From an Upper Floor

As It Was. . . .

Paraphrasing the Teacher in a journal entry of a December past. . . .

‘She quietly opens the door and slips to the crib, not knowing the child’s father has already retired for the night in the room. She watches the child in sickness and the son watches his mother with her magic chants as they drew from his son the illness causing such heartbreak.

You can do it, he was thinking. You can do it. And he was in awe as he watched this woman profoundly calling on a benign force that would move the sickness from the body of his son. He watched you move those hands in air that was vibrant with the power pouring through you. And he said that this is my mother and this woman I don’t even know.

And he knew that in all that had transpired , in all that he watched, he would take to his writing and pour out what was observed, and if not observed, he would have known anyway. Let the power move through me and make me an instrument of thy peace, he said.

Touched were those hearts needing to be touched. There will be a respite and a growing and a power to make whole.’

In the morning a wiped out toddler recovered enough to stand and shout his demands to rattle the crib.

In the following years I learned that the undergirding of our Universes is an ethical premise that supports life and demands of each of us the highest and best we can be. It may be benign but it is a spiritual power and it does not matter what we call this power, God or Allah or Jehovah or Christ. It is ethical and demands us to aspire to our best. We know intuitively and welcome obstacles that require we test our courage before meeting the greatest of our challenges however different for each of us.

I Pray. . .

Let this pass, if it is thy will.

I Hear. . .

Look beyond the Light
into the face of the morning sun
to see that the Light beckons and extends.

It would grant you peace
should you let it.
It will grant you life
should you welcome it.

Amen and amen.

December 31, 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.
Simple sums. . .Bread for the Day. . .

Simple Sums. . . Bread for the Day. . . .

It seems the length of our lives is directly connected to our unresolves.

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To find beauty in the doing, puts even the most menial task in the position of praising life.

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Skirmishes, both large and small, are always grist for someone’s mill.

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We look for the next Messiah and when one appears, we will ask for credentials.

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Too many unresolves without resolve will either be blocked from memory or tie up the individual to render immobility.

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With no memory, the motion of the man is one in search for his god.

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Being justified is not the same as being accountable. The difference is the same as liquid and non liquid assets. The difference between liquid and non liquid assets is time. The bird in the hand is worth two in the bush if we are hungry.

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Justification and accountability are on par with rights and responsibility. We can have rights and be justified but if we are accountable we are responsible.

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Jesus said ’Ye are gods’ meaning Man is Divine, god within. But the business of godhood is not all that great. It means being responsible every minute and man proves minute by minute that he’s not buying the concept. It is no fun.

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Whoever is in charge of this world has a thankless job and their fatigue too often is apparent.

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All of humankind is in need of professional counseling. But who is going to counsel the counselors?

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If man is the result of the whim of the Potter, how dependable is the Potter?

December 29, 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.
Under The Wings. . . cont’d. . . .

(for my new readers and for those who needed to be reminded , I share again this vignette. I wish you a joyous holy day. . .)

Do I have more minutes to finish? There was no time for answers because the little one with a dash was out of sight. In a few minutes he was back and announced, I finish. Having learned to wait while private things were finished, I waited again while he proceeded to his room.

I followed him shortly to find him in pajamas and ready to crawl into the high bed. Well, should it be a story to tell or a story to read I asked. I am ready for you to choose.

Tell me what it is we should do to get you ready for sleep? And I waited. Minutes ticked away while the choice was being made. Patiently, again, what will it be?

His face took on a faraway look as if searching for a memory. I recognized the look and wondered where he would go for that memory to take shape. I knew it well. It was a look that had been on my face many times with voices telling me to stop dreaming. I needed to pay attention to what was at hand and not waste so much time dreaming.

So because of those reprimanding voices, I knew to wait. He asked if I would sing the one I singed when I singed with other voices. He knowed that song!

What song is that? I wondered. There was no time for me to sing with other voices that he would have heard. Like this, he said and in his high soprano he sang his Gllloooo oooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa and I knew.

Unbelievably I knew. The music hung on his tongue and in his throat as if he were tasting a delicate sweet.

When did you ever hear me sing that? I asked. Before I came to you, he said. Before I came. I heard you singed and my heart singed with you.

I knowed I could tell you some time if I just ‘membered it. I promised I would ‘member so I could hear it again and again. I knowed that you would ‘member if I singed it. And you do! he said, you do!

And I believed him because I gave up choir when he was due to be born. I took this child into my arms and sang the song he so wondrously remembered.

