From an Upper Floor

Crashing The Cosmic Gates. . .

Crashing The Cosmic Gates. . .

If you are not gun shy after being shot, then you don’t understand the purpose of a gun.

*****

The soul tries on all attitudes to see which one fits the present world one lives in.

*****

All conditions can lend to growth because all conditions contain lessons. Mankind’s wish to be taught by osmosis without effort would further enhance his physical playground. Fun and games would lead to the top of the class? For sure.

*****

Enough times told, even the body begins to change its habits. It matches the words the mouth spills.

*****

Any degree of questioning leading to any degree of study lends a higher quality to a life which beggars.

*****

We lose sight of the dream when we forget that we had dreamed it.

*****

Within is the treasure, and without the within, there is no without.

*****

What was not fulfilled at the time needed will be sought for in every corner except within the person himself. And another generation to shoulder the search for ancestor’s anguish.

photo by John Stanley Hallissey

November 8, 2017

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.
Times Such As These. . (do we not learn, ever?)

Times Such As These. . .

I lock up the room
and pocket the last remnants
of words laying about
unattended.

Fearful that pieces
of my heart may be found
scattered among them.
And why not?

Times such as these
leaves us with little salve
to heal the open wounds
which once were hearts.

For whom do we weep?
The children whose siblings
will no longer come to the table
to convey with no doubt
the events which took their innocence?

Or the parents
whose hearts were transplanted
when word came
that these unspent stars
were already breathing the rarified air
as heaven’s most blessed?

Look at us here.
Pleading that our children
will be safe as they try to understand
what we in our dotage
have not learned.
To resort to arms

means death in any country.

November 5, 2017

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.
Love Is The Currency. . .

( I had written. . . ) I really need some one to listen to my words and consider them and tell me there is rest and love and ultimate design in all this. That I can look at the morning and not feel it will be snatched by high noon. That I can walk through the day, at ease with my surroundings and not feel the butterflies nesting in my gut.

I want not to feel Emerson’s under-riding bitterness trying to make good out of despair, (or is it my despair I read into it?) which borders on the arms flailing and saying, what is the use?

I want to be the one who looks and does not wonder at the immense goodness and does not feel it is a throw of the dice. Make sense? I want to make sense. I want to make a whole lot of sense. I want to rid myself of the feeling that I make no difference while I make a difference. I want to know that my order in this particular place is of importance in a world of no order.

I want to know that my attempt at understanding is noted in a world of innocents playing with rotten toys. I want to stop hurting. I want, I want. What I want is a must be in this natural existence and what is needed to maintain equilibrium in this precise classroom. Nature requires it. It means I love my Earth enough to hold on to her tightly.

(This could have been written yesterday and I suppose it was since all time is simultaneous. But I was just 52 and struggling with the injustices and insults of the world I saw centered. It was a silent struggle as most inner journeys are when commitments and conscience are shouldered. We don’t know it is a journey nor are we aware of options. For some, there are no options; life simply Is.)

I Come Bearing Gifts. . .

I come bearing gifts,
an open heart,
an open mind
and open arms.

Love is the currency
used to procure these.
Yours given unsparingly
and mine given
in gratitude

for the constancy of a similar heart.

(this poem was a Given at same time as the above was written.)

November 3, 2017

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.
All Time Is Simultaneous. . holographic universes. . .

June 17, 1984 journal. entry edited only for space . . I was sitting in my chair at the dining room table reading the paper when glancing out the north windows I caught sight of Michael emerging out of his green truck. He was drinking water out of a peanut butter jar and the setting sun shone on his curly head.

I yelled to him as I heard the gate slam and told him to wait while I put Princess in the basement. I then went to the kitchen door and found him standing and looking at the paint job on the house. He came in for a minute still drinking his water and I showed him the drawing of the patio cover we wanted.

He then had a call from his daughter to come home because there was someone to see him. He left and walked down the back yard walk. I yelled to him that he parked his truck in front and he said his truck was in the alley in front of the garage. And he knew where he parked his truck! I followed him to the back gate and sure enough, his blue, blue! truck was there. The new flat bed.

