From an Upper Floor

Attitude of Gratitude. . .

Simple Things . . .

There is comfort
in the simple things. . .
the cup of hot coffee
in a favorite cup,
the warm bathrobe,
threadbare though it is,
the slippers, warm and high
around the ankles,
the fire in the grate lit by a device
with a flick of the wrist.

Quickly now,
because energy is at a premium
with appreciation immense;
nothing is taken for granted.

But with gratitude
for the minds at work that make
the gracious present.

Memory serves to enhance
the joy incumbent in the tangible.
What was, once served its purpose

and fleshed out a life or many simply to live.

April 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.
A Sacred Leaning. . .

A Sacred Leaning. . .

When I understood the meaning of the words begat and borne and unearth and wrote this, I wept. It was then I realized that for me the poignancy of creating life was not so for everyone. The school of thought then was that it was all biology. Until we get to this time where to hold life sacred not only in hand but in thought, will we see brotherhood of man come to Be. We must teach our young that all of life has a sacred leaning.

NOT A BORNING. . .

It was not a borning.
It was a begetting.

They did not borne sons and daughters,
because they could not.
The Earth gods begat
brothers and sisters like themselves.
The fathers could not father
and the mothers could not mother.
The fathers begat brothers and
the mothers begat sisters.
There was not time for sons
and daughters to be borne.

Not time to teach the lessons procured
to bring about the enrichment of the desire.
Not time to search the elements to note
the tie that could not be untied.
No time to nurture the splendor
of the each to the each,
to borne to the Earth sons destined
for the name of their father,
and daughters destined for
the name of their mother.
There was not time.

Intricately the webs spun out
of desire inadvertently.
Caught in the web were principles,
long standing and well tested.
And dismissed.
Having no application amidst the fruits
of pleasures turned silken, they died.
And in their place came dogmas,
fully entrenched and circling
the heads of innocents.

Laboring to bring forth a beloved,
the woman labors.
And finds not a daughter
but another like her, well versed
by her own lessons.
Laboring to bring forth a son,
she finds another like her,
dressed in male skin.
She knows both well.
For already the lessons are well knit
into the fabric of man.

Unraveling the skein of life
she stands enmeshed in chaos.
He stands perplexed,
ruminating the exigencies of life.
But it is not as envisioned.
In the fragile moment,
when eyes behold the new life,
when hearts ache to behold the new spirit
destined to free the chains
binding man to servitude,
the Earth gods know.

The man sees another just like him
and is dismayed.
The mother sees another just like her
and aches. For neither prepared themselves
to uncover what each knew and
could not release.
That begetting was easy to do,

but to borne meant unearthing.

April 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.
This Road Traveled. . .

It was a very vivid dream and I wrote of it in detail. I was moving the garden hose on the front lawn and looked up and David was walking up the sidewalk. Oh David, you are alive and well I said, and he said it is a wonder. They make as many mistakes as we do. And I remembered Jesus saying along with on this rock I will build my church he also said, that whatever is loosed in heaven is loosed on earth and whatever is loosed on earth is loosed in heaven. Conveniently forgotten. I have known since I was a child and remembered the place from where I was born, this dream visit was real .

Heaven is not a font of wisdom and they make many errors. Proof is the world we inhabit. We do what we can while we live here to make it better. Whatever we do with all the compassion we can muster is better than leaving things as they are with little thought. Now having said that, what do we do now. We keep on working, keep on keeping on. Joining the host workers who in the past gave their utmost to promote human welfare. Who wrote the music to remind man from where he had come. Who worked to keep man upright and off his belly in the mud. Who made water pure and drinkable and still working on that. Who grows food in arid land to put bread, not cake, on the table. Who write and teach and feed the minds of men to lift my brother up.

There is no effort as great as man’s effort. There is cooperation with man’s god only insofar as man works in cooperation with his fellows. And there is no rhyme nor reason anywhere unless there is reason where man is. The majority of my generational peers grew up in prejudicial homes where bigotry and racism were rampant. Our parent gods said they hated what they were taught to hate. Doesn’t every generation? When do we put a stop to it? The changes have been slow in coming. We are running out of time and resources.