And when I came to the part he remembered his voice faithfully shadowed mine. And another posit was added to the Memory Bank but who would believe it? Who??????

Except the many someones who entered their place of belief every time they bent their knees.

Those are the who. . . .

December 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.
Under The Wings. . . .

In exasperation a beloved said it takes you a whole page to say you went to the corner! And I realize that was the answer to why my perspective is different and so is yours. We see and hear things differently because we endow life with who we are. My readers know that I bring a change in view.

Yet we agree on certain things to allow us to live, hopefully, in peace. We respect the right of each to worship what is holy and allows one to live life’s dailiness as best one can. We endow life with our faith or belief or knowledge with whatever was in our carpetbag to carry onto this life on Earth when we are born.

And I will continue to embrace your right to belief with only the stipulation that you do no physical harm to another. I will include it as my framework broadens and I also prepare mine to broaden for another world. Life everlasting means exactly that. We grow and become other as we live. And I wish we do it with Grace.

I wish all my readers a holy day of their persuasion or a holiday of choice. Since we bring to our lives who we are, my life includes symbols of my beloved Earth, an angel heralding the occasion with joy and my knowledge that like a giant Dove of Peace under whose wings we fly, the undergirding of these Universes is Intelligence and Common Sense by whatever name we choose for it. It is with joy, sacredness and reverence we greet the Season.

When Love Was Hatched. . .

If it seems all is lost think back,
when love was hatched and gave birth. . .
to dreams of wonder and of light
to make bright the darkest corner.

And gave us fine sons and daughters
we loved into being. We sought for dreams
to outlet talents hidden between
fields of mind. We sought to bring

to each other the reflections
of what we held as our highest and best
in fists tightly clenched. Now we reach
that time in mind, holding close

those dreams like a magnet,
unable still to separate our lives.
And we will wonder who works
the wonders as we fly

under the Wings of the Great God.

December 21, 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.
Many Truths. . .Many Worlds. . . .

A question arose when reading and I was ready to put down the book. Coming to mind were thoughts I had to make peace with. I had been told . . .

‘there are many truths. There is not just one truth and all else is false. All things are true in some place at some time; many truths like many gods. We must leave that place where there is just one of this and one of that. There are many things that are good, just as there are many things that are not. Yet for some reason, far from being the truth of us is that there is a preponderance of things people cling to simply because it is easier than trying to find room for all truth.

Why not put them aside when coming upon them and say, this for now is a truth and tomorrow another truth will be in its place? You cannot, as you like, tie things up in parcels and put pretty bows on them. Not to be done. Everything cannot be in its precise place forever. A truth can be right for this place and here, now.

Tomorrow there will be a place for another truth. What will you do when you find yourself in a world where other truths will find their place and you will have to slide around to find your footing, slippery, yes? Something always gives and it will be another world and altogether different approaches. Not necessarily obliterating old truths, simply finding space for them in a different world where larger and broader frames of thinking will be necessary.

We must give space to larger frames where old truth will be integrated to broaden the still broader picture. What will you do Veronica, when we will have to gain footing on even more uneven terrain? ‘

Many Worlds. . .

I wander about in many worlds
trying all on for size.
Walking timorously, fearful always
of a misstep.

Generously coping
with a plethora of ideas,
alien in context,
coming from sources I can only wonder.

Now a word,
a complete thought
fitting incongruously
into my world of now.

I surrender to a multi faceted existence.

photo by John Holmes

(the writing is from a journal entry in August, 2013 and the poem written in April, 1975. All time is simultaneous. . Quantum physics)

December 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.
The Lady Of The Blue Cloths. . . .

There are posts I have written that speak well to the present times. I think for those who follow me there might be some understanding from these earlier writings. There might be a moment when the thought comes, oh I see where she comes from. I hope so. For me it is a visit to a friend I have not seen in a long time. And it is always a pleasure to read these vignettes. I hope you enjoy them with some insight also to where my writing has led me.

The Lady Of The Blue Cloths . . .

Can we go today, he asked? Perplexed, I looked at him and wondered now where since most of the errands were done that we considered a must. Soon the holidays would be upon us.

To the lady with the blue cloths, he said. To the lady who knows things. And of course, I said. You haven’t asked for a long time. Because he said, I knowed when I ask-ed the question! And how, I wondered, but first we needed to get ready.

