From an Upper Floor

No Rush To Judgement. . .

No Rush To Judgement. . .I am 85 so there is no rush to judgement. These are conclusions with thoughtful consideration in this third of a series.

Is this how the rest of the world works? That they have no inner motivations and can find nothing to spur them on? Some said they couldn’t live with my intensity, but there really is no reason for life unless you make your own reason. That is why there are wars and more wars? Is it better to be physically involved and die young than to look for a reason to live peacefully without the excitement of not knowing if you will survive? Better to live with that constancy of motion and agitation than to live with peace?

This is outside my frame of reference. So when I could find no reason for drawing breath, this was a taste of what it is for those who bring nothing to the table. And there is no reason except what we bring with ourselves. So all this motion, all this activity is really nothing else except finding a reason for being. So with the young, the new way is to generate enthusiasm for new places and new playthings. Until life intervenes and serious business is in order. No wonder retirement brings a malaise, or constant movement with death often the soon result.

It is not the war itself but the adventure and the action that gives meaning to life. Even in early times when men went off to war or to sea, or off to the cities for work with no visible emotion except a quick kiss to the cheek of the children and wives who had the dailyness of the struggle of growing sons and daughters with no role models, the surprise was always the imbalance in the gender qualities.

Where were the societies’ notables who foresaw the troubles ahead for the unfolding behaviors in the offing? Where now in the midst of the daily trials are the university heads of departments of Divinity Schools or Psychiatry or Psychology or Sociology of lives and lifestyles who do not present the dangers of the very obvious directions society is taking? Where the heads of churches except contributing their own problems? Where anywhere are the trusted voices with impeccable characters that could be listened to and heeded? Where are the credentialed persons who have done the headwork or the footwork? Where are they?

Coming out of the Christmas Season with hunger for peace on earth should put all of us on alert. On this lush planet of many toys and ways to satiate appetites, certainly there must be serious souls who care for this Earth and the inhabitants who suffer greatly.

(I scribed the excerpt from the following lesson. . . You have the picture pretty clearly in mind. What you have done, in your own way is work through your dilemma of nothing or no reason to do anything. If it wasn’t in you where then to find it? Who would give you reason to be if you do not have it within? What happens in other families? All you have to do is look at the morning news. Or in the classrooms or on the street corners. Anywhere in the world. That is why we say we care what goes on within today’s 4 walls at home. It determines what will happen when the children go out the front door in a short time and carry with them what the so called adults have taught them.)

Fine Wine. . .

We have bound
and gagged the bird
who would carry the olive branch
to the heads of state
guarding vehemently their fragile egos.

Guarding so that the horrors
of retaliation would not
devastate their souls
for stealing the young
who had no knowledge and no chance.

Where is the king
who would avow his peace
that others would live symbolically
in love with the dove?

Now. . . here is the chance
and the time where love
cancels the errors and begs
unconditionally for forgiveness.
We’ve take what was most cherished
and crushed to death

what would have been fine wine.

January 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.
The Dark Side Man Calls His Humanity. . .

(When I sat in my first Philosophy class and the Instructor was explaining the different ways of looking at life, he went into detail about how some teachers thought every day life was illusion, not real. There was snickering of course because how could such details as study and tests be not real? When coming to grips with quantum theory the hardest thing to grasp is that all time is simultaneous. I ask my readers to give this idea space in thought. A ‘maybe’ for now. It will make it easier to understand from where this mystic that I am comes from.)

(we will lay our swords beneath
the evergreen and paint roses
in the cheeks of the children)

The Dark Side Man Calls His Humanity. . .

The Lesson. . . the Teacher Speaks….Man has forever been maligned because of the evil in him. That the dark side is evident is no biggie you know. Even when it came to love. He could never love enough because of reasons he never could relate to. But take it from all of us who know this dark side of who we are which we call humanity.

It is dark because in times of strife, in times of war, in times of decadence, we relate to the minute factor which prevails and gives us reason to be bad. To be our worse. We relate to that because it causes an excitement, an extreme from which we can waver because being good all the time is a trial. There is no excitement quite as bloodletting, as bringing a sword across the body to plunge. The idea that I am king is strange to those like you (I find the only worthwhile competition is against oneself to strive to do better) but to the one who finds the excitement in the competition with an Other, it is heroin to the mind. It is an aphrodisiac to the body and a stimulation like nothing else.

