From an Upper Floor

A Blessed World. . .

With my life long lack of physical prowess , it is with despair I faced getting from one place to another . Long plane rides always had me looking for either a pharmacy or a doctor . It was not fun.

Even as old as I am, recuperation from a journey takes a long time. While I sit and write, my body cooperates . So it was with joy I punched a few keys to find that I can post on my small tablet and even access my media library. Modern technology? Large miracle for me! Made me feel like a genius!

I only traveled with one steno notebook because of limited baggage. I have found some things I wish to share while I wait for my sons to do what they consider necessary this week. I overheard one of them explain their talents in construction work because they were encouraged to build and practise while growing up.

Never was there large areas for this but they were never restricted other than by our insistence on reading , learning and safety cautions with power tools . Safety rules were a must. Then go to it.

My sons are good teachers. My grands abide by the same rules according to their talents. It is with joy I see this.

I am with my granddaughter for the next few days and I will post when I come across something I wish to share . It is a time of recouping as well as reading family sagas . Easy to do on my tablet. Hitting the floor with excitement as I remember doing is in my memory bank . As I am cautioned time and again, establish myself before that first step. Else I go airborne across the room!

It is still my blessed world. The best of all worlds. It is with interest that we are watched. Our behavior determines much. I pray that it says what is good about us.

November 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.
An Ever Fixed Mark . . .

love is. . . an ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken. . it is a star to every wandering bark. . . Shakespeare

I awakened with these lines committed . I who never commits her own work to memory and realized that this was how I wanted to appear to my children and to those I loved, as an ever fixed mark that is never shaken .

Of course I had to learn how. It meant forming a philosophy and building it step by step, readjusting as I lived it and grew. Simple words but easy it was not. Struggle it was through many obstacles . But the most desired result I wished was to be depended upon. The reasons were many and personal but the disappointments I did not wish to foist on the children.

Big assumption? I was never aware that it was not what everyone did and simply not talk of it. Naive? Important? As I look about me in the middle of my eighth decade I can see my progeny adopting the same measures. Their ideas of what they can accomplish and wish to perfect humbles me. And that I am a beneficiary of their hard work humbles me further and fills me with awe.

I wish to kneel before the Greatness of All That Is with gratitude. To have lived long enough to say thank you a trillion times and how proud I am only to have them say this is what we are and what we do. True values with perseverance will work in this physical world as well as in the unseen ones. Everything teaches.

When you listen to what heart and conscience guide you toward and stay the route, the gold shows. . . .

(more…)

November 21, 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 Immense Gratitude, Happy Thanksgiving. . . .

As I prepare to pack and ready myself for the journey to the opposite coast, there will be a lull on this blog for awhile. The children I live with wish to prepare quarters for me to avoid disruption again and I appreciate their concern. My other son will be accompanying me and overseeing and since I lack the necessary talent for earth traveling, his presence in this I welcome. I can swim universal seas, but simple itineraries and getting from one place to another I get lost. I solved the problem during my driving days (believe it) by only making right turns. The one time I did a left turn a local gendarme yodeled me to a stop with a ticket. He was one of my sons’ school buddies now turned police patrol and said, Mrs. Hallissey, you have lived here for over 25 years, you know you cannot make a left turn after 3 o’clock! If I did, I did not know it then. Yes I paid the fine. So you see, all my children know me well. They are the jewels in my crown. And yes, when the time came, I happily overhauled the vehicle to make it new and gave it to a grandson as a graduation present. And have never missed driving. The Teachers at the time gave a big sigh of relief I suppose too.

So until we are ensconced in our new home, and my computer set up, I will ask that you keep me in mind. I will be able to get messages and will appreciate them. Until then I lift my head to my Source and ask that ‘The Light shine between Me and Thee while we are absent, one from the Other. I give my blessing upon All visible and invisible and ask for your blessing also. In All Names Good, I pray and ask. Amen and amen.’ With immense gratitude, this Thanksgiving, I give again, . . . .

How Much Of a Difference. . .

It was morning
though the night still hung heavy,
the clouds hovered,
the sun unable to rise.

The children gathered for breakfast,
morose, unhappy and angry,
heavy still with sleep.
Mother looked with unhappy eyes
and father, already delayed
flew out the door.

What could she plan
for this crew this night
as she scrutinized each face
when they exited.

That night the same faces
appeared to sup together,
hostile, unable to summon
the good things of the day.
Seated, they glowered
and the mother, with hope
passed the platter.

Have some love, she murmured,
as she handed the platter to the eldest.
Puzzled, he helped himself
and in unbelief said to his sibling,
have some love.