Soon we were on the way. He was quiet and wondering his wonders. I asked him again how he knew the answer when he just had asked the question! He stuttered for a bit and looked straight ahead. You know, he said, when I ask-ed myself a question. I wait and knowed I knowed the answer when I aske-ed the question. Somehow, pieces come into places, he stammered, like puzzles and I knowed that I knowed but I had to ask out loud.

I listened to this and still wondered. But why then do we need to see the lady of the blue cloths? Because he said, because. Because it is almost time for the Glooorrrriaaaaaaaaa time he said and I needs to find out from her some things she knows. Her answers he said, not mine answers.

We were met by his friend at the door of the shop and she led us to her table. She held his hand a minute and their hearts melded. Why, she asked, are you wondering how to say it? I am thinking he said, how you knowed what you knowed without asking questions out loud?

She touched his cheek. Like you she said. When I feel a light breath on my cheek or a warm hand on my shoulder even if no one is there, I know my angel is. And knows my question. So by the time I put the question into words, the answer is in my heart.

I thinked that way so with me, he said. I knowed you would know he said because I know too. I think real hard and in my head pieces like puzzle come together. Angels are good friends, real friends. He got up to go. Never afraid he said, never afraid. Angels carry blue cloths. They say blue cloths good to wipe tears. You have lots of angels here. I come back just to see them?

Any time, she said. With the holy days we have lots of them. They follow me sometime he said, follow. Never alone, I never alone. She smiled at me in leaving and gave me her hand. The warmth of it raced to my heart and I drew breath. You are good for this one, she said. You are good.

Charged, himself and I floated home

December 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.
Apriori. . . Before We Are Born. . .

The Twig Already Is Bent. . . Before We Are Born. . .

Before. Apriori. I love that word but I don’t see it often. It encapsulates meanings long held on whatever subject. I use it to mean lives lived before now; some of us with long histories and others freshly minted. Those who think we are a clean slate are right, for some are born closed off to their pasts.

Others, and the list is growing, come with open heads with glimpses and bleed throughs from lives lived elsewhere. Some children learn early to close down memories making living easier but others slug on through unhappily and others spend a lifetime accommodating and alibiing either themselves or others.

In my lifetime I have come across a few writers who bear me out. One whose life was a line to sanity was Jane Roberts and her artist husband Robert Butts whose support was inestimable. Others like Catherine Cookson was a novelist whose needs were keen when she rented a room with a card table for her typewriter and shouted to the heavens she was ready so send her a book!

Another was Joyce Carol Oates who was teaching in Windsor when she was interviewed by a Detroit newspaper and said she never outlined, just sat at her typewriter table with a ream of paper and started mentally taking dictation.

The prolific Norah Roberts in one book had a writer tell his mother who commented on the progress he made on his novel that it is all up there, you just have to reach for it.

If it is marketable there are trips to the bank. I missed the marketing by a long shot but the satisfaction of needing to know made life comprehensible, has kept me from the bridge and has been worth the work and struggle. My work does not meet laboratory tests nor credence but it has carried me through crises that would cow the most able soul.

Most of my work is a Given with the footwork immense. Memories of past lives in glimpses taught me many things that this life did not include.

On her deathbed in a conversation with me my mother said she did not know how to love because she had no one to teach her. Orphaned, her life was work centered and that she learned. She taught us all diligently to persevere and I call those the ‘jenny genes.’ To know how to show love has to be taught. Think on that.

Being open headed like some writers are, also presents certain abilities offensive to others. One is being able to walk into a room and pick up thoughts. It seems an invasion of privacy but to the one receiving thoughts in a large group oftentimes feels like a shower of pellets from BB guns at an unclad body.

Unless told that it was what someone was thinking at the time, the person is innocent of invading thought. It just is part of their thinking mechanism as a stray thought usually is, like where did that come from?

Muses are still at work. Writers are writers and do not give up their craft. I crashed the cosmic gates and headed for Olympus because my life depended on what the sages continue to argue. I’m no fun, am I? I was not in other lifetimes either it seems. Sorry about that. But no regrets also, from either side.

December 12, 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.
Hope Enters With A Promise. . . .

Just do, she said and don’t ask why! It was her mantra, her Om, her ominous threat! This great, great grandmother of Emma E. with her brood of young held us all in check being a sergeant at arms. We muttered our displeasure but we did what needed to be done. We inherited what I call the jenny genes, inspired some of us and caused some of us heartache. But we see in our progeny the results that give us hope.