We are not proud of this you understand and when the fit, and it is a seizure is over, there is a denial, there is a remorse, a regret, a sin that covers our hearts. When your son transited he wondered how you could love him when he had known such dark places. But the one you brought into this world and loved into being was the one you sent out. He became accountable and paid his dues.

When your mentor, your friend, thought man should be accountable, he did not wish for man to keep coming back and lamenting his ancestor’s anguish and never lift himself out of his mire. He wished for every lifetime to meet obligations and become accountable. This is what making a difference is all about. Not to become responsible for our ancestor’s inability to fulfill dreams. Nothing can be done except by the one who tied the knots. The ones who did not meet obligations are the ones needing forgiveness by their progeny. There are enough worlds for this to happen in. Let their gods work it out and take them as responsibility. It is not for the child to undo the parent’s tribulations. Let the children be free to make a difference and the whole planet will survive as well as the people in it. It will be a classroom of supreme order and not the hellish place it is today.

(excerpt from Reflections Of The Midnight Mind)

For when the bloom is off the rose,
the sunrise no longer flames
the morning sky,
the midnight cannot arouse
the passions to warm
the bleak and fitful cold,

and I see that man
will be forever blind
to his god self certainly,
for he cannot see his divinity
used to hammer and abuse

the divine nature of his reflective self.

January 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.
The Confusion of Crossed Signals. . .

The Confusion Of Crossed Signals. . .

A young psychologist family friend and I were talking about the many problems concerning the young returning veterans in his practice. And the many suicides among them. Remember when I said there were many grave problems and one of the reasons why was they had mothers and grandmothers like me. My generation of women learned because of a growing sensitivity or simply growth in ways that have eluded the males, knew that teaching their children and grandchildren to play nicely and to love one another would take hold of their charges.

The crossed signals of what they learned as children and what the military teaches or is their persuasion is that love of country is first. The confusion, though unconscious, is immense. As children they learned to love one another but when they joined the military, they learned killing was appropriate in times of war. But that being a problem in itself is one thing. The thing I stumbled on next drove me to my knees.

I had lost my enthusiasm and could find no reason either to keep at my work which had kept me diving into my slippers when my eyes opened, as I had all the days of my life. Coming to mind was the poem I had written on Life Everlasting. And one of the lines when I truly understood life everlasting, was that I became very tired. If it is meaningful to you then the following will make sense. If not, one day it will.

That we make our own reason for being, for living, which is why there are wars and more wars. Because it seems better to common thinking to be physically involved and die young than to look for a reason to live peacefully without the excitement of the not knowing if you will survive. Better to live with that constancy of motion and agitation than to live with no reason. And always throughout history men would go off looking for adventure, for worlds to conquer and leave the women and babies at home.

They go off to fight or look for work but what they are really looking for is a reason to keep living and breathing. Because with no action, there is no life. It is not the war itself that is meaningful, but the adventure and the action that gives meaning to life. It is not so much the ancients’ griefs but the griefs which give them reason to war. And put a name to it to give it not meaning so much but to make it appropriate to the activity.

How much of all the stress syndrome is the condition understood in the young that they found reason in war and coming home found no action and the excited state gone and no longer keeping them alive. They have to acknowledge that war and the family of buddies whose lives depended on them and their lives on their buddies gave life meaning and they felt alive. And the real conflict of crossed signals that they lived with as children to love each other and as veterans giving them permission to take lives has never been resolved.

(My psychologist friend said that his colleagues had difficulty understanding this very concept concerning their patients but that I grasped it totally. My Teachers had comments to this which I will publish in my next post. But I had to establish what I learned when malaise and disenchantment grasped me and how difficult was working out of it.)

A Truth . . .

I was told that
life is everlasting and everlasting
and everlasting.

And when my mind
and my heart
and the fabric of who I am
accepted this statement,

I found I was very tired.

January 2, 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.
Agile Thinking Makes Connections. . .

Agile Thinking Makes Connections

No procedure is complicated if allowed to draw itself from the boundaries which were once considered appropriate to it. And any change necessary will be accommodated when proper procedures are instituted.

