From an Upper Floor

Creativity. . Look, what I made! . . .

I scribed. . . .it is a bag of wind we seem to contend with and problems never ending. The problems stem from diverse personalities complicating and darkening what should be an enlightened situation. What is obvious to one is dark to another.

You think the world’s state of affairs too complicated to solve. Yet should they be solved, what then the reason to continue? People then would simply start trouble to spark things up a bit. Too simple an answer.

When peoples are not operating on the same level, coming from such diverse beginnings as culture, genetics, health conditions, etc, you have a coloration that confounds even the Solomons. One swipe does not wipe out problems. Even annihilation would not be the answer.

For the desire to create is so strong that another place would be found for manifestation. And the creativity that would explode would put the same situations into play. . . .

Creativity requires expression, which will take on the coloration of the individual souls, the emotional as well as all the previous adjectives. And memory being what it is, would soon also color situations and promote problems for people working and living together.

With creativity, lesson plans burgeon. Problem solving nests within the problems, within the creation, within the creators.

Unless there is personal growth, there will be unrest. Look to solve what darkens your life. Begin where you are. When you bring peace to yourself, you also bring it to others.

My argument. . . one man can ruin a world and a world of prayerful men cannot save it? (what is the lesson here?)

Creation. . .

An ear from here will touch an elbow there
and mid the deafening roar, hear the shout,
‘I am here!’ ‘I am here!’

And another world is given birth with form
strangely reminiscent of a time and place
where you held me and I, you.

Together then, a life, a birth and a new world
created by the unmistakable combustion
amidst the resounding silence of an I love you.

Sublimely exiting, noisily entering, within
the crackling cartilage of old and new forms,
new worlds are born of memory, of experience,

housed in the eternal mind.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

April 9, 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 World: Atlas Shrugged. . love her enough to shoulder her high. . . .

Value Systems. . .

A value system is what is honed by a lifetime or many lifetimes lived as Beings, and not necessarily only as the human that we know. It can reflect lifetimes of worlds not visible to the human system of values or cognizance of them.

What the value system will show is what has been driven through the heart of one to become what it is they are, who it is they are.

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

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

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

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

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

Come Into My Kitchen. . .

Come into my kitchen
by the back door.
Only dear friends are allowed to.
Others have to earn the right
by walking through the halls
to the center, the heart of my home.
But you can come to the back door.

I will let you in.

Photo of Kitchen-John Holmes
Dove Photo-John Hallissey

April 4, 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.
To See The Day. . .

From Psalms of Love is the following poem entitled ‘To See The Day.’ The emotions and the times were painfully immobilizing. The inner journey means different things to all those who attempt it. I did not realize there was a name for what I was thrust into. All I knew was that I hurt. Heaven intervened and there is a paper trail that I leave. Perhaps it will prove helpful to someone. I live to tell you that I could not have survived without the ordeal of the journey.

To See The Day. . .

I’ve traveled distances
not measured in miles
through the intensity of love and found you.

I’ve broken barriers designed for men in mind
and found the freedom imposed by chains
within me ready. I took upon me a coat to wear
when first I chose to come with Mind.

I pulled it close for warmth.
Its protection saved me from invasion.
Little was known about the warp of weave
and how fragile the belief that kept me warm.

I was told that distances were measured in miles,
that love could be seen and cold could be felt.
I did not know the cold felt in a house of fear
was colder than the Arctic and that all the blankets
in the world could not the body keep warm
if the heart was barren. I learned.

I did not know that for some the barriers of mind
allowed the peaceful growth of children.
To have been so wrong was proved to me
by teachers intent on my freedom.

All in me, as I in Life was a lesson I came to learn.
The hour creeps toward dawn and I hasten
the good night toward a day to be broken
with promises kept. I never thought

I would live long enough to see the day.

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey
Psalms of Love on sale at Amazon

April 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.
The World I Worked To Build. . .

The World I Worked To Build. . .

Where hearts open to each other, where minds are keen on learning, and where love intends to see its full bloom. Where beings are intent on growing to their fullness and work becomes a blessing.

Do I want much?

I want only what I worked and hoped for. Where parenting is approached with a reverence bent on new life nurtured.

Where talents are perceived with a reverence granted the giver and where life is held in the crucible of love and needs are cared for when they arise and lovingly attended with appropriateness.

Is it much that I ask for?

Do I work hard because I think I am the prime mover and instigator in my life? Are we, each and everyone?

And if it were a known, would there be chaos? Would we be immobile because within the each is the knowledge that our god would rescue us? Would it be knowledge or faith?

