From an Upper Floor

Morning Prayer

Morning Prayer

Pray the dawn into morning.
Let the cool winds blow
across the hot, dry lands and
let the rains pour as if
through the eyes of angels
who stand guard.

We will make this land green again
and feed the minds of children
too long idle and as farmers
feed the bellies of them too long empty.

Pray with me,
for those of long words and
too long thoughts,
who list the trials it seems and
forget they hold the means
to set the world on course.

Let us power them with our prayers
and free them to action;
let us raise our heads in gratitude
always to the One

under whose wings we soar.

Photo by
John Holmes

October 27, 2015

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 Morning’s View

a mind’s wanderings. . . . .

One man’s highest desire need not be an others’. And if one’s highest desire is to survive, then reincarnation is one’s only alternative no matter what world.

                                         *****

When one is painfully aware of life’s brevity, others then tend to shy away from any intimation of mortality. That is one reason people own dogs.

                                          *****
Guilt has many faces.

                                         *****

This mother is not so subtle a son says when she kisses her adult children on the forehead to see if they are feverish.

   *****

In a family, the genetic and emotional connections can be used by and of themselves. The very things we find stifling and inappropriate are the very things we use to draw strength from. And if we have siblings, because of our numbers, we gain strength.

*****

To draw on what is good for us requires maturity. We are apt to discard all before realizing some things are worth holding onto.

*****

Glory is often as fleeting as one’s presence and when one is gone, so is the glory. What remains is often the sediment of who we are.

*****

Man needs solitude to digest and make concrete his philosophical position. If he has one, that is.

*****

Gaining another sense does not mean separation from self consciousness. It means you are saddled with what you have been and then given another view of what you can be. The dichotomy is excruciating.

*****

Cosmic consciousness is a mixed blessing.

October 22, 2015

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.
Coming To The Altar

The Teachers Speak. . . .

What is suppressed is what we are most afraid of and fear carries a sub label of secretive which must go along with the word afraid. Even in today’s world of reality shows, there are still those who carry their fears close to the chest. And often do not think of solitude as safe; reason enough when some enter their home all manner of noises are pressed into being. Anything to combat the silence where thoughts arise. Silence becomes the enemy to master and not one of comfort.

And we wish not to remember. Dismissing memories is to lock the vault only to have it burglarized and be called to remember without those whose presence would have made the memories bearable. Whether in joy or sorrow. They can be dismissed and put on the shelf for another time but confronted they will demand to be. A life can be one of choice concerning memories as well as other commodities. But to put memories into a vault and to tightly lid them is to crowd the emotions into a body with no death as a release and death has a place in man as well as in nature.

Indeed man is natural and belongs to nature because he should be at home in this physical world. Death in nature is acceptable but in man seldom, except as he makes himself so undesirable that others wish his demise. Yet death is always with us and its purpose is to release from the physical what can no longer be housed comfortably.

The body must also be part of mind’s growth. The body cannot be left in the cold while the head does its intellectualizing. It is all part of the whole. Our head could say I am handling this well but the body knows better if it has not caught up with the intellectual growth. Until the work is done within, where the strength of the body is built up, we will have a condition needing remedial work. When there is a cohesiveness within the mind body factor, there is also a peaceful coexistence.

We Give No Thought

We give no thought
to the end of breathing
for in the midst of things
we are satiated.

But when the void deepens
and all things pall,
in the privacy of our night,
we sweat.

We are drenched
with fear,
drowning in our panic
for we have no anchor.

We are a people
with no spirit. . . .
full of ourselves,
devoid of the good, we think,

necessary for immortality.
Too bad we are so late
in coming to the altar

of our own divinity.

October 18, 2015

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.
There Is Still Time

There Is Still Time

I say. . . .

What more can I do? I am
tired and I am old.

You say. . . .

You are still breathing. And as long
as there is breath, you can still create.

And I say. . . .

It has all been said. How many different
ways to instill the will to make a difference?

You say. . . .

As many ways as there are people who awaken
before the sun decides to make an appearance.

And I say. . . .

Already too many times for me . . . .

And you say. . . .

I have not heard your name called which means, rise and do.
And you will be shown how. I have journeyed with you and I
do not abandon.

I say. . . .

You are a hard task master. . . .

