From an Upper Floor

How To Do It. . . .

You ask. . .

On focusing, your thoughts, your words. . .
how do you do it?

I say. . .

I barrel down into my center and listen
with my inner ear and hear what my heart says.
It is within me that I have my world.
This is what and where I am at home.
And this is not something that can
be taught. It is how the twig is bent.
And what world we appear in is where
we do our work.

You say. .

You listen to your heart.
How does a heart speak?

I say. . .

there is a murmur within that tells
you things and it is with the heart
that one moves. The heart is the
largest area of emotional and profound
truth. I can see where the child
who is maimed right from the beginning
and embarrassed because of his openness,
can dismiss this avenue and close it up.

And the world suffers and evolution
is held up and we have one who is in trouble.
It is always the children with me.
I would protect them. The sophisticates
I would tongue lash and say grow up.
Stop using childish tactics to be cute.
When you have an old face and
childish mannerisms, you are not cute.

Cute is for under 5 years old.

Artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

October 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.
After The Storm. . .

To those who have inquired and wondered how we have weathered Hurricane Matthew, we did well. The Refuge behind us soaked up water as it was designed to do and our home withstood the elements handily. Thank you for your concern and this hurricane will do nicely for the rest of my days. Uneventful is what I anticipate and appreciate in my mid eighties. Thank you very much. The following are some of the sparklers in my thinking.

*****

Man can strike the essence of what is wrong in an area the heavens cannot.

*****

Man must process an enormous amount of garbage in the place where integration of the human is of vital interest.

*****

The sounds of mortal life cut deeply and quickly and with great pain to those who have ears to hear.

*****

It is always more enlightening to apply criticism of an Other’s behavior to oneself.

*****

Rehearsed rhetoric is a game to use for one’s own justification.

*****

Humanity’s progress comes quarter inch by quarter inch.

*****

Mass evolution is an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms; never a fact and never a reality.

October 8, 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.
In Being A Child. . . .

The Importance of Differences. . .

If it seems that I persist in speaking of differences in perspective, it is because that is what makes us unique, it is because of my intense desire to keep our planet alive and this classroom operative for those already here and those yet to come, who desire to make a difference. Children are our hope that any differences can be effective in making this the best of all learning places.

In one of Doris Lessing’s Shikasta series, the 2 percent difference the woman speaks of to the psychiatrist is a big difference when the issue is quality of thought. And the 2 percent in the quality of thought puts both people, the speaker and the listener in different countries and maybe in different worlds though they be side by side. So I wish to bring up the difference again and as little as a breath separates our thoughts. Evolution? How long does it take? Look about our world. Look into the eyes of children today and you could see angels walking into your heart. Beautiful and innocent and smart. And if someone does not step on their heads they will be able to come to you one day and say we know who you are. You are the safe one. You are the haven they require if the world is to progress and they are to contribute.

In Being A Child

They would say of us
we had no sense of style,
for we dressed in faded clothes
long after they were carried
out of the store.

We put on caps knitted
by loving hands and pulled
over ears fearing frostbite.
We carried walking sticks
and gently jiggled loose piles of leaves
to shunt the mice out of roosts
buried deep.

Great fun we thought.
We tenderly picked the twigs
with berries loosely held
to decorate wax covered driftwood,
simulating snow for centerpieces.

We opened books and closed books
and talked of what was
remembered from other times.
They call it hands on this day
in the language of those privileged
in private schools.

The less fortunate might one day
have a field trip in search of natural life
in an open field. We called it
all in a day’s work

in being a child.

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

October 2, 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.
Savor The Minute. . .

Savor The Minute. . .

Could we take the time
to savor this minute?
Hold it close?

There will be
more minutes, but none
more special than this one.

It tells me that
you treasure our friendship,
to show our true feelings

that connect us,
one to the other.
I will remember

the marks on my life
you put there when
you took the time to rescue

the self I thought I lost.
Today I am whole.
Forever drawn as a heart

beating steadily as
with an inserted pacemaker

but with gratitude transcending its beat.

September 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.
Her Voice Will Be Heard. . .

I had intended to do a post on my blog this morning but after reading Maria Wulf’s post this morning on her blog, http://www.fullmoonfiberart.com I am giving her space because her essay is well written and pertinent to our time. For those women who are of recent years and have had no experience with sexism I can only say how fortunate you are. But for those of us especially of vintage years who were brought up with mothers who were revered because of the number of sons they bore and dismissed the daughters born by them, this essay speaks loudly and with despairing truthfulness.

