From an Upper Floor

When The Fir Tree Stood. . .

There will be those who question whether it is my memory of having lived a life or many during the formation of this Earth or whether it is genetic memory passed through the ages and lodged within my mind. Or possibly a parallel life living in the capacious present since all time is simultaneous as the quantum people say and is happening now and mine to pick up. Does it really matter? What it has done to me in my life with my perspective is make me very aware of my behavior. What I have not wanted was to cause painful memories for someone . It is a hard way to live but it leaves fewer heartaches. To pull your actions through your heart teaches you a lot about yourself. Probably more than you wish to know as you head toward the exit gate.

When The Fir Tree Stood. . .

There was a time
when the fir tree stood
proud and tall and
with its essence could
make us drunk.

It was a fair country,
somewhere in that cold land
where only the hardy
lived to tell of it.

We smoked the fowl
that became our meals
with the fish caught by
nets skimming beneath the ice.

The smells were of Earth
and its parts, crisp and
broken into shards.
The more of us were happy though.
We knew the needs of all
and our wants were few.

Somewhere in time,
we cast our lots and became
the favored people.
We think now of
the differences and wish times
could be for a moment exchanged,
if only to remember the taste of

a pure and whole sense of truth.

January 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.
We All Take The Journey. . . sometime. .

We All Take The Journey. . . sometime

When I approach a subject that some find uncomfortable, I am told bluntly, I don’t want to go there. Some people simply find it untenable to think outside their comfort zone.

But we all will take the journey to the center of who we are at some time. If we are in a relatively comfortable place, in a relatively stable condition, now would be the time to do it. The next place of habitation might not be so comfortable. And there may not be a voice who will tell you that they have gone the route and have survived the sink holes.

I realize many take a dim view of things that do not match the qualities of mind I swim with. We are given sufficient qualities to match who we are and what we attempt. I have often beat the air with clenched fists shouting I don’t need another mountain to climb! Do ye hear me? And you will too.

And you will find that you qualify and are strengthened and will be grateful that you have proved that strength to your self. You will be glad that there were others who survived the deep and find that you can too.

It Makes Little Difference

It makes little difference
the road you take to master this.
For to get to where you are,
the way makes no matter
but the destination is what
leaves its mark.

Centuries on the road
brought this to you, this awesome
view that struck your heart
to shatter it.

You went down on knees
too stiff to note the pain
but surely the heavens knew
the custom derived from it.

We cherish the journeyer,
the traveler, the one,
who found no words to match
the awe struck heart.

It makes little matter what touched
home in the trunks of the trees,
in the music of the wind
rising to the acapella, rising,
still rising to the onrushing tears.

We are home. We are home
and nothing else matters, other
than we set the bar for others to cross.
They will, but not until they know
that the pursuit begins in the heart. . .

and ends there.

January 20, 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.
Affirmation For All Of Us. . .

Affirmation For All Of Us. . .

Many times I come across something in my journals I would like to share. It could be a feeling or a thought connected with some of my reading, but mostly it is because my thought processes were of things I held in high value. Such was the entry 15 years ago and I found my thoughts have expanded and gained depth. I think there are readers whose thoughts parallel mine and perhaps it would be comforting to know someone has gone the route. I wrote. . .

When I was sitting upstairs I had a feeling pass over me that said to me and not for the first time, that this is not all that important, that this world is but a fragment of what reality truly is. The reality is that there is no reality. That as we cross over this fades in importance and takes its place in the memory bank, in memories and becomes a rolling file, a vault where we go back and remind ourselves of what was, of what could have been but mostly of how it came about because of who we were. If I were asked is there something else to do, the answer would be not unless we seek it out.

Not unless we knock on that door until it must be opened, not unless we feel the heart surge in yearning for knowledge. Not just one time or two times but we live with the yearning. We must have it as a constant in our lives if there is to be change. And then the way will be shown. And as we grow in understanding, as we broaden our premises, then we will be able to absorb and integrate more and more that now seems foreign to our natures. Do we discard everything we learned? Sometimes. And sometimes not. I don’t know I can envision the person I hope I become before I become someone else for another time.

As I have said, it is so tiring running back to who I was and running ahead to who I will be. It is all a body can do for now. But the feeling was choice. It is almost as if I know already that the minutes before or the time in preparation will be fluid before crossing over. That there will be a time where I will put things in perspective and make the crossing with as much ease as possible. That it won’t be hard and also that the distance is not all that great. Not from one dimension to another. It is only from here to there. From one degree a variation to another. But in that variance there is a change in worlds that is magnificent.

