From an Upper Floor

From The Top Of My Heart. . .

(January 29, 2017 journal entry I want to share. It is only in rereading that I realize that I connect all manner of things in thought. It is the reason for my seamless existence. It all connects.)

Man cannot put in what God has left out. Joe Biden in the Clarence Thomas hearings said this one early morning. My sister was visiting and was glued to the TV set and I was knitting. It was nearing 2 a.m. What did he say? I asked. And she repeated man cannot put in what God has left out. That’s my missing link I said. That’s it. ( I have researched the maxim but never found the source other than Joe Biden.)

For no matter how hard you work and how much you love, the person has to want whatever for himself otherwise it will have no meaning. They will avoid you and your ministration because they know you want something from them but damn if they know what. If it is outside their frame of reference all your talk in the world will have no meaning. Because they will have no clue. No clue.

Why do I have such difficulty with this aspect of humanity? Because it means that the best teachers cannot do anything if the student does not yearn and learn. Not once but for all time.

Does it mean that the teacher gives up? The teacher has to exhibit and make the student want whatever he deems crucial. It puts the yearning and learning on the student. Only then will the lesson take.

Who taught me? Many teachers and they loved me enough to keep on loving and exhibiting the lesson. Because the love and trust and learning were not evident in this life when I needed them most. I remembered from other times and wanted these things for myself. How many lifetimes? A zillion or maybe one. I cannot know from the top of my heart.

I know without doubt that love is all that matters. I know without doubt that virtue is in labor. I know without doubt I bring value to my life. And unless we bring meaning to our lives and world there is none. We will sleep a long sleep and wake up when we tire of sleeping. And get on the road again.

We are in the creation business and have been since we first jumped ship and went for expression. At first we did it for sport but over time it became serious business. How serious we know now when our planet is in dire jeopardy and we chance to lose our classroom. We had better become stewards. The unborn demand this of us. Life demands accountability because the next time may require hip boots as we walk in ash.

Photo by Joe Hallissey Jr.

February 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.
What I See. . .

On Different Perspectives. . . .

What is so apparent to you is not apparent to the Other. To view with compassion is difficult when the vision of the Other is limited. He/she would wish another just like them. Just as you would wish to share your vision. It is a common human condition and a psychological truth. It makes good sense.

We would clone ourselves and in this way we would have the reassurance that we are just fine. The insecurity that each projects is vivid. Yet we know that if what one views is more accurate than the Other, the perspective or vision is often disparaged. If one can be patient, time will confirm what one views.

Perspectives. . .

There is a need I see and
hurry to respond to before
calamity mounts and doubles the work.

You are driven by forces
different than mine and your gaze
dismisses the need I see.

Your eyes focus instead on another sight
which my eyes fail to see;
completely outside my frame of reference.

How is it our worlds differ so much
and yet are compatible enough
not to collide?

There is much to agree on;
much that has us separated,
yet even knowing this,

doubt makes us suspicious of others.
Worlds are born and remade by those like us.
We blur our edges to mesh smoothly.

We realize too late,
that in each head there is a world afloat
hoping for life everlasting.

Wars rage and people agitate
to fight ancient battles, to quiet ancient maladies,
but we are too old now, so pray,

they do not stir the ashes to bring forth another fire.
And on this we agree;
there are no more sons and daughters to spare.

Mothers and fathers are all cried out.

photo by Jon Katz

February 19, 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.
Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

Oftentimes the greater picture is chosen to be forgotten because it is necessary to have the script as authentic as possible. If knowledge were part of the picture, chances for the lessons to be taught would be hampered. So love is as powerful as the anguish and the angst in their teaching the veracity of life. How to let go of the feelings to prevent the corrosion of spirit when the need is no longer present? By love of who you are and what you chose to be part of. The lessons may be hidden at the moment, but in time you will know how quite wonderful you are. To have affirmed the life giving properties so others may live.

Old Friends Breaking Bread. . .

What’s the harm in it?
one asks, sitting
in the sun, wind lifting
tired hair.

She answers, no harm at all,
with two old friends
breaking bread.
It is good to recall
once fresh dreams.

Everything gained they agree.
Lives lived splendidly
according to script.
Lives mortgaged knowingly
so the Other could know
their moment in the sun.
They needed to learn
they were worthy.