I wonder the comment a friend made when I said I learned a philosophical principle during my woodworking that stands as valid in relationships as well. She could not see the connection. When a wound is suspected in the wood, it is best to clean it off and out or eventually it will mar the wood and destroy much work. To try to cover the error means that too much time will be spent in working around it. Far better to start with another clean piece or dig out the offense. In any creative endeavor, it is necessary to assess the problem and remedy the work. It applies to human relations also.

One can deny or dismiss, or simply not discuss a problem, in the hope that by not talking or giving it a name it will resolve itself and simply go away. What happens it is that it will fester and smolder and erupt or implode the individual. What could have been resolved at the time and talked through the hurt now, like the wound in the wood, will at some time bleed through and cause untold damage. Perhaps not in the same generation it occurred, but generations later when excessive damage makes the wound irreparable.

It has taken me all these years to see how genetic and emotional connections can be used by and of themselves. The way things we feel are stifling us can be the very ones we draw strength from. There is a continuity in all life, not only in who we are but in what we do and to draw on what we choose to be good for us takes a great deal of maturity. We are apt to discard everything before we realize there are things of worth needing to be held onto.

The Victor

I would give you
a drink to sip,
ever so gingerly
but you would
gulp it down.

You would
in one fell swoop,
gargle your throat
and swallow
the liquid, unthinkingly,
I think.

But you don’t.
You take the worn cliches
and give them to an Other
as gems to be worn,
as diamonds turned to catch
the light on every facet.

This is what
I’ve learned from you;
that you have taken my best
and made it yours
and I am more
than what I Am.
And by doing this,

you are the victor.

December 30, 2016

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.
Around The Bend. . .

When our David was twelve or thirteen, he lay on his bed in the room he shared with his brother and walked the walls in his stockinged feet. When I get to be a star in the sky, he said, I will shine down and give power to help people as they need to get through life. I looked dumbfounded at this son who thought heavy thoughts as common fare. I tell you this to show you that levity with truth can be injected in the everyday conversation even in the most mundane of places.

In my recent poem I scribed, I was duly reminded that a heavy dinner of food or thought brings dyspepsia. It brought a hiccup to my breathing and I was brought up sharply. And I appreciated the fact that the heavens get tired as well as humans. I hope you can share this with me. It made me laugh.

Around The Bend. . .

I was told
you have stretched
your boundaries
as far as you can and the rest
will require another world.

You work too hard at this, he said.
Break the pattern because
you do not need more information
to underscore what you already know.

What good to understand
worm holes and black holes, white holes
and time warps.
You work with them every night
when you flutter in and out
of worlds and know your way around
the bends of light.
You don’t need anything more.

You need a good stiff drink
of more than cola.
Love, take a bender.
You need rye, straight.

I say, around the bend
there will be a hand;
someone to pull me up. .

around the bend will be a someone
to pull me up. . .I know.

December 29, 2016

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 Are Stewards. . . Accountable. .

It has been about five years since I started my blog at the insistence of a perceptive grandson who thought his grandmother should be heard. So he set me up on my blog and I have been writing three and four times a week. Poetry, essays and vignettes, excerpts and paradigms and observations. Prayers also for the mystic mind of me. It has been better than half century of serious independent study taken to the books while my half of the world slept.

Like Machiavelli’s letter to Vettori, I put on my evening clothes (which in my case were my flannel pajamas) and went to the study where I sat with my teachers of yore. I, too, was lovingly received by them, where I pestered with arguments the injustices done to my world. And answered by reason what their arguments were for the day. I was revived in mind and attitude and went into sleep preparing again for the day’s events. Like Machiavelli, the starving mind of me was fed and feasted on thoughts designed for the credentialed. I was taught what no university could or was able to teach. And given information only the gods in their compassion were able to garner and assimilate. With understanding of the behaviors of peoples never to be voiced and nor even easy to live with.   It brings to mind the understanding of the word ‘expert’ the fledgling grandson in his growing knowledge of new words announced at the table, ‘expert is a person who knows too much.’ And I followed with ‘and has nowhere to go with her knowledge.’

