From an Upper Floor

The Universe I Know. . . .

Sometimes things need to be repeated because the lesson has been worn and the fit now is less traumatic. On November 5^th, 2013 USA TODAY had an article that the space observatory Kepler telescope had shown that about 8 billion stars in our galaxy had planets almost the size of Earth that could support life. Flares should have been sent up by our religious institutions that emphasized the fact that our Father’s House Has Many Rooms. The beginning centuries’ mentality could think in those terms only because at the horizon man thought he dropped off the Earth. Less than a handful at that time could grasp a subliminal concept.

Even now tempers still rage over evolution/creation and evolution/salvation. Surely we will evolve to the point where we will see some truth, a truth in all when our brains enlarge to grasp the larger understanding? There are those whose lives were dedicated to the divine in all life and even God in a rock.

Destiny brings mavericks to Earth to enhance physical life. They possess intelligence beyond what institutions teach. They are not trendy nor dress in costumes designed for fashion. They speak not of reality shows but of substance showing that thought is their companion. When recognized one would surely yearn for such a companion.

They speak of life elsewhere. And not of linear measurement. Their worlds are rich with forms patterned by consciousness invisible to the common man. Where worlds are filled with thoughts having a reality palpable. Where mind speaks the nuance of meaning not needing the vocabulary as understood. Where these worlds outside our own, watch closely the actions of Earth gods that will determine their futures, for many of them already acknowledge the divinity within mankind. And the divinity is an uncertain kind when viewing man’s behavior.

The ancient knowledge of the mystics must be understood to uncover man’s future progress. Man has argued for his rights loudly and now must own his responsibility.

On The Universal Watch. . .

Glancing into the icy calm
of the darkened sky,
leaving little to the night’s magic,
is a knowledge from minds in action.

Saying little in languages understood,
it moves itself with intelligence,
looking for evidence bespeaking intent.

Always wary, ever beseeching,
reaching conclusions seeking
a desired peace with an enduring future.

Not only one world in motion with
an anxious search, but many
whose futures are determined by the
results of a whirling planet
whose emotions are in turmoil.

A learning place, a starting place,
whose tentative decisions determine
the futures of roles dependent on
the unbridled, unharnessed emotions
of childhood still groping.

Worlds looming as non entities,
not proven by the laboratories
of the science gods,
is life in other forms;
as intelligent, viable, thoughtful,
as intent on living within the realm
of their possibilities as we on Earth.

Searching as we do as gods for an enduring Peace.

photo by
John D. Holmes

August 26, 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.
Crowded Into Minutes. . .

What I contribute to are more philosophical questions than most are interested in. More biblical inquisitions than I would go for answers. I don’t know but what there are few sources that I would find cogent or even unbiased.

There are those who argue the universe is benign. I find myself venturing toward its viable good because we would have long ago disappeared with so much behavior ending in violence. God is life itself. Life is god. When I walked with an elder and said I love life she said she never thought to think anything about life other than to get through it somehow. Who did she think was checking her progress and keeping tabs? If at all?

We walked down the street and it was snowing as we came out of the diner and the street was cast with a falling snow and the evergreens were shadowed in front of us, like some high peaks shrouded in a mist. Beautiful, so beautiful and I wanted her to see what I saw. I thought she did. But she did not. It was as nothing to her.

I cannot understand why people hold onto this life with such tenacity when they do not love life.

The next day we walked to do some errands. At the corner of my street I heard a marvelous bird song. I stopped and looked up and there was a solitary bird singing his mighty song. I see you, I said and I hear you. And he stopped his singing.

After a few streets of seeing and hearing and then not seeing the birds, I finally said do not stop your singing though I cannot see you. And they continued to sing. My bird ritual.

To me this is life. This is god. This is dominion. It is mine and I love it and cherish it and it is good. God is the divine in me, within every creature and thing. The All has movement, a motion and a right to be, though obviously not in words destined to be understood in our world with a vocabulary to define it.

The contradictions are apparent and there are many simply because our focus is too narrow to contain it all. And the brain not equipped for enlarged understanding. Evolution is a process.

But this much I know. That which keeps me breathing and moving and loving is Spirit, part and parcel of the All That Is, and of which I am.

(excerpt from poem Life Everlasting . . . )

I can see, I say for this is mine. . .
only with how I perceive
this limited existence.

Fair enough, for this time, I think,
but only for this time.
There will be other times
when it will not be enough. . . .

And then I grow unto his splendor. . .
I will be guided unto his doorway
and I will be led. . .

And there will never be a final time . . .
It only begins here and now and

again it will be time to move on.

August 23, 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.
Another Matter of Trust . . .

There was a little exchange with an elder. I said, but you told me this and I believed you! That was your problem! was the retort. But why say it if it is not true? And then the paradigm spilling forth; ‘there is no one so gullible as the one who loves you!’ There was laughter, indeed.

Over such a small matter as saying that when you come to Wednesday of the week, the rest was a piece of cake! And I believed. And I worked very hard being promised relief. Wonderful exchange, wonderful lesson. And again in a manner deserving of note, learned that no one is so gullible as the one who loves you.

