or sorrow
to its Source.

It has always been so
and this I tell you true.
The difference?

I, now, know it.

November, 1986

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. . . .

June, 2018

June 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.
Come To The Table. . . you are invited. . . .

Come To The Table To Share. . . .

Several years ago a loved one said to me you take such giant steps and expect others to follow you and we just cannot! This was a surprise to me because everyone seemed yards beyond me and I was trying desperately to catch up.

It was with excitement I started to blog. I would ask the questions I wondered when my hands were elbow deep in suds and mounds of laundry. A reader wrote and said I had no difficulty asking who they would take on a journey as Dante took Virgil but she like others never gave thought to these kinds of questions.

Nor roamed the ethers with such equanimity as I seemed to do. I had and still have difficulty with this concept because I thought that my head is like everyone else’s. We are taught in school that all men are created equal. And children do not want to be different. My head wanted to know things. I had a need to know.

In my writing I see where people are not born all in the same kindnesses. For some the ability to love has not been born in them yet. The ability to see also has not been born which is different than looking. The ability to discuss things, to feel, to conceptualize, the ability to grasp the essence or a nuance, or the ability to relate by bonding, by trust, by hope, by word or handshake, and simply by humanity is outside their frame of reference.

When our rituals and icons seem narrow for the questions burgeoning, it is time to broaden the premise. Not to toss out the premise, but broaden our understanding. When our God seems too small for the questions forming in us, it is time to broaden our concepts with larger understanding.

When a favorite sister came out of open heart surgery her first words were man’s god is too small! He is huge! No church can hold Him!!!

Will it surprise us that the god of our childhood has a soaring scope that our finite brains will have difficulty envisioning? Ahhh! that is a journey that is exciting to begin.

And when we reach an understanding that goes nowhere and we bang our head on the wall with the maxim it is all a mystery, it is only a way station we reach and another door will open up. And again we are given light to brighten the way. Seems like work? It is.

But be assured that you will be invited to the table to share your journey.

June 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.