From an Upper Floor

If I Could See Me. . .

I was getting dinner for Sunday noon. I was in the process of setting the table and finishing up. I was listening to Carl Hass give his voluminous views on classical music radio when I heard him say Bach’s little suite. And when I listened it was the same feeling I had when I first heard Pachelbel’s Canon. If in a different time, I would have been driven to my knees. I saw again the hall and the girl and the violins. It was the same feeling that almost drove me straight down or up. It was the blending, the melding that comes with finding a time right for you. ((the following I scribed as I wrote the entry describing the experience))

The time was indeed right for you. But where were you and what were you doing? (The gloves being pulled on the male hands. White gloves. I wrote about it in a poem. The time was yeasty. I used the same word when I looked at the portrait of Bach. Was it the same as fermenting?)

It was a time of fermentation. Much was going on and you were privy to it all. Your ability to make connections and ferret out cause and effect is useful. The times of the music were beautiful. They spoke of romance and love. Today’s world bears the fruit of its decline.

I wrote If I Could See Me . It was a Given. I wrote it as I heard it and saw it played in mind. It was vivid at the time. Often when people tell me of their experiences that are vivid, they immediately distract themselves. It is unasked, it descends and often with a feeling of unease. If held for a moment this experience can be healing, liberating and might yet save them. What you hear and see cannot always be wrong. Sometimes misinterpreted but mostly it is given for the preservation of life. Hold it for a moment and do not be afraid. It is given to you with Grace and love.

If I Could See Me. . .

I am conscious of a Presence
to the east of conscience,
bedded in memory.
A pair of white gloves
are smoothed over large hands
and the cutaway coat is laced with white.

A head of black hair, I see,
streaked with grey, thick,
but the face is cloudy
and the eyes indeterminate.
Somewhere time appeared
in the place and I lived in it,
with full participation,
now foggy except with a knowing.

Was I the you I see to my left?
Was I the someone smoothing
on the gloves in preparation?
If I was you and am me now,
who was the Other?
Is it a protection I seek, daring not to think
you were you and are now
to the left of my appearance,
to the east of conscience
only to rise from memory?

I could, with sweat pouring
from every body opening,
probe the memory, bedded
and know for certain what trails I left
for me to one day find my way back.

Perhaps you could tell me.
Was the affair as gay, as bright
as the confirmed costume of the evening?
Or was there sadness, presumed
and the memory stays
of that bright night to hide
what my face would reveal and yours,

if I could see me?

June 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.
Commitment; a sacred obligation. . .

Scribed journal entry of 24 years ago to compare to today’s events. Who would argue the quantum theory that all time is simultaneous? The journal entry began. . . your inlaw mother told you that she wishes she had known you, that you had been her teacher. She knows you present a healthy attitude toward earth life which had escaped her. Her bout with soil is far beneath the surface where dust collects. It is the soul that feels its soil first and is translated to its surrounding, which is another issue.

When you look out from your porch and say good morning to the birds singing their response, when you look at the moon and say this is where my heart rests and hello David, you show and feel a depth of connection few do. They cannot begin to relate to the natural order of things.

They cannot begin to see their own root connection because the earth represents to them an alien territory. It is not home, it is foreign. So they keep looking and touch and feel everything on this earth and hope they will find this connection.

But what they soon find is that they are old. What should have been researched when they were young with education of the soul and emotions, they would have found that where they were was where home was.

You love your home not because of how it looks but because of what you have invested in it. Many years ago your wandering brother said he never felt as you about houses he lived in. They were not home. They were not invested with the soul of the man, the emotions which engendered growth and certainly not with the love.

It should take two people to build a home and a family. But in many cases, too many of late, it is but one person. It can be a home of meager surroundings. It can be of any type, in any country, in any place. But it should be invested with emotions of the surrounding persons and should be accepting. If the place is simply a house, a place to sleep and a place to leave, we have a rootless society, with no connection either to themselves or to their place of origin. And their origin means the place where they became aware of themselves and respected for their persons.

It is crucial to the welfare of children that they be rooted in love. This then gives them the freedom to fly away and then return. Not necessarily return to the physical place but to the secure emotional place within that has given them their rooting.

When a society has no penchant or accommodations for earnest settling, we have a society rampant with fears, rampant with outbreaks of every conceivable nature and they then wonder where the trouble lies. It does not require a first rate intelligence to see where the power should have been vested. But it does take an educated heart. If you make babies, commitment should be sacredly assumed by both parties to be your first name, a holy obligation.

painting by
Claudia Hallissey

June 4, 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.
By Divine Grace. . .