I did not read Michael Talbot’s book The Holographic Universe about the revolutionary quantum theory of reality until 2015. I learned then that when I was born I must have had my hesitations firmly ensconced and have walked with one foot in other worlds. I have always grappled with differences and other perspectives. For others like me, I hope this is comforting, knowing there is affirmation for all of us.

photo by Joshua Hallissey

January 17, 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.
Once A Dream. . . (it is what it is)

Once a Dream. . .

The windows are askew,
even broken in some panes.
The jambs at angles
leaning drunkenly.

I know they were a dream
in some distant place,
driving a soul
to unbelievable ends,
putting hopes together
to hold the dream aloft;

a boundary only
to keep it from crashing
before the loose edges
could be tightened. . .

The dream has
been dreamed and
brought to fruition. Finished.
The people lived
and are scattered now
to worlds formed by new dreams.
It is how it is.

Now we see
the shell of a house,
the skeleton of it all
standing as an icon
to what once was born as
an idea of a personal world

having seen its day.

Photo by
Jon Katz of Bedlam Farm

January 16, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
An Advanced Form Of Thinking. . .

An Advanced Form Of Thinking. . .

When the doctor stood at the door of the ward and worried and mourned the death of the newborns and their mothers, he observed the young doctors moving from one bed to another. He noted also they only wiped detritus from their hands with a dirty rag. Could they be carrying something from one to the other? And he instituted the washing of hands between patients. And the babies stopped dying and so did their mothers.

He connected the dots. He worried long and hard enough and came to conclusions. Not all persons know enough to worry. Worry is an advanced form of thinking. It is impossible for some people because they simply do not know enough to see cause and effect. Some see only their own position in a problem and do not know how to encircle the problem. To achieve a rounded out human being who understands the fuller picture, we have to introduce more levels of experience, which is a reason some know more and hence the worrier.

When this planet, our Earth, is called a classroom of high order, it is because it is of advanced education, and has advanced classes. One crisis after another is chosen to further our advancement of more chosen work. When we complete a class, we move on to another. Not easy and we have the choicest planet. It is with ultimate concern we who see the devastation of this natural classroom worry that future generations will not have it in their lifetimes.

It is with a sacred blush that we who have loved it to distraction ask that its inhabitants become worriers on purpose. Study the behaviors that have led to these elements of crises before our beloved best school of thought is destroyed beyond repair. Not everyone knows enough to worry. Let us be the ones who are smart enough to do so. And perhaps we who worry enough to do something, will know that it is an advanced form of thinking that will save us all.

(excerpt from No Space To Grow Bread)

My Earth is in peril and
the classroom is in jeopardy.

There is no room and
our Earth is splitting its seams.
In good conscience,
no longer can we go forth and multiply.

There is no place and no space to grow bread.

January 13, 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.
Imaging. . .

Imagination. . .

some say it is conjecture,
a figment of mind,
not real.

I visit it often
as it is a place for me.
It is part of my
history.

In a certain place
and a certain time
we fall into a rhythm;
it is a dance.

We learned our steps
and our feet
did our beckoning.
But it was to our music
that we danced.

I am for real as
I can be and you, too.
Unless you think I am
a figment of imagination
and then of course, you?

Perhaps, we then
can be visited often
as a place of conjecture.

Large as life?

art by Claudia Hallissey

January 11, 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.
Owning The Experience. . .

Owning the experience. . .

He was just seven years old and hurt and upset because his brothers and his dad questioned his knowledge. How do you know, they asked him, how do you know? He stormed past the dining room table and shouted at them. I know that I know! And I heard an ancient head saying the same words and was amazed at this younger of mine. Of course you do, I said, of course. And I hugged him because when you know something and do not question yourself, you hold the oldest and first keys. You had the best mentor and metaphysician and were loved greatly.

A reader wrote to me and said there is a great distinction between knowing and information. She was right and few people would be able to differentiate between the two words. Many gather information and can quote others profusely. They can say what others have said and use the same words. But they cannot use their own words because the experience is not theirs. It makes all the difference.

As long as the experience misses them they have not the words to describe it. Only their God Within knows the footwork not done. Their language consists of information and not their knowledge. My seven year old spoke from an ancient knowledge. To know you know means you own the knowledge. And only you and your God Within knows of your footwork to own the experience. And the cost of how many lifetimes. . .

Toward Greater Life. . .

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

always searching
for ones 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
Joseph Hallissey Sr.

January 9, 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.
Jubilation On The Mount. . .

Jubilation On The Mount. . .

She said. . .
‘you go out too far.’

I said. . .
‘but that is where the work
needs to be done.’

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

Where I am, is reason enough.

January 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.
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.