I heard the words simultaneous worlds in my head. And knew that for every aspect of my world here there is another impinging in identity on it. Though sometimes not up to date as with Michael’s blue truck which was only two weeks old. But it was in his green truck I saw him pull up front and talked to him at the gate.

Later that evening family friend John stopped by. I raced to put Princess again in the basement and went to open the front door only to find John not there. Ten minutes later he drove up and I asked him where he had gone. He just left home because he had been packing but according to my vision, he had already arrived which was why I put Princess in the basement.

It was not until 2015 that I read Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe and realized that all my life I had walked with one foot in other worlds. Quantum theory talks of time being simultaneous. The past is still happening and the future has already happened as we race in this present to catch up to it. It is a difficult concept for most people. Linear measurement makes it easier to learn when things appear stable. That they are not is the reality. We do ourselves and the worlds at large a huge favor when we push the boundaries out to allow beggar’s room for our Spirits to expand. We are different but our intent is to do good.

It would have been a comfort in my life to have a hand to hold that understood this concept.

November 1, 2017

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.
By Example We Teach. . .

All Things Are Connected. . .

No matter the outcome of any event, the process of integrating is uppermost within the chest of treasures. It is not that all things are diverse, but that all things are connected in a way that is concealed and discernment is required for enlightenment.

Rubies are connected to stones are connected to moss if the thinker in contemplation can see that man and fish, that donkey and gods are one of kind. You cannot see the connection unless the oneness of all of life and the concomitants of the each have an undecipherable basis and that their ultimate function depends on their being what they are and where they are.

And the what can be anything and their where can be anywhere. This is the unalterable basis of God. That the being of what is predisposed to the being in whom. The lesson understood is that the basic concomitant is equality in basis and in presence.

Understood also is that the outward is but an unrefined still beautiful expression of the great godhead within. And to exercise firm control over the criticism of the godhead no matter the dislike or the revulsion of the outward signs of human behavior. It is by example we learn and by example we teach.

(excerpt from
The Word Is God. . . .)

Can it be said in truth
that the word be god?
It is.
For within its power to create
it moves with desperation to voice feelings,
to give breath to visions and to heal.

The word created creatures and dynasties,
wars and rebellions, held peace in abeyance
and brought us to life.

So speak softly when speaking.
Words carry the weight of the heart
with intent to topple empires
and worlds and men.
In the catalytic movement
of the word, the world’s heart beats,
years are gifted
and man’s future secured.

It is all we have.

Photo by
John Stanley Hallissey

October 31, 2017

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.
Wandering The Galaxies. . .

Wandering The Galaxies. . .

Again, I am here with pictures, primitive to be sure, that I drew of what I encountered in the dream world written on September 9, 1991. Previously I had shown the pictures I had drawn of the gentle fishes in the post on this blog called Worlds I know. . .to speak of. . . which was on September 3, 2017. I wrote then that as I continued working on cross referencing my journals with other work which corroborates them, I would share the pictures and the journals.

I came across the notes I had taken when rereading the journals of the pictures you see here. I knew I had the sketches and showed them to my son John. He said I was ahead of my time. This week we activated solar panels on our home after much protocol. There obviously are worlds where other forms of energy are utilized to a greater extent. I share a part of the journal of that date. While I was not fully awake and the dream was fresh, I drew the sketches you see. My input to the dialogue taking place was . .

(The energy on the mountain. What I thought were trees in the vision, shaped like trees, were not were they? They somehow brought in energy to run houses without chimneys. And from those strange shaped trees I thought on the mountain. From a distance I thought them trees, but they were energy sources, weren’t they? I wish there were credentials to back me up, but then I wouldn’t have taken this seriously but just a powerful play . )

I could not have envisioned this on my own nor have thought one day to be living here in California where solar panels would be discussed to offset the high cost of electricity. But almost 30 years ago I had sketched other worlds where gentle fishes and houses without chimneys were evidenced. I had heard of Rachel Carson and her worries for this planet. My concerns were immediate and I was the person on the premises needing to deal with why my world was wobbly when I tried so hard.