And around the table the faces changed
as the platter of love was passed and
with a whisper bestowed
its blessing by each one.
The father then picked up a plate to share
and to his surprise murmured, I bring peace.

And around the table peace was passed
to accompany the main course of love
and talks resumed and the world
was given another chance.

On a level we cannot enter,
we cannot know how much of a difference
it takes to make a difference.

Or how little.

November 16, 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 Conflicting Cancer. . . .

The Conflicting Cancer. . .

The water runs cool and I soak
the facecloth to make it wet and wrung out
as I fold it over your very warm brow.

Ahhh you say and it feels better and
I know my presence is the comfort needed.
Your hands unclench and I see you rest.

I’ve borne you in good health and
see you now as you struggle. You
still are the babe I brought to borne.

And this is your world. I will cherish it for you
until health returns you to your past
for you to guard. This space is given

to parents, the nurturers. Your heart
responds to the one who cools the cloth
and brings the bouillon.

Childhood fevers are gone quickly
when fortunes play fairly. It is a good thing.
The large annoyances require more than

a cool cloth on a hot brow.
But the nurtured children will grow to discipline
a wayward world with deftness.

Their split within will be healed seamlessly.
It is the child within who is healed
by the parent nurturing the progeny borne of them.

The cool cloth on the fevered brow will soothe
the raging fever and soon will there be healing.
The child so tended will heal the seamless rip

that stood between him and his God. It is useless to try
to heal a raging fire with cool cloths without healing
the soul of him who fevers. Soon he will be asked

to wage war on brothers in conflict not with each other
but within themselves. Wars continue until the

conflicting cancer is healed within.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

November 13, 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.
Pondering The Imponderables. . .

After a harrowing time for our country, we draw back to breathe and wish for uneventful, or common good. For me at this time, I come forth after a nightmare of a month that began with a simple ear infection, migrated the following week to a root canal and ended two weeks later after a debilitating body called halt with a world folding upon itself unto grateful oblivion. The fire department as well as the ambulance arrived to take me to South Baptist Hospital in Jacksonville where ICCU held me for 5 days to bring a disorganized body back to the living. I thank all of the staff who worked diligently to help this human establish her place of origin. They worked very hard to make me well. They did not give up on me.

The unrelenting pain from the root canal, the chest episodes and the final rooting out of the blocked artery presented more problems I simply could not comprehend. That at 85 I survived this time is even more difficult to comprehend. And wondering in the minutes between the imposing events, I wondered how I would be getting onto a plane next week to make the move to California where my caretaking, loving family is moving. And trying with all might to make this as uneventful a trip as possible. My eldest son is accompanying me.

We are moving to the Irvine, California area and packing this week. I am gaining in strength today and finding the air fresh again, and the sky as beautiful as ever. I wonder the blessing upon my head that I have children who care so much that my presence is desirable still in their lives. I hope I continue to be a blessing to them. They are the jewels of my life, the awards that hang on my heart. This world could give me nothing to compare to those of my heart’s commitment.

I am grateful to find surcease in my mind’s work. I immersed my senses in my works of previous times last night and came across two passages that stirred me. The scribing said that freedom of choice is each’s wish in this world. There are those situations where the choice is made and there is no freedom. Because of the situations surrounding the act, there appears a commitment of conscience that cannot be disregarded. For many, neither the commitment nor the conscience are a reality.

And the other was brief. I believe, the vagrant from the heart said, I believe, help thou my unbelief. The awareness that such a thing exists, that it is the source of difficulty, means that the healing begins.

In the light of the events of this past week, let us believe that the healing truly begins.

November 10, 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.
To Make a Difference. . . .

We come to help make better. We come because we hope to make a difference, however small. The small things, when carried out with concern, can involve a lifetime or many lifetimes. You cannot change the course of genetic evolution. It takes its time. Engineering may be able to code the dna but the emotional evolution must take its time and in its own time, will either be for the common good or common ill. We can hope that what transpires will be for the common good. We hope that with persistence the individual can decode and overcome what the ancients in their frustration could not bring to pass. What we hope is that we do not add to the pot of frustrations so that the oncoming generation will have an added burden.

Toward Greater Life

The heart searches parameters
for openings onto worlds
not torn by those intent
on limiting knowledge. . .

always searching
for those to willingly embrace
the differences challenging
the hesitant heart. . .

We look toward the union
of heart and mind
with the litigious veins
of knowledge, pushing like sludge
thickly through rock. . .

eager to consign edges
toward greater life. . .
knowing always the
least demanding would be
the most sought for.
Even the tardy would give
evolution a jump start.