When it comes to memory, how do we separate what is currently ours? Yet the question should be, what is not ours when we are part of humankind? What can we separate from since we do not know what it is we have participated in since time began?

Have we lived before? What is called reincarnation can also be memory banks filled to overflowing. Yet are there not new souls on this planet who do not have practiced ways of behaving that can only be the result of centuries of living?

Can we say we have lived before when we fumble much in elemental situations? If we are asking these questions, it means the footwork has already been done to bring us to this place.

Can this incarnation be one of many? Can we not be walking in many worlds relying only on custom for this one? For some, one answer is sufficient. And for others, if thoroughly understood, would have worlds spinning into oblivion.

There are those who have been open to such a degree that worlds have impinged uncalled for. Understanding can only come when there is a frame of reference to assimilate the information. There is no mind that can understand everything. All expressions are needed in every world to begin to uncover the essence of the spirit that rules and loves.

In the frame of reference that use the word God in its religious life or spiritual life, everyone and everything is allowed to express the many faces of God. There is no mind that completely understands nor completely accepts all the expressions of Being, whether in this world we inhabit or in worlds we give space to in thought. There are aspects of memory that have no putting place. It is only in retrospect that we can face the reality of many lives and loves and still retain our wholeness of being. It is with divine grace that we do.

Memory Bit. . .

Will you appear again?
The picture was hazy
and around the edges, vague.
I was conscious of you and saw only you.

Your black , thick hair was streaked with gray
and sweat separated the streaks.
The table upon which you laid
I cannot describe
but I was at your head
and your eyes were turned upward,
straining and you pleaded.

‘Do not watch,’ you cried
in a voice cracking with pain,
‘they are going to kill me.’

Your face. Your face.
The jutting jaw, the coarse features so angular,
as sharp as I even now remember.
I knew that face
in a time and space I cannot place.
Where had the horror begun?

The tears roll down the creases
of this face I now carry
and I let the pillow catch them.
I do not care anymore to hide them.
I can now cry down as well as cry up.

I shouted something into the night.
I do not remember what.
But sweet oblivion caught me
and I went to a somewhere
and awakened with no fatigue.

You will come again.
I have known you before
to recognize you now,

even in a memory bit.

photo by
John Holmes

June 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.
Time For Work To Be Done. . .

It was a desolate landscape.   There were ice mountains in the background. There was a building, more barracks like with no thing, nothing around it.   The moon was white and things were outlined but barely so.   Sparse would be putting it gently, but desolate and bare of life would say how tragic it felt. I could not say what world. But unfinished work it is.

What if we find ourselves doing the work of mules in places that need our talents in very practical ways? Would we not answer the call to help in the vineyards with things of value that moth and rust do not destroy; things of the mind? Jesus said, as above, so below when he stood on the rock.   Life on Earth is the reflection of Heaven and we the reflection of what we hold as truth.. Are we not all unfinished work?

There is unfinished work everywhere.   I cannot go back ever to not knowing.   There are worlds needing what we hold as valuable, what we can only take in Mind. We may look like mushrooms but our hearts are daffodils.   It is a good thing to keep in mind.

Jubilation On The Mount. . .

You go out too far, she said, too far.
But that is where the work
needs to be done, I said.

Jubilation. There will be time
for jubilation; a time for frolic.
We will drink the variegated drinks.
And we will dance.

There is a time for work
in the far place,
where the vineyards
need to be planted but first
the plowing must be done.

Until the time
I do not care to stir the ashes
to bring forth another fire,
I stay.

Where I am is reason enough.



May 30, 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.
Time To Listen. . . .

Time To Listen

It is not as easy as it seems.   Try to think, to place in mind a picture of a Being other than human.   We have our science fiction writers who give us caricatures of what they suppose we would accept. The images in fact may be actual. Consider that.

I had awakened from a nap that had a familiar feel to it one very cold day in March when we lived in the North.   I had a messed up knee and needed to lay the body down for awhile. I knew the place of the dream though I could not name it if pressed.   So it was not in this particular world or enclosure where I am. When I awakened I kept feeling my hands as if they were foreign to me.

Like my hands are miraculous.   I have been feeling them within each palm and my fingers have a sensation to them that was amazing.   My fingers lace with one another and am surprised at what they do.   And are they not a wondrous piece of work? With smooth and supple fingers that I have never appreciated before. I have never felt so at home in this body as I have since I awakened from that nap.