Let us hide God the three wise men said. The ocean, said one, because man would never go deep enough to find him. The sky, said another, for man would never go high enough to find him. Within, said the third, for man will never think to look there. Within.

Dante took Virgil on his journey to the heart of himself. Virgil was a philosopher of note and took up the challenge though Dante was a Roman Catholic and did not take the Christ. Christ was not real but Virgil was. I, being, uncredentialed, took the highest and best frame of reference I knew and that was the Nazarene. In my independent study of a lifetime I found him a man to be of no thought except to release man from the prison he was kept in by other men who themselves were also imprisoned. He showed me that to be utterly human and utterly divine was a concept that man carried and so long was it hidden that to uncover it was such a heartrending process that few attempted. It is a long journey and a hard route.

And never ending. A grandson said to me in awe that you are not afraid of anything, are you grandma. Fear is the hangman’s noose. Knowledge gives one freedom from fear. It is accessible through the everyday tool of learning. It is man’s choice to use it. Now is a good time to start.

art by Claudia Hallissey

April 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.
Little Mercies. . .

Little Mercies. . .

Dickens said. . . ‘I wear the chains I forged in life’

For better or worse we forge them link by link. And I like to think they are good habits of ours that I call little mercies or the more common, tender mercies. I felt this many times. I often started something I could not stop because people I loved depended on that little something. Whether it was a fire in the fireplace when the grandchildren especially visited or I set the table a certain way with cloth napkins for them or when I make Christmas cards.

“I am going to live, Eleanor’, George said after his heart attack. ‘I am going to live and we will frame Ronnie’s card and put it on the dresser.’ And he did and he looked at it every day and had many long years. And Marylouise said I set your cards on the mantel where they stay . You have no idea how many times I look at the rose card and it gives me strength to go on. And this is one of the reasons I was born, to stretch out a hand.

Most of us have no idea when we do a something that encourages an Other. I was fortunate in that I learned and people have told me when they have been touched by something I have done. How very important to do that little act of mercy. I have heard a harrumph when I have labored over a something with someone standing nearby and succeeded to follow with a heavenward thank you. Even as a child I understood that heaven seldom gets thank yous. When was your thank you sent heavenward? Send it now. . .

Thank You

My days are littered
with murmuring thank yous
for gifts unbidden. . .

for the stray thought
giving answers
to questions I did not ask. . .

for the beating heart
too tired even to stop
and glad that it did not. . .

for the quivering morning
poised to take flight
through a day hard pressed. . .

to a night, bidden
with unfaltering love
as a thank you. . .

for a day loved through. . . .

photo by
John Holmes

March 29, 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.
Think It Through. . . .

Think It Through. . .

All thought which holds the life’s crucible for an Other’s well being is prayer. Any conversation which holds the good of Others in its heart is prayer.

*****

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

*****

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

*****

Tears aside, there is eternal life within each and for each to discover. One cannot hand it to them already chewed. It is theirs to do.

*****

Wait not for death. Be vigilant only of life in all its forms, in its entirety. One cannot break a will which heralds its own functioning to its own existence.

*****

It is enough that the articles of faith be hidden for as long as they have behind the façade of the mind grown into habitual lack.

*****

It is time for even the skeptical mind to be convinced that what is seen is not necessarily all there is to be seen and what is heard is all that is being said.

*****

You cannot know what deep is until you have fallen into a hole.

*****

You cannot rush in and guide the cart to avoid disaster. Disaster brings lessons which cannot be learned any other way. Even when the extra work falls on your shoulders. Suck it up.

*****

We walk on cobwebs but we are cobwebs. We are not certain what the final outcome will be. What we are certain of is the process.

*****

Don’t lose your grip. Heaven is tightfisted also.

March 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.
The Global House. . . running toward a truth. . . .