I told my sons I needed a Hazmat suit when I entered my workroom. The emotional vibes are hard on this aged frame from a life of memories relived. Memory is both joyous and painful and always entwined.

October 28, 2017

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 Still Time. . .

(Sometimes the poet and writer needs a good talking to.)

There Is Still Time. . .

I say. . . .
What more can I do? I am
tired and I am old.

You say. .
You are still breathing. And as long
as there is breath, you can still create.

I say. . . .
It has all been said. How many different
ways to instill the will to make a difference?

You say. . .
As many ways as there are people who awaken
before the sun decides to make an appearance.

And I say. .
Already too many times for me. . .

And you say. .
I have not heard your name called, which means, rise and do,
and you will be shown how. I have journeyed with you and
do not abandon.

And I say. .
You are a hard task master. . .

You say. . .
When we walked the heavens and decided to explore our talents
we wanted to do good. The world awaits. . .

I ask. . .
For how long?

Your answer. . .
There is still time to take harp lessons. It’s been too long since
you used that talent. We need to refresh your memory. . .

October 27, 2017

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 Affair. . .

A World Affair. . .

Give me the space
in which a few minutes rest
and tell me the color
of your eyes.

I know the direction
your mind would take you,
the roads upon which you go.
I hear your songs
of liberation from a self
holding you prisoner too long.
The songs reach my heart
and together we sing of freedom.

But the space
in which you move this time,
has color and form
and a life apart.

I push through seemingly heavy doors
to reach you and do,
that portion of heart and mind
I know as you.

Locked within a crystalline gaze,
I search my palette
for the emotion with which
to fill in your eyes.
Tell me,

what color are tears?

October 24, 2017

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.
My Earth, My Earth. . .

How often have we said ‘it just doesn’t translate.’ Meaning that the nuance of the word is so important that when it isn’t there, the meaning alters. The word insensate is such a word. The meaning of sensate means that there is an appreciation by the senses, that what is perceived is beautiful and appreciated. According to our dictionaries the word insensate means brutish, mad, inanimate or lacking in sensibility. And what I mean when I use the word is that the depth of feeling is missing. Small difference? But in the meaning of the poem, with what I perceive, the difference is enormous. Read the poem with this in mind.

My Earth, My Earth. . .

Though others reside, it is my Earth.
This is how I feel where I live.
Do others? I don’t know.

From a cosmic view this has to be
the most beautiful place in this Universe.
I can see coming back if only
for the first snow, to taste
the cold air on my face,
the wind through my hair and
the breath of the elixir swimming
through my lungs.

Heady stuff? . . . I know that. I know that.

But to me the rest of the Universe
sits hot and heavy on my head.
Too much still with me
filtering through my senses to
make me altogether too conscious
of who I am yet.
Maybe only because

I cannot perceive an insensate body. . . .

Photo by
John Stanley Hallissey

October 21, 2017

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 Breaking Day. . .

Not often do we find sunrise photos. I thank Jon Katz of BEDLAMFARM.com for this photo which he so graciously lets me use. Here in California, morning’s sunrise can be counted on pretty much and often to our detriment as these weeks have shown. Still, photos like these require a photographer to rise early to greet them and be in the right place. This is a favorite of mine and says perfectly what I try to say in this Breaking Day.

The Breaking Day. . .

There is a texture to the morning
that I distinguish from
the silky drape of the night,
to the languid folding
of two o’clock in the afternoon.

I greet it with a welcome
and crisp breath that
will increase sharply my taste
of morning coffee.

The smooth touch
of the furry Newfoundland with
his wet nose give off a sparkle
of light in the rising sun.

I taste of the morning with its clarity
that I will miss in the
oncoming heat of the day.

But this breaking day I move
my arthritic fingers with
their numb tips and wonder where
the girl has gone who never gave thought,
not once, to the dawn that
would ever break unevenly
in her world.

Nor did she ever think that the magic
of her mornings would ever change,
and never knew of the Grace
that the Greater Heart would grant
her aging one,

to feel supremely blessed.

October 17, 2017

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.