Never insulting the slower envoy,
always grateful for the god participants,
the larger reality scoops forever
the narrow focus. . .

giving eternity’s starters new life and hope.

photo by John Holmes

November 7, 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.
Cosmic Connections. . . .

The past is still happening, the future has already happened and we race to catch up with it. This is a quantum theory, that all time is simultaneous. The Holographic Universe was published in 1986 by Michael Talbot but I did not read it until 2015 when I learned the theory I have lived all my life. The three things above I wrote when I awakened in the morning from a night’s sleep.

For a precise segment of time a theory may fit the conditions as they are known. An infinite Nature constantly evolves. And in our universe(s) which are in the act of becoming other than what we are at this moment, what is truth for today may indeed change with tomorrow’s growing knowledge.

Cosmic Connections

There is a sinewy thread
of continuity yielding
a future to the present,
inextricably linked to the past.

We question not the inconsistencies,
blatant to the practiced eye.
The present conceals with bliss
the evidential.

Lacking insight
into gross incongruities,
the practicing participant avoids
what self imposed limitation demands.

Stretching a mind
smooth as elastic,
requires a spirit
willing to expand.

The practitioner pursues,
chasing nuggets of information,
slipping between an eyelid’s blink
or the mind’s thoughtful absence.

Lengthening nights choose
the panoramic events postulating
that what was is, will be

and is everywhere happening now.

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.

October 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.
Windfalls. . .

When I was 12 my family moved to The Farm. There is nowhere in mind that soothes my psyche as The Farm and for such a few years of my life, my teen years and yet these filled my yearning for something my heart knew. In my memory bank those years were a return to what I found to be a union with nature, with my natural self. No matter the troubles or the hardships, there was a something in me that found rest and found me ‘at home.’ The apple orchard was large and I remember feeling so rich. I remember best the crisp taste of the apples when I bit into them and they bit me back.

Windfalls

They lay on the ground
in the soft grasses
that one would think
to cushion a fall. . .

But not enough. The wind
already had dropped them
and they were blemished.
Not good enough to make
the grade for perfect apples,
to bring top dollar
but still with purpose.

We pick them up
by the bushel,
for in the barn the cider mill
in wooden sculpture waits.

The apples will roll
and as they are crushed,
onto the pails will come their juices,
foamy, thick on the tongue and sweet.

The stores will serve
the slick and bottled
to the city’s well heeled but
the poor will come for
The Farm’s gallons that will be put
into pitchers on the table,
nectar of the windfalls.

Not perfect without blemish
for the elite, but robust and full
of nature’s reckless breath,

the storm’s windfalls for the rest of us.

October 25, 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.
Practicing Proverbs. . . a worn path

The justification is there for everyone’s life. We are redeemed. And the eulogies certainly point this out, don’t they?

*****

Is it knowledge or faith in us that if push comes to shove, our God will rescue us. Give it thought.

*****

Freedom of choice is a responsibility. It is also a sacrament

*****

Man speaks with a forked tongue. It generally has food for the belly on it.

*****

People close their eyes to what they see because what they see will contradict what they choose to believe.

*****

They use their bodies as the altar for the perpetual child. They raise the chalice to venerate the holiness of youth.

*****

People do not listen to what they say. If they did, they would not speak. Those who speak, don’t know. And those who know, don’t speak.

*****

To give Grace before a meal is a generous gesture. But if the truth be known, it is for public consumption. It adds humbleness to the reputation voicing elegant beatitudes. When the one whose back is tired from preparing for the multitudes speaks their thanks to the larger Spirit, it is true Grace. For then the meaning of stewardship is known.

*****

Sometimes information is beyond what the individual can possibly assimilate. It is there for the taking but not for the assimilating. It somehow has to fit before it can be worn.

photo by
Kathy Qualiana

October 21, 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.
Someone Has To Do The Plowing. . . .

Hope

And hope is the drug, the elixir, the stimulant,
the narcotic, the life saver, the god.

That tomorrow will be better,
that there will be a rainbow,
that the snows will come and cover the door,
that the rains will come and relieve the parched ground,
that the vineyards will be planted,
that love will walk in the door.

That the healing will come,
that death will be avoided,
that life will be everlasting and
the messiah is on the horizon.
That peace will be ours,
that brotherhood is a done deal,
that there will be sufficient food to feed the world
and eternally we will rest in the bosom.

These are the dreams, the hopes,
the desires, the opiates of this world.
And perhaps other worlds.
There is always that to consider.

The Master calls for workers
and the vineyards must wait.
I bless, for I have work yet to do.

Someone has to do the plowing..

photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.

October 18, 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.