Is this why people don’t try harder? But try they do. Doing is what they don’t.

THE WEAVER. . .

Standing on a shrouded hill,
integrating worlds in a body, split,
is a she-man, weaving the old and the new
to warm a world gone cold.

Walking and usurping man’s ego,
split from his metamorphic mind,
she knots her splendour with magic.

Jealously guarding the expenditures,
she weaves the woolen mat in metaphysical colors,
unidentified by he who walks.

Marvelously melding with utmost utility,
she embraces the fabric, whole, with never a glance
to see the world spinning into it.

Splendid is she at her task as she gains
strength from silences filled with howling voices.
She separates them in her mind and makes more magic.

Look up, look up, we say,
at the wondrous unfolding! Rain ponders its drops
as they fall but the woman weaves and weaves and weaves.

She will look up when it is finished.

April 1, 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 Love We Pray. . . amen and amen. . . .

As dawn breaks, my fingers of both hands curled about each other and I marveled at their slimness, their ability to elicit the feel of themselves, each digit wrapped around the other.

And I felt that nothing, no other world would ever make me feel such blessedness in my hands’ ability to do so many things over the course of a life.

To kneading bread, to winding the yarn, to smoothing the brow of my very sick child and have him telling me later that it helps him sleep.

Everything I touch holds a lesson for me. The square inch of soil I spooned with young hands yielded secrets kept from generations.

The eyes of a child as my hands embraced young shoulders tells me what went into their ancient heritage. And I grasp their hands in mine and convey my love by touch.

I would use these hands to mold and make and set trends never before thought. I see the beauty of the great god in the blending of these human genes and see the perfect Adam and perfect Eve emerging and see the virtue in the making and the doing of the homely tasks that will start the holy process once again. And I will open my arms and spread my hands to grasp the youngest by my hip and be grateful for hands that show

how very much I can love on this planet called Earth.

Spring Prayer. . .

As we enjoin the Universal Spirit to entrust
with another spring, another resurrection, awaken
within us the desire to nurture the world
that has nurtured us.

Let our hearts lead us to that place
where we intuitively cherish the mother who feeds
and clothes us and gives sustenance. Let us
not forsake our responsibilities to those yet unborn,
whose futures we have already mortgaged.

Blessed Spirit, enliven our curiosity about our daily world,
remind us that the bird’s song needs our acknowledgement and praise,
that the sun needs our greeting and night wishes it bid good.

As we nourish those of our commitment, speak to us of our commitment
to the home we know, our planet Earth. Let our love guide us
to make beautiful, to make secure and to guard diligently
what has so faithfully harbored us.

In love we pray, amen and amen.

March 30, 2019

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

Sometimes there sweeps over one a feeling saying ‘that’s how I always felt’ whatever prompts a memory. It could be a scent or sunlight or something triggering a wave awakening response long dormant. Often one knows where it originates but often the ‘always’ has no beginning at least in this lifetime.

This following feeling is a comforting one and a loving one to me. Whenever it comes upon me the memories are good and I wear them like a stretched sweater . We are our memories and if this day we look upon our lives as surviving triumphantly in spite of a hazardous journey, bless all memories because you have overcome and are the victory.

I started this entry years ago when waiting for guests and family to arrive for dinner. This is as far as I got with it but coming upon it now the feeling was fresh. You have these incidents also, perhaps never thinking them special. But they are. . . . and so makes you special.

This is a Sunday morning at almost noon and I sit here at my window in my beloved study and look out at the snow piled on the evergreen boughs albeit like sagging angel wings. The sun comes through the opposite window and the brightness bespeaks somehow a Sunday morning.

Why is there always a different look to the world on a Sunday? Everything looks somehow different, almost as if there was a visible sign on the day saying, this is Sunday!

As a child on The Farm, with the inside door open, leaving only the storm door with its weeping windows and the sun streaming through, there was the smell of chicken soup or whatever the stove was cooking signifying that this, even this, smelled different because it was Sunday.

So my Sunday in this house smells like Sunday with the beef roast and baked potatoes, as I await the family and our guests. It will be a good dinner and this is what Sundays are all about for me.

It Is Enough. . .

It is enough. . . just breathing and feeling
the north wind coming through the night.

It is enough. . . to stir my senses,
to lift me from my bed to get on with life.

It is enough. . . to raise the dust
out of the corners too long neglected.

It is enough. . . to lift the dirty and sweaty labors
and point out that in these are the gifts of life.

These are the beautiful,
along with the first snow and the harvest intact and sealed.

And to find a reflection
of what I hold dear in the eyes of an Other.

It is enough.

March 28, 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. . . 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.