The Cost Of Life. . . Priceless

Some old beliefs are a security blanket that have been dragged along through centuries and already are thread bare. The nap has been plucked off by nervous fingers tightly holding to isolation and keeping those not like us outside the circle. Some beliefs need to be kept and cherished like family members. Like commitment to truths and welcoming strangers because we might be entertaining angels unaware. But always we must be open to ideas that can enlarge the frame of understanding in a world that kaleidoscopes to everything being across the street. No longer do vast expanses of either water or land separate us. It is time we assume to be our brothers’ keepers for we are more than our appearance indicates.

How Not To Attach The Fabric Of The Global House. . .

They say. .

You have to keep it singular. . .
You have to keep it nuclear. . .
You have to keep it private. . . and
remembering different in any way is not good.

I tell you. . .

You have to keep out the likes
of the stable boy
who was my grandfather.
And keep out the likes of my grandmother
who could speak seven languages and
and the likes of me from being born.

For, I, in a sometime life
blazoned with the year of 1790
walked up a hill in a country called France.
As a monk in a robe of brown burlap
with a heavy cross across my shoulders
led a group of people past boarded windows
with dust flying to save human rights.
The time was the French Revolution.

We would be immigrants
vying for freedom from
a world of oppression;
seeking liberation for a chance
to breathe fresh air.
Rich with history,
making a small difference to be sure,
infected only with Earth’s virus called learning.
Our need to know life’s passions
helped to escalate human evolution.

Was this to be called a criminal act and we the criminals?

Sculpture by
Stanley Rybacki

March 25, 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.
New Glimpses and Compensation. . .

Compensation. . .

There was a time when summer was upon us that I was scurrying to order wood so that it would have a full season to dry. I was also then listening intently for the cicadas to start their mating call because I knew that the first frost was due 6 weeks from when they started singing. It was a time of close neighbors, Dennis on one side and Don on the other, who knew my love of winters and called me when they heard them. And I counted carefully and reminded the summer addicts when the first frost was imminent. It was a fun time.

I ordered the wood and stacked the logs. I loved doing it. I gathered the twigs on my morning walks with the dog and had a pile of kindling ready. City living needs must be adjusted to conditions. Kindling was at a premium. In my ability to do, I did not give houseroom to the thought that I might not always do this. It is a surprise when it happens. But life compensates in all things. What is given to replace may seem a substitute, but with declining physical abilities perceptual gleanings are enhanced. Some call it wisdom.

New Glimpses. . .

There is no scent engulfing
the place where I sit
with apple wood or pine or oak,
but the fire continues to warm me,
not as hot perhaps as I remember,
but sufficient.

I put the scents,
the crackling flames
into a time frame of memories,
and take refuge in the devices
that greedily gather
the diminishing energy that old age
requires simply to keep breathing.

The others, the memories
that relished the youthful exuberance,
I remember belong to a time
when life was taken
with no thought ever ending
because it was an unknown. . .

But known now is
the passage of time
and with it new glimpses
of a world yet to be entered

and lived in with reverence.

March 22, 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.
Back Talk. . .

Back Talk. . .

I say. . .

Give me time. . .

You say. . .

I already have.
How much time
do you need?

I say. . .

Just a little more.
I never had time to do
what my soul yearned to do.

You say. . .

But you did what
you saw to do. . .

And I say. . .

That took all my time. . .

You say. . .

Was it yours to do?

I say. . .

But you said if you saw it to do,
you do it because the chance
will pass you by and
it will never be done. . .
Evolution would stagnate. . .

You say. . .

There was no one else to see it.
Life says thank you.

I say. . .

My pleasure, you are welcome.
Now a little more time for me
just to do the frivolous you think. . .

You say. . .

The frivolous would have
enhanced the necessary
and made it less of a burden. . .

I say. . .

Why didn’t you tell that to my mother? .

photo by John Holmes

March 20, 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.
Connections. . . everything teaches. . .

The Dinner Table . . . Everything Teaches. . .