And in the ensuing years I have had many diverse opinions of my writing. From the university English professor who asked horrified if my husband agreed with my views because I brought the heavens down to where I was instead of lifting man up as many male writers had done, and he said no one in his studies ever did what I did, to another who called my views my ‘musings’ and I knew he would never call a male writer’s thoughts musings. To those who wrote to tell me that I assumed everyone had taken my path and saw what I saw. to those women of the church (I cherished their views) who called me an original thinker and one who said I had no idea what I had done and it would take the Jesuits generations to catch up with me. And the readers who thanked me for giving them something to think about when they faced roadblocks presented by altar teachings that nowhere came near the arguments foisted upon them by their thinking minds. And the courageous souls who cautioned me with there were places I would not be allowed a voice.

This is where I stand today in my new home in California on the eve of the year 2017. It has been a run for my money so to speak.    In 1985 the first computer came to sit on my desk and waited for me to make friends with it. The first three months of that year had events sufficient for a lifetime with the arrival of a grandmother (for the next 22 years of her life) to our place of residence and a preemie grandson’s arrival and David’s transition from this Earth planet. Little did I know technology would accompany me on my journey of note. It was to be a machine who was a constant companion in my life, a dependable one, where I voiced thoughts and arguments and in time, answered me.

Again I am set up with it in my new workroom and am ready to venture forth with thoughts commensurate with my years. I have grown in understanding, giant steps a son says, and expect others, he says, to follow.   Not so I intone, just don’t get too comfortable. Lest evolution stagnate. And wars continue to be fought with ancient agonies and with eventual understanding that we are killing our beloveds. They are one and the same.

As long as I feel I can make a difference I will continue to write. It is important to me that we keep this lush planet as a favorite and important classroom. There is none better. There is no place as precise and that quickly manifests the idea as this . We are her stewards.   We must start being accountable.

December 26, 2016

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 Peace As Natural As Breath To Us. . . .

From my heart to yours, I send my Christmas message. In this holiest of seasons, where the desire for peace nudges all hearts no matter their persuasion, let us give way to these highest and best of all emotions and act upon them. By acting upon them until they are second nature to us, in time they will be what they were meant to be; peace as natural as breath to life. Blessings, Veronica

December 22, 2016

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.
Do You Hear?. . . .

Do You Hear?

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 Gllloooooooooorrrrrrriiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaa 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 20, 2016

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 The Wings . . .

Being the child that I was, rooted in memory solidly, I could not help being a trial to my mother. Having seven other children of normal vintage , she could compare easily and wonder loudly why I had to be different. It was not by intent but by inclination of the tree. I always felt that had there been a way to send me back , she would have .

Because of memory, I could not dismiss the metaphysical. It had come with a high cost. As I grew, the religious took a sidebar while the spiritual became the most important. And because I was in the physical world and had to toe the mark, the secular had to be wedded within. So in effect, I had created a trinity . The metaphysical, the spiritual and the secular as a model for physical life.

I had embraced all elements and had thrown out nothing. It was all inclusive and broadly focused . Where we are is where we are. We are a product of our experience, a talented composition of memories and a host to our lives.

It is imperative that we honor what we have been taught and what is life giving and life sustaining . It is crucial to the enlightenment of civilization that we honor the growth of the individuals and their desire to make a difference . Each generation comes with a new found enthusiasm to promote the evolution of humankind.

It is up to us, the elders to support and be the hammock to cushion this growth. We should welcome this with joy. Let us not fail them.

We will talk of philosophy and we will talk of poetry. We will talk of people and Beings.

And we will again grace the lovely work of the Great God and say we walk beneath the wings of Him who holds us together.

December 12, 2016

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 Power Within . . .

The power to change the world begins with the intention and the desire to change ourselves . We must become the person we want someone else to be.

We want the compassion , the love, the intelligence , the strength, the ability to see the larger picture, to see what they see and at least what we see. And how it influences everything, not only tomorrow but a million tomorrows. How the tree falls in our yard, or the one we plant will determine the air quality, the appearance , and the health of everyone in its path. Everything depends on what happens today . What is said today to beloveds will determine what man says to the angels eons down the line.

We work toward this. We want to meet this someone in our lives, who would hold the sacred history with tenderness forever. Need a god to do that? He abides within Man already. The divine is within. We must let our behavior reflect it.

December 11, 2016

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.