That the old boys’ network flourished during my lifetime is without question. That there were those few whose self esteem would not allow this subjugation was apparent and envied. But that the old thinking is still prevalent even in the present generation of women is appalling. The following incident happened in the emergency room of a local clinic where I waited with a relative. A young girl of ten or eleven was in tears waiting to have a cast put on her broken leg. A boy had tripped her she was telling the nurse. Oh, the nurse said, he must really like you. He would not have tripped you if he did not like you! Before I could gather my wits about me, she was wheeled out and I have regretted not following up with names. Any wonder that persons of abusive behavior feel at fault?

Please read Maria’s http://fullmoonfiberart.comAt least half of the world can relate to this essay.

Photo by
Jody Simons

September 28, 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 All is Essence. . .

Prayer To The Essence of The Great God

To the essence of the great and holy god,
we offer ourselves in our bounty and
in our sorrows. We ask that we be
allowed to enter with all that we are
and all we hope we can be.

Let us lift our heads
to the glories of the day and
allow us always to see
the brightness that surrounds us.
Ask us in our gratitude
that we look to serve those
less fortunate while always seeing
to those to whom we are committed.

Let us be wise in our choices
and sensitive in our feelings.
We ask in times of need and
in times of great gratitude
that we neglect no one in our care.

In all names we ask and
in all names we wholly, holy, blend.
Take us as we are,

for we are on our knees. Amen and amen.

photo by
John Holmes

September 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.
In These Sweet Hours. . .

I was born a person whose breath weaves its own magic during the night hours. When the world goes to sleep where I am, my eyes widen to embark on their own journey. Those sweet hours of the morning I have seen all the days of my life and have found thoughts traveling at a swift pace to their mark. When darkness appears, the air becomes electric with its own energy and the full symphony begins.

In These Sweet Hours. . .

In these sweet hours of the morning,
I sit in this chair, borrowed
from another room, where old bones
had not yet broken it in; missing
the familiar one, much loved
but grown musty.

Like me, I think, old and with thoughts
well worn but suitable for the mind
habiting them. They’ve stood
the test of years that proved their mettle.

They’ve worn their courage
to the extreme and now will go
into the pages and take their place
as reference to a time long gone
but stable. These thoughts worked.

They upheld customs and behaviors
and civilizations. And families when they
could have crumbled never to be restored.
But when hand crafted was
a work of pride, so was the work of the mind. . .

stored now like vintage wine.

September 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.
In The Midst of The Secular. . . .

Because of the head that sits on my shoulders, I have worked this life the best I could.   Because I grew up in a house of brothers, I learned to do many things simply by observing. They tolerated my presence and I learned to watch and say nothing that would get on their nerves. I did not want to be banished. I assumed all males knew how to fix things. (My dearest friend Jan said that the eleventh commandment should be ‘Thou shalt not Assume. . . .anything!) She was right, as usual.

When married and our wringer washer malfunctioned I told my husband and he said call a repairman. I looked dumbfounded and asked stupidly, what’s a repairman? Never with six brothers was there ever someone called to fix anything. I soon learned though. After that, not much money went out of our home for services.

When a service person appeared I was at his heels watching as I did my brothers. I gave our sons haircuts because I watched as my father gave my brothers haircuts. The boys put up with me until their teen age years when they worked for money to get the haircuts they wanted! Though I was called upon by my mate on many a Sunday night to cut his hair and when the owner of the local salon asked who did his hair my husband said I did. And Bernie said I will give her a job anytime.

The home maintenance things I did like painting and papering and plumbing if not complicated with changing pipes. I had a wonderful neighbor friend who was more adept than I and she did electrical stuffs. I stayed away from wires for fear of getting fried. But lawn mowers and snowblowers were my forte . My mate came in for me when he could not start the snowblower.   I went out and did my usual and it started. Over the loud noise he shouted, what did you do?   How did you do that!??? I knew not to go into what he did not understand so I simply said ‘prayer.’

It would never do to say I talked to the Master Mechanic.   I went into the house.   As he was rounding the back door with the blower, he stuck his head into the kitchen door and asked, ‘does swearing count?’

I tell you this to show you that one can live a normal life with work and children and home maintenance and a public life and still have an inner life that supports the secular. One does need to set priorities. I had my private times when the house slept that gave uninterrupted hours for study. When my home priorities could be held at bay, I took to my books, and those things that gave me support for times when my world went gray. An open head, or more open than the average head I now learn, meant for despair in all languages. It is the kind of head that is in conference all day with its own eternal why’s. But it is possible to live a contemplative life of a mystic in the midst of the common, meaning average life. One does not need to take to the woods, nor to the mountain top. Those are within. They come to the pilgrim when the intent is noted. And heaven does heed the crash at the gates. Often with a ‘well, look who’s here!’