There was a little boy who sat at the holiday table with all the family and their friends. The table was set with the white cloth and the numbers of gathered friends were many. The little boy sat high on his chair and when the little hand shot out uncontrollably and the cranberry juice spread its stain over the white linen, the face of the little boy crumpled and he said, ‘I can’t do anything right!’

And the mother of the little boy said everyone has accidents and we can make it right. So the paper towel sopped up the juice and another white napkin was placed over the stain and the little boy never remembered the incident. It was an incident but the mother remembered and the little boy was more important than anything at the moment.

The dinner, one of many, would be forgotten and so would the incident. That scar never formed except in the mother when she remembered the face and wondered who told him he couldn’t do anything right? He has done many things right in his life and some things in error. But that incident he never remembered and it formed no keloid because there was no scar.

The rest of mankind will also wash out. The stain will be bleached and man will not hang in the sun and wonder how he can possibly get that stain out of his soul. Too many centuries in the process and no nearer now than when he first catapulted into waiting arms, if he was lucky enough to have those arms waiting.

A son wondered if he should drop Philosophy. He was told that there was no other class worth taking. Except History. And Humanities. And maybe a couple of others like Biology and Literature and the Religions of Man.

Excerpt from . . .

Philip Framed The Mystery. . .

Our tears filled the rivers with fatigue
which filled the oceans with frustration
as the fruits of our fields were dispersed.
All the while we continued to labor
for redemption.

Ahhhh. . . .the mystery?

Who first told us we were no good?

March 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.
Where Are You Going Absalom? . . . .

I’ve Been Before To Paradise. . .

I was told that you cannot wait for anyone else to do what is yours to do. They do not have your particular understanding nor your vision. The future will be turned one page at a time and you will find your name on it. But do not scythe every blade of grass with one fell swoop. It cannot be done. You will do those things closest to your heart. This is all the universe requires.

This time in March memory appoints itself guardian of a time that forever changed us years ago. This was the quickening time for our David’s departure toward the month’s end. I don’t need journals to freshen conversations because I do not forget those. By rote I did the maintenance of body and house and mercifully have forgotten the dailyness of driving to the hospital and the visual encumbrances.

There were hot months preceding and the cold months succeeding. On the way to the hospital in the city, Michigan Ave. separated the poor, the destitute and those with no hope on either side. Nothing to ease their days and not a fresh towel to dry themselves. Not a bath of water to ease the hurt body nor a clean pair of underwear. Such was the poverty. Not a hot meal in the winter nor a glass of cold something because the refrigerator did not make cubes. It bogged down my thinking and there was no separation between what surrounded me and the even bigger loss awaiting me. It leaked through my skin and my blood circulated my misery.

The skyline with its new buildings and skyscrapers seem no more than makeup on an aged skin filled with lines and creases. There was not a time lapse but a raging against what pushed us all. It was the quest for immortality that one expects from one’s children. What I was then involved with on a daily basis as a parent should not have been in my frame of reference.

I do not function alone. I am privy to the minds who have linked history of man to his future. But I am mother to those sons who considered themselves a triumvirate. When one sneezed, another withdrew his handkerchief and the third said God Bless no matter what part of the world they were in. To watch this dis-rupture in this union was to watch this union disrupt. It should never be part of a mother’s bank of memories.

Yet never were there those who were far enough into the perplexities of modern times where the questions arose, even subliminally. And where I know now that there are no answers anywhere , except in our Self. I make my peace with that.

Where Are You Going Absalom?. . .

‘to where the moon
can melt the sun,
the cactus blooms at high noon
and the darkness bids good morning. . .

where cowled thoughts
and taut skin need never cover
hot bones and the cactus
no longer pricks. . .

to fly wingless to the mind’s ankh,
taking only me, only me,
and find that I suffice. . .

I’ve been before to Paradise,
but forgot.
Reaching in, I reach out,
touching my own nimbus.
I’ll not be gone long.’

David wept.

Photo by
John Holmes

March 13, 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.