The one loved needs to be trusted and the one loving the loved needs to know these matters are not to be treated lightly. Trust must undergird all relationships of note or all else erodes.

(excerpt from the poem)

Trust. . .

What precious treasure
to compare to this?
What pearl or diamond rare
has seen its equal?

Who would not raise it high
for world upon world to see?
And guard with life
if this be asked?

Not often given, but rarely refused
by those who trust have earned.
A burden love has made light.

Trust is a burden love has made light.

photo by
John Stanley Hallissey

August 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.
A Time For Making Peace. . .

Our Prayer. . .

When words have been shouted and have struck hearts forever changed, we gather our resources from within and count on Grace Given by thoughtful minds that harbor goodwill. We pray to what we hold highest and best that we meet challenges that bring the changes needed. And we do not discount nor dismiss our part in those changes that count on us to be the example. We begin now to pull our actions and words through our hearts so there will be no doubt to our intentions for good.

A Time For Making Peace. . .

It is time for making peace;
for actions that struck
the core of the heart. . .
for words that sucked life
out of a body still intent on breathing.

Those were actions and words
that should have been vented
when anguish and outrage
stole the child’s innocence.

And now with the ends
of the circle tightly knotting
we quietly say our thanks.

For the Grace given
by understanding hearts
in the heat of the fire.
Of love ventured into arms
needing the close embrace
of a forgiving Other.

It all comes full circle.
And we step out and
the merry go round stops
for a time. Until again

our zest for life is renewed.

photo by John Holmes

August 18, 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?)

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
leave 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.

August 14, 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.
To Break The Waves, enough it is. . . .

After having been told a zillion times that no one would want my head, I have decided that I truly would not want anyone else’s head either. Because then I would not see the world that I love the way I do. I would not see the pine trickle of a branch pulling itself courageously out of the trunk of the tree amidst a half dozen other twigs and marvel at the beauty of it. Or hear the young grandmother puzzle at the toddler wondering why is this child so angry? And another placid? And see the connections in all bornings from their source already bent. Chance, you think? My head tells me of no coincidences.

Understandably there are some who prefer to think everything is newly chaste. But each of us has a history and life is a gift given. It is with hope that we uncover its gems. And profit from its lessons.

If You Can Bear The Truth. . .

If they should ever ask you
from where comes this knowledge
and you can bear the truth, tell them.

It was written in the stars that I saw
with inner vision, shining exuberantly
with a vitality that bears description.
It was hung and dried by a sun that had
dried my ancestor’s tears
for a million centuries.

The lyrics have pressed my ears
in moans that I find unbearable.
Does not everyone hear the cries?
If they should ask you,
tell them this.

It is the music of celebration,
when one, even one is freed from
a lifetime of servitude to anguish
clogging the throat.
This music is heard down long lines
of generations and will be mated
in their genes. They will glory in
their freedom and they will live forever.

So if they ask you and you can
bear the truth, tell them.

It was taught by my Spirit
spilling into my heart with no reprieve
and into my mind with no relief.
It is a lifetime of no alibis and
a coping system diffused.

My teacher has no name,
still the imprint is within my genes,
implanted within my ancestor’s memories,
resting within me.

They do not rest while I cannot.
My songs continue, if only for me.

Enough it is for me to break the waves.

Photo by John Stanley Hallissey
(click on photo to fill screen)

August 11, 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.
Streaming. . . .

All of humankind is in need of professional counseling, but who is going to counsel the counselors?

*****

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

*****

Or is the lump of clay thrown out willy nilly and at the whim of the elements, molded?

*****

Can any constructive change be considered not worthwhile and worth the effort? When does ‘at what cost’ enter into the argument?

*****

The attempt to discern writing of the ancients is an attempt filled with trepidation. As man and his language evolved , to trace early meaning accurately is to find a man with mind and an ancient frame of reference.

*****

When we fall down, we will get up only as fast as we are embarrassed. Or hurt.

*****

It is never too late to do a good thing.

*****

An accident is only an accident when we do not feel responsible.

*****

Heaven is kind to allow us so much time as children, otherwise we would never be forgiven.

*****

As long as we have the ability to emote, we have the passion to breathe

*****

The dismay which follows truth should not defeat us because in a quiet moment longer, the courage will be given for constructive action.

*****

Love life sufficiently and make it all sacred, for it is.

*****

Kin have to become family before acquaintances can become friends.

photo by John Holmes

August 9, 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.
With A Promise. . .

Fortunate are those who walk with their cameras at the precise moment a sunset images the evening sky. And we are fortunate to have those photos in our libraries. Most fortunate are we who have the intent of the photographer rising at dawn to catch the morning sky in colors unmatched. Few are the photographers and fewer still the mornings to be counted on to arise in the eastern sky with brilliant precision. It is almost a game with the gods of how much do you care? And with joy we are fortunate to have in our yearning a photo like this, a treasure of Jon Katz’ discipline that brings him out at dawn to capture the emerging dawn’s chameleon concepts. And with his generosity I add it to my growing library.