Photo by
Joe Hallissey Sr.

September 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.
The Table. . . the altar of the family

It was a different time frame and there were no credit cards nor funds to back what we desired. Several elderly English/Scottish relatives had given to our growing family bits of china that had been cherished. Not whole sets, but pieces. And I dearly wanted a hutch to show these pieces. Decades later we found to our delight a hutch and 4 chairs but no table. The owner of the establishment, a dear friend, said but if you settle for a pine table I think I can talk someone to finish it like the hutch. We looked at the pine table and thought but pine to look like cherry wood? The retired craftsman took a drawer from the hutch and in a few weeks delivered the table. I have loved it to a fine polish over half my life. We protected it with tablecloths and place mats worn threadbare. But for every day and 3 meals a day, it seated a loving family and friends and if we had ears to hear, it would tell wondrous tales. There is always much beneath the surface of what would be considered simple and dull. But coming to light with tender care and deep desire is a story worth telling. And learning from.

The Table. . .the altar of the family

It stands polished,
a reflection of the times we sat
and were fed as family and friends.

It held the food that had us
leaning with our elbows and
sipping the coffee and the wine,
comfortably.

We shared our laughter and
our griefs and the latter can only
be remembered in spurts and hurts.

The good times, the salving
of the wounds we remember clearly.
Our words poured from our hearts
and whoever listened was
the crystal vessel that cupped them.

At this time as my body balks,
memories are awakened each time
I stand and view the table
crowded with them.

When we meet again,
we will sit and tell each other
what has happened since we last sat
and supped together.
We will again make new memories

in a world just created.

September 17, 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 Teachers. . .

Running Toward a Truth. . .

In the prior mini essay, I spoke of the larger picture, the broader focus. It was necessary for me to learn this practice because to see the immanent god, the god within, I had to be able to view humanity totally to be able to appreciate the individual. As a result what I learned to do was to take the secular and marry it to the metaphysical and then to see the spiritual uniting all. So this trinity I could understand.

Since I gave birth to three sons, they were my first triumvirate, understood. And they became inseparable in their unity. Religions’ Father, Son and Holy Spirit has always been clouded for me. The secular life, and because my experience has included so much of the metaphysical, with the spiritual which houses our divine self, becomes an easily understood trinity and practiced part of life for me.

When starting the journey to the heart of oneself, one is never certain where its path will take one. There was no way I could foresee the place I would enter in my last quarter mile. I could see its direction, and because it has been a solitary journey, I have my notes, the poetry, the scripts, the journals. And everything affirms the each, even to the poetry where much has been a given.

In conversations with my philosopher-lawyer son before he transited, he marveled at the thought that I formed a philosophy to embrace my experiences and events. He said I know you never had time to study the Great Books yet I watch as Aristotle, and Socrates evolve before me! I think it has worked the other way. That the philosophy has formed me, and my experiences could only be explained within the philosophy. I took Jesus of Nazareth as my mentor and guide and one assumes a great responsibility when the cosmic consciousness becomes partner. I have had good teachers. I did more than knock. I crashed the gates of heaven.

As our eldest has said of me that I even make vacuuming a spiritual exercise. One sees every action, no matter size or emotional content attached having an effect in or out of time somewhere, whether it is life about us or worlds away in a universe unknown or unseen. It is a hard way to live. Try it for a day. When Jesus said we are our brother’s keeper, he refrained from saying where.

The Muses Teach

Grasped within eternal concepts
are musings of the arch angels,
the gods in myriad forms,
the Teachers.

In like manner they reach out,
holding the vedas, the dictums,
to reach all parts of man.
Guaranteeing even him,
the lifeline to a reality which lingers.

Couched within commodious terms,
yet destined for the simplest creature,
it is with desperation, spirit teaches.

Within the confines of the experience,
are acts designed with pupil in mind.
No avenue is without its lesson.
Hallowed, holy, each is destined

to perception, housed within
the limitless life, behind even,
the ghetto’s garbage.
For even within
the vividly apparent wealth,
poverty rides the impoverished spirit.

Meaningless acquisitions crowd
the confines of the empty mind,
deluding the empty house.

Liberation is even the squatter’s rights.

Sculpture by
Stanley Rybacki

September 15, 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.