For us it seemed
we chose it to be
a time out for us.

We raise our cups
in tribute to the great plan
enfolding us, evolution.

Choosing to make this difference.

art by Claudia Hallissey

February 16, 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 Valentine Heart. . .

It is a truth. . . . Sometimes we cannot improve upon a something that supports a truth and this is one of those times for me. On this Valentine’s Day, to all who are bereft and do not or have not known love, what is missed is something you have known somewhere at some time else you would not know you miss it. One day it will be yours again.

It will be a Given and you will know it because your name will be on that Valentine and you will be cherished for who you are. It is a love you have known and matches what is in your heart. You will broach the heavens this night and take a walk through the Galaxy and swing through the stars. You will see again the love you embrace in your heart and know that forever you have had arms to enfold you. Never were you abandoned. Never. This poem is for you.

This Valentine Heart. . .

I lay my heart crimson in splendor
beneath the branches
on fresh fallen snow, open to my god. . .

Here it is I am, with all
that I’ve gathered, completed to form
just what you see.

The flakes have scattered
in splendid ways to carpet the floor
as bed for my heart.

Pick it up if you please
but handle with care.
Sorely I need a tender touch.

Life has tested me to rare form.
I worked it all like Job
and wanted not to fail.

See, this Valentine heart
laid splendid on the floor of the forest
but loved to the ultimate

by the god whose creation I am.

February 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.
We Need Not Speak. . .

We Need Not Speak. . .

We need not speak.
Centuries ago we passed
from realms noted for words.

We now simply look
toward the Other and know by
obvious signs what the Other seeks.

It is a far cry from the world
of words where the simple
I love you spoke what

reams of paper could not
properly say. It was a love letter
that united planets of thought

that we searched.
I will miss these words
spoken from lips pressed

to my ear only to have
the world know
by the tender embrace

that the words were meant only for my heart.

February 12, 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 Illusion. . .

THE ILLUSION

I try to grasp your beloved face,
graphically placing it on the mind’s canvas,
filling the valleys with fuller’s earth and
chiseling the planes with a serpent’s tooth.
Devouring every detail with a feverish eye
to circumvent time’s mortal immortality.

But why do I bother with mortal flesh
precluding the wonders of life everlasting?
I love you. Simple.   Your brow extends
to captivate the eyes in locked conflict, then laughs
to meet the corners of your mouth wandering about
in search of a smile.

Your arms encircle the wonder of meeting
life on certain terms, then range in motion to
include the All. A frantic mask we disengage
when discoveries make true a knowledge irredeemable.

But still I chase the memory of you
only minutes out the door.   I cannot remember the face
of you.   I know the strength, the laugh, the love
you reaped upon the wind to leave a mark on me.
I am forever different.   But the other, the package
assembled to meet specific requirements for this
particular place, are as specious as memory and
eradicated by time

like a pen and ink drawing.

Photo by Jon Katz

February 10, 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 I Cannot Place. . .

As we approach Valentine’s Day, I will be choosing some poetry from a work called Psalms of Love. One chosen to begin is A World I Cannot Place, recently written but not yet included in the work.

Memory is a powerful tool we are graced with and it comes with questions that have many answers. And each answer is a correct answer for some time and place. I have learned that when I frame the question, in me already is the answer. In due time the courage to confront the answer comes.

And it takes courage, for a life will have to be examined, in all aspects. Some of it will be painful, some joyous. And though it may take a lifetime to examine, with it comes Reason for Being.

A World I Cannot Place. . .

Glimpses, given of faces lodged
in the crevices of memory;
the jutting jaw,
the forehead creased with worry. . .
the eyes carrying love deposited
on an already overburdened heart. . .

I lean a tired body
against a gaunt one,
to absorb a strength
I do not own.

Who will shoulder my argues,
arguing with an unfair heaven
the burdens levied on us,
when all the work or good intentions
are for naught?

But the glimpses given are
of arms I cannot forget, even
in a world I cannot place.
These glimpses, glances coupled
with love infusing me
shows I cannot forget what
I yearn for now. . .

Enough for me to identify
what I chase to restore the heart of me.
Enough it is to change me forever;
to give from that overflowing reservoir,
the run off, with the hope
that the knowledge would be mine again,

that once I was special.

Artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

February 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.
An Alternate View. . .

An Alternate View. . .

Jesus said all ye are liars, but a family member commented on that with you can always catch a thief but you can never catch a liar. Liars are slippery. But even this is psychologically damaged goods, a coping mechanism somebody made to survive. And somebody browbeat the person to fear so greatly that changing the story was the only way to survive. It seems we are all damaged goods in some way.

*****

But you see that others do not stir the ashes to bring forth another fire. We have manicured the lawns and have put out the best china for when you come . . .

*****

An awry system of values can disrupt a marriage.

*****

Go with the night and bless. It waits in the shadows but the moon lights the way.

*****

Words shouted with emotion are generally denied by the individual even though they are valid. It is almost like they have to fit before they are worn.

*****

From a younger view, how would I look to someone like me? Pause to consider your Self.

*****

Beliefs are such that when they are dislodged, dislodge also the person. Further study will enlighten and broaden the premise.

*****

Always look toward the dawn when the night retreats and morning rises triumphant.

*****

Words can lacerate the heart in many different directions.

*****

You have often thought if it was written, it was meant to be understood. Only you know now that it is the hardest thing to do. If the frame of reference is not large enough for the topic, then no understanding ever will come from the words even when the desire is there. The footwork has to be done and the reference enlarged. The boundaries of knowledge must be broadened and then the reading will have meaning.

Photo by
John Hallissey

February 6, 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.
It Is Good. . .

It is not without recourse that the soul cries in the night. It is not with abandon that the individual who mourns whatever loss, be it of his innocence, or that of physical parting, is left. We know and are known and never is there a thought which rises from the physical brain and immortal mind, that is not noted.

It Is Good. . .

Times pass and it is called history.
There were those who walked
and talked and held conference
with the unseen but not unspoken. . .

They were from the scattering
where survival meant learning
and not simply breathing.
They pressed the edges of space
and stepped over boundaries
as if they were not boundaries. . .

They come now to claim
their birthright; having given it
away to some bent on power,
promising protection;
some sold to thieves
bent on storing gold. . .
only to find themselves bankrupt.

Now again, righteous in their duality,
the dichotomy healed
with wholeness ensured. . .
man walks to the end
of his world to proclaim
his humanity equals the god within

and it is good.

Photo by
John Holmes

February 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.
Beneath My Heart. . .

I was lying in the hospital bed and knowing that my body was having a difficult time. I was clear of head knowledgeable when I saw the figure at the foot of my bed. And an arm was raised clothed in a grey robe and the hand was outstretched. I lay there with both arms rigid by my body like dead weights. I could not lift them if I had wanted to, even if I felt that my life depended on me lifting them.

I was not surprised by the visit nor frightened but somehow with an of course. My question was, ‘but who would take care of the children?’ There was no answer and the figure faded away. The nurse walked in and took one look at me and said Oh my god and turned and ran. She came back with an injection and murmured something about turning sour.

There have been several incidents of this nature in my life which threatened the insecure security of many people close to me. The science doctors have done an excellent job of disclaiming any experiences like this to convince people that only what can be seen and measured and named is real.

I have felt my commitments strongly and had always assumed other people felt the same. That they do not is an aspect of humanity and evolution I have had a difficult time dealing with. I still have mountains to climb. One though I was born not having to is that my arguments with heaven are real and because as my mentor promised my eyes are not veiled and my ears are not clogged, I see and hear. When I choose not to comment, it is to preserve peace.

On the eve of our son David’s birthday who transited 32 years ago when he was 31, I wish to thank him again and again for reaffirming my philosophy and verifying that the unseen is as much of an obstacle as the seen and most often a help. He was a philosophy major firstly and a lawyer to boot, and I still miss his conversation, arguments and his eloquence. But most of all, thank you David for choosing me as your mother for this leg of the journey because I chose you.

(the following was written in response to a cosmic question)

Beneath My Heart. . .

How could I not love them?
They grew beneath my heart,
waiting for my heart to beat
so that theirs’ would continue beating.

Did you not think
I would not know that?
And they would be reason enough
for me to keep breathing?

You did not know me. . .
Like a bear
I would fight for my cubs.
I made them. . .

They wear my name
and one day they
will remember. . .

who taught them about love.

January 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.