With A Promise. . .

There will be a tomorrow
somewhere. . .
waiting in the sunrise.

Perhaps in the shadow
of the footprint
on which you stand
this moment. . .

Or perhaps in
the light of a morning
in a world not thought
yet into Being. . .

But you will have it,
earned by the tenor
of your days,
practiced diligently.

It will be met
with an of course,
having visited every night
and well met. . .

with a promise once again to reclaim Paradise.

photo by Jon Katz

August 7, 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.
On Bended Knee. . . Peace-d

It is on bended knee that I approach my blog with what nearly a century of living has taught. With what I have learned of our holographic universe, acknowledging talents given at birth or contracted for I must speak my experience.

It is a linear world we live in to help us learn. It can be counted on being. It is also a prime example that all time is simultaneous. The past is still happening, the future has already happened and we in the present race to catch up with it. The following was one of the first posts I wrote 6 years ago when I first blogged. My life has stood me in good stead. It has been all of a piece and I would be foolish to deny it.

September, 2011. . . . It is a trying thing we do. We want to understand what we remember of a specific time when all we have are bits of memories and what historians say went on at the time.   But we cannot take as fact all that we read or hear. Everything written cannot be taken as gospel.   Everything heard cannot be taken without question. What we have in our memory bank we get in snatches and try to make as much sense out of them as we can.

For when we try to do more than this, we are playing a guessing game.   It is also a guess when we are not certain whose memories we are jousting with.   Are they our memories of this life or perhaps other lives of ours as more of the world believes or perhaps even of distant or ancient ancestors written into our DNA?   Are we responsible for unfulfilled talents or love not returned?   Can we or should we put to rest our ancestors’ anguish?

And what about all the historians’ views of history? How much of it is conjecture?   How much of it is piecing what bits can be garnered to fill in the spaces when the times themselves have left no record?   There is much that can be retrieved through concerted research. But retrieved also must be the long lost habit of conversation with aging persons. There is much that oral history will reveal that written history has neglected to mention.

It is a hard work we do to find a putting place for memories.   But it is one way to find out who holds the candle for each of us.

Peace-d. . .

The numbers are few
who can share in this journey
that takes a lifetime
to get to the heart of oneself.

One learns to walk through
the warm woods of one’s empty house
to find the communion
with invisible friends
when a soul across the table is not.

The immediate pressure of voices
long gone have ears aching
but there is a conversation of saints
and the company of good minds
commingling; kindred spirits housed in thought.

Confrontation of points hidden within centuries
of genetic history has one acutely conscious
of love freely given and healing accomplished.
As we are given the capacity to love,
Spirit within gives that capacity also to the Other.

And pieces of The All That Is will be peace-d.

(poem written March, 2016)

August 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.
Come Veronica, there is a bridge we can sell you. . .

The old argument came up about my impracticality. Others have difficulty following me. Yet I was seeing to home maintenance over the years with no help, 20 white shirts a week ironed, suits pressed, meals on time, lawns manicured, and best of all, children reared and raised in love. And office work for those many years. How impractical?

Our teacher son said that had he seen the growth in his students that he saw in his grandmother after she arrived to be in my care, he would never have left the classroom. I see as I always have so why must I explain connections to make a problem understood? Mine is not an engineering mind and am not credentialed. How do these people get degrees who don’t see the commonplace? The teachers asked me to explain my day of choice. The following I lifted from a journal entry of October, 2010.

(Wonderful day raking the leaves. I felt as if I were a violin and the heavens were playing me. The heavens were the bow that played on my heart and I sung with a high vibration through almost two or more hours. It was wonderful.

This day was a gift. This is how I connected in our yard with the All that was in me and in everything. I was the god and the god was everything about me. In my arms and the swing of the rake and the beauty of the day and the breath I took with my body.

I was the song and the instrument on which the All played. I was the melody and I was the song. And the day was the symphony behind me. It was how it was for me when I was twelve and we moved to The Farm. I connected with my earth and my earth was me and I was the god and the god was everything.)

The Teachers responded with . . . only another like you would relate. The connection you have with your earth and you said, in love with it, is what we wanted for everyone. How would you go about teaching this connection? Or explain it to your beloveds? You tell about virtue in labor and beauty in the doing, and they resent you. Not everyone sees the connections. To them physical labor is grunt work. But you sing with it and though your body pains, you praise the day. Who understands this kind of thinking today?

People text while they walk, while they motor and while they make love. What world could we give to you to teach virtue in labor, beauty in the doing? Come, Veronica, there is a bridge or perhaps a world to sell to you?

Listen To Me, dear Earth. . .

This space where my sounds
break out into form and
I see, I see, and I knew it
all the time.

So listen to me, dear Earth,
and sea and sky,
for I speak your language and
hear your sound and hear your music.

And it is all for me, for me.
The tension in my body
is the lyre upon which your music
is played.

My mind is my opening to worlds
that I know exist and can feel
through the thoughts winging
sometimes painfully against my ears.

Listen to me they say, and hear, hear.

(poem written in August, 1982)

photo by John Holmes

July 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.