How long it has taken me to come to this minute where my hands seem like an intricate blueprint of some great mind.   It has taken me a lifetime to note this. As I sit here and give houseroom to Beings other than human because we talk of other worlds, envision what you are able of how life in other worlds different than ours might be fashioned.   What would life be like in a place where none of our essentials exist and bodies are like nothing we view in the mirror. Yet soulful with intelligence struggling for expression where words have not been born.   A species of life with no name yet. Was that our beginning?

There is unfinished work everywhere.   If asked, would we be willing with our tools, whatever we have mastered to take only in mind upon transiting this Earth, to be one for the vineyards?   Or would we rush for the exit that would take us right back to where the toys are plenty?   And what if we find ourselves in a not so lush Eden as the previous trip?   We must stretch our thinking for the rules are changing. We must in times of quiet give thought to where the Indwelling God will take us.

It is time to listen.

Because I Know. . .

I see worlds in motion
taking a portion of each one’s talent
for their own survival.

This is what I do with my hands,
this motion of knitting yarns
to form a piece of world
to fit the mind of an elusive soul.

See here, I, content in what I do,
I free a soul to do the Great God’s bidding
in keeping only one world in motion.

See again. . . I give of my Self in time,
to free an Other to build what may be
the perfect Universe or many.

So content, this that is mine to see,
a great plan, a strategy, unheard of.
It may not be for centuries that
my knitting fingers will alert the senses
of a soul to keep in motion,
a Life, a Being, an Idea.

Sit here with me. . . and show
my hands what to do and they will do. . .
The task, so simple will gather
other talents and make for itself
the grand design, futures down the line.

A bidding the nature of what
has never been seen before.
I know it and because I know. . . .

you will know it also.

art by Claudia Hallissey

May 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.
Beyond Morsels. . .

Beyond Morsels. . . .

When one needs a fire to rest by, one often has to build it first. But no fire made by other hands warms as compared with effort gone into the building and fanning of one’s own flame.

*****

You cannot list the world’s disorders without revealing yours in duplicate. You identify them because you relate to them by knowledge of experience. You cannot blame others for what they are unable to relate to, seeing nothing of themselves in the ills surrounding. And not being able to identify them, they cannot do something about what they cannot see. How to open eyes and by what process?

*****

He spoke a good song but he did not sing it.

*****

Kindness is never out of date. Nor is it old fashioned.

*****

The right to truth is mine to uncover. The right to conceal belongs to the Other.

*****

When illusion hides the reality, the bears become frightened. And they stand and attack what could be their greatest gift.

*****

Sometimes it seems that nowhere is the rational voice or the clean motive. And there are none. There are only people who justify themselves and give forth with their justifications. And the justifications are needed. They could not continue otherwise. Are we not one of them?

*****

To think is to act. To the Others it appears as doing nothing. But it is a supreme undertaking one approaches.

*****

Conscience is installed to monitor one’s life for one’s survival. Conscience is memory of acts done to one with a memory of pain.

*****

We are our belief system. As we stand, we teach.

*****

There are worlds being spun out of glossy webs that bespeak of spun sugars.

*****

You cannot fool the nature of souls and souls have a way of propounding the innocent and the complex. In the midst of all that is done, the soul will fathom the doer and know beyond doubt what the motive and process has been.

art by Claudia Hallissey

May 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.
The Laughter. . .

In a lifetime of many years, certain things stand out as a moment imprinted on a mind to last forever. One is the good fortune of living as a neighbor to a family of daughters. Their laughter in the course of days that presented worrisome events, was the hallmark for life, that somehow my own handicaps would be overcome. Open windows threw the girlish giggles across the lawns and into my heart. They meant that life could be lived even in the midst of heartbreak and work to cow a giant.

I am grateful to have heard that laughter. Grateful to the parents under enormous events that all things can be borne and laughter when allowed its moment, can lift the hearts of all within hearing it. A boisterous laugh, a giggle, a laugh so hard it makes one sneeze, are a measure of the soul’s ability to harness the serious life. It imprints the mind and assures us that all things pass but the laughter is memorable.

The Laughter. . .

In the dim light
of the silent candle,
while seated at the kitchen table,
I heard laughter.
It rose from the belly of one
seated at another table
and hit the ceiling with a loud guffaw.
The ceiling fan threw the laughter
out the windows to the winds,
carrying it afar.
My heart welcomed the sounds
for safekeeping.

The girlish giggles in answer
roamed the table
and shushed the corners
of the room and I wondered;
the girls, where did they go?

Now I sit and pound my keys
to a fine fettle
and ponder the turn of wheels
that held the world
at its pivot.