And we know without doubt that hope is the factor that gives life meaning, for without it there is no tomorrow worth waking up to. Emma E. with her fragile and precarious beginning at 1 lb 13 oz is the now charming and lovable child pictured here having just passed her first birthday. She keeps on giving intangible gifts of love and laughter that are priceless.

Thirty three years ago her father came into the world early as she and I thought determined to live as he was, he would have even if born in pioneer times on the prairie enroute. His daughter is determined as he. Being only familiar with my side of the family intimately, I see the jenny genes from the orphan my mother was, working yet through her progeny of grands and greats.

Having just come through a week of laying to rest a President of what is called the Greatest Generation, I am reminded what the characteristics that were their legacy. Commitment, frugality, work and responsibility are the hardest things to teach the children.

The Depression years took the laughter out of many lives but the birth of Emma E. has given all of us reason for joy and hope. When the larger picture is kept in mind, we can cherry pick the legacies and keep what is fine and good and what gives life. These are worth working for and keeping.

We always hope the best of who we are is born into our progeny. I look upon this smiling face of Emma E. and am glad I hold onto that thought. The thought that the jenny genes will be her strength to persevere but never to forget to laugh.

The Journey. . . a life. .

So we pitch our tents
on the side of the quiet river
and look for landmarks in the morning.

It has been a full day, rafting and
wandering through the rapids
hoping for a night of calm waters.

Still, we hope. Christmas will
come knocking at the midnight door
and hope will enter. And she will

be welcome for she enters with a promise.

December 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.
Shared Silence

Shared Silence

In rereading a journal entry of many years ago I wrote with little editing, ‘that my husband of more than a half century went out the door this morning with little communication. Though there was little talk, there was a communion of shared history in the house.

I think that has replaced talking, being more a feeling than anything. Not preferable, but the status.

The feeling is that we are what we are and there is no changing at this time. It was a matter of love me as I am for I can be no other.

It is not that communication would not be welcome. But even that I really don’t know. Growth is singular and individual, depending on the soul’s need and intent.

There comes a time that is past communication. There is a time for silence. Silence , I would suppose is a time for Being.’

(I add this thought today, ‘a time for Being, not like in closing shop, but Out Of Time, meaning outside of Time. Elsewhere. A soon time.)

Shared Silence

It is a time
past the time of talk,
past the time of argues.

There is a time of silence,
a shared silence,
a time to accept,
a time to simply
slip into old slippers and Be.

No matter the world,
this time is ours.
Maybe not to fill
all the empty spaces
but given time, blends them

into a communion of shared silences.

artwork unknown

December 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.
Does The World Stand Still For You?. . .

If memory serves me, the one thing I learned from what I have been told is that no one thinks like I do. Trust me, it was never a compliment from the time I was a child. When I first started this blog in 2011, I started with this poem. I excerpt.

‘How heavy is a spider’s web
on a butterfly’s wing?

Since everything is balanced,
the question is proportional.
A friend said to me, only you
had eyes to see it.

Does the world stand still for you?’

This morning I was at the kitchen window looking at the orange tree and thinking creatures are eating the oranges by gouging large chunks and eating them still on the branch. And I saw then a tiny bird sitting on an orange and pecking into the gouge and having his morning juice. He was barely seen in the leaves. But certainly too little to break the tough peel of the orange? A minute later he flew off. I gave my thank you for this sight.

Just as I thought my Maudie Dove blinked but was uncertain, the next morning I watched her and sent my question out and sitting on her nest, she blinked. Several times. I had been told after I noticed that when I acknowledged the bird song one morning that the song halted momentarily, that indeed the thought was accepted and appreciated because the song begun again.

This connection to my Earth is one that I cherish. It will be in my memory bank forever. We are unique in our perspectives and each step in our evolution puts us ever closer to what our potential is. There is no ultimate, there is only growth.

I excerpt another poem called ‘The Moment The Star Fell’ which shows the ongoing quest for answers that have fueled my life. The question could be anyone’s question and it matters not, but the journey does. This was a Given and you will see your thinking in it.

(Excerpt from The Moment The Star Fell. . )

I see you search the southern sky
closest to your bed and against your will,
hope a star will fall, just for you.
You think you will know then.
But you will not.

For in the morning you will hear
of a meteor or a similar explanation
to salve the mind of man who thinks
only his world is truth. And you will doubt.

Yet you will think, ‘ but only I knew what my heart
required at that moment the star fell’. . . .
and then you will doubt again, for they argue
their arguments to convince.
But within the place of rest,

how could you not know?

December 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.