And wondering what happened
to the laughter
and why did it die

when we were so hungry for it to last?

photo by John Holmes

May 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.
When The House Sleeps. . .

Mornings have always been special. The sounds blended on the street when Princess and I walked; the lights in the homes spoke of early risers, the occasional car with lights on. The dog down the street spoke his urgency to get matters started. There still is a benevolence to the morning which I would awaken everyone to feel. It is a palpable part of the day. Times are different now and the body no longer equal without the exuberance which greeted the morning. Still though it finds me alive and in dialogue with the divine within. We put the blessing on the day.

When The House Sleeps. . .

As the hour
creeps toward dawn
and you put on the kitchen light
for a cup of tea, it is good
to know that others
walk the morning.

We walk in unison
those of us whom sleep avoids,
when the dream finishes and
the heavens no longer
are a soft bed.

We hug our robes
to take the chill off bones
shivering in the hours
the house sleeps even
if we cannot.

The tea warms
both the hands and the heart,
while the dawn approaches
with a promise.

It is enough for us to know
we are legion and
take comfort that across
our half of the world
that cannot sleep,

we keep our cosmic half awake. . . .

Photo by Jon Katz

May 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.
It Takes A Yesterday. . .

Scribed March 25, 1989. . .(Keep in mind the quantum theory that all time is simultaneous. If it is difficult to accept I had to learn it to survive and have consciously lived with it for well over a half century.)

One must of needs supply a history to give meaning to the day. For when there is no history, there is also no Now, and certainly no future. It is only with a history does the uniqueness begin to show and the ability to clarify that uniqueness and to be a positive influence must be because peace has already been made with that history. (the teacher)

No Yesterday. . .

We don’t even have
a yesterday
when we forget the past.

And no use looking
for a tomorrow
because today
does not happen.
It takes a yesterday
to make a now today.

We can costume
our yesterday
and dress it up
to be fashionable.
And then possibly
we can walk together. . .

But I think
the proper thing to do,
if not courageous,
would be to stare
down yesterday
and suck the fear out of it.

Then perhaps we’ll have a today
as bed for tomorrow.
That assures a future only

if you are okay with that?

May 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.
A Matter Of Heart. . .

(It was after a family wedding that I was getting thank yous off to everyone. I kept letters to those I wrote so I would not forget anyone. In rereading journals I came across this one to my mother, Jenny, that I would like to share. It spoke my heart and on this Mother’s Day it speaks to all mothers who in fact parent whether they gave birth or not. Parenting is a matter of heart. I have edited due to space.)

Dear Mother, My thank you is felt from my heart. It is my heart that speaks and my arms that reach to you and say good job, well done. We come full circle at some point and the important thing is that we stayed the course to finish it up. Our thanks along the way include all who helped become who we are. And I love who I am right now. I love me because I love from where I came. I came from you.

I have often maligned from what it is I came from because I have known it seems nothing but hard work. My hard work has produced three fine sons and with courage took the hand of one and walked him out of this earth when my instinct was to wrap him in my arms and keep him here. I helped shore up his two brothers whose worlds were falling apart from hurt.

I have created a home where people love to come and do not want to leave. I have been testy and submissive, argumentative and assertive and unlovable. But kept on loving. I can see what I am because I see from where I come. From you. Of you, of my brothers and their wives, all sisters. All of you open your arms to me and I find I can walk right into your hearts. No doors are closed, no secrets are held and we speak.

You are a testament in courage. You are the good news in generosity and sharing and love. I don’t know who could have done what you have so well. You have created memories for so many that the heavens will declare you lord of memories. You have been safekeeping them for all of us. You are a lady worth the knowing and a mother worth the praise.

We pushed against you and made it hard for you. But we had to strengthen ourselves. Life demanded much from you and we knew it would be hard for us. You did not abandon and because you did not, we stayed the course. We too crumble and cry and because you did what was necessary, we do too.

It is of good stock I come. It is of earth and skies that are deep, horizons that stretch farther than eyes can see. People who walk among each other and heal one another like balm on a wound. It is love that bends down to touch the head of a child when the back finds it painful to bend. It is the arthritic hand that touches the cheek of the fragile. It is love in a gruff voice that shouts and sisters who wrap their arms around each and say ‘I know.’ It is family and it is my heritage and you gave it to me though orphan you were.

You imbedded lessons in my heart and taught us all well. I thank you. No one could have lived it better than you did with what was yours. I went home this weekend and found the likes of me everywhere. It is a good feeling. I am privileged. I have family. And looking at you I am proud. I am you. Thank you for having me. I love you. Your daughter,

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

May 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.