You say. . . .

When we walked the heavens and decided to explore our
talents, we wanted to do good. The world awaits. . .

I ask. . . .

For how long?

You say. . . .

For however long it takes. There is still time to take harp lessons.
It’s been too long since you used that talent. We need to refresh
your memory. . . .

Photo by John Holmes

October 15, 2015

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 Uncovering

PHILIP FRAMED THE MYSTERY

Genesis 1.26 Then God said “Let us
make man in our image, after
our likeness; and let them have
dominion over the fish of the
sea, and over the birds of the
air and over the cattle , and over
all the earth and over every
creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.”

We wandered the universe in the beginning
and were known by one name.
We walked and talked and set to dreaming. . .

How would it be, we said,
if we blew our collective breath
across this cosmos and set a planet whirling. . . .?

If we lifted the shades of darkness
and let our pain for expression
burn hot enough to warm even the bleakest spot?

And we did and the earth
rolled into space we designed for it.
And we blew breath into Adam and
we became Adam and called ourselves Man.

We hunched for too long before we finally stood.
In due time we crowned
our Greatest Achievement sinful
and then created a god to absolve us.

So it is with men who are god,
who have wandered a million light years away
from their divinity.

Am I permitted to construct a mystery?
We blew our breath across the land
and it became wind that warmed and
chilled to make life tenable.

We blew our breath into flesh
that was fashioned from our potter’s clay
and Man became Spirit.

We determined to stand upright
and with our own hands tilled the barren soil.
Our sweat ascended in costly mist
and descended to irrigate life.

Our tears filled the rivers with fatigue
which filled the oceans with frustration
as the fruits of our fields were dispersed.
All the while we continued to labor
for redemption.

Ahhhhhh. . . .the mystery?

Who first told us we were no good?

The Teachers Speak. . . many years were required of intense study to reach conclusions which only this year were verified for the poet and writer. She is now finding ancient scripts which are quoting what she is finding in her poetry of over a half century that she considers a Given. And finding physicists who are expounding a holographic universe. She feels affirmed in what has been a difficult time marching to a drummer whose beat was heard by her heart. And has surprised us all that she has lived with her knowledge for almost 85 years. Courage is dispensed to those who begin the inward journey. It was the purpose for your desire to be born to this world.

October 12, 2015

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.
Staff Of Life

Staff Of Life

Unsteady on his legs, I watched my then toddler grandson bend down and pick up his book. In one motion, he touched the book to his lips.

In another time, when I was young, I saw his great grandfather move with just such a motion to pick up a piece of bread from the floor and touch his lips.

“Papa,” I asked, “why did you do that?”    “It is the staff of life,” he said. “All bread is holy. I am sorry I was not more careful.”

And the great grandson connected with his great grandfather and for me, a moment where the gesture knotted more securely the past with that present. I did not seek out the memory. I did not know it was stored anywhere. But in a moment of recognition and more quickly than it takes to scribe the motion, it was there. In the act of one was the continuing presence of the other.

The source of reverence for both was what each considered holy. To my father it was what was taught to him by generations of tradition. To our grandson, still unsteady on his legs, one must wonder from where the reverence toward books was learned. Was this bred into the genes at some time but chooses when to show itself?

Or family habits observed carefully to shape attitudes? If the latter, then we teach even when we don’t know we teach, which should put us all on guard. We do not know who is watching or what is taken to be followed to the letter.

If attitudes also are bred into us, how much of what we are will be passed on to the next generation?   There are those who now say that while carrying the child, the mother should follow her inclinations and expose herself to good music, quiet thoughts and a welcoming attitude for the child yet to be born. Fathers are encouraged to be present in the birthing rooms. The welcoming committee should be on hand for mental and moral support of not only the new parents, but for the child to come. Is it a bit far fetched or is there some truth in what was once considered old wives’ tales?

A cursory glance into the nursery will convince one that there is communication even in the newborn. The infant demanding food disrupts the composure of the entire group. A colicky baby oftentimes is discharged to the loving attention of the family rather than allowed to upset the “good” babies. The response to a cry from one is a commiserating reply from all the others. And the offender is soon labeled as such.

How far back do we dare go to understand the behavior patterns of each of us? The parents who throw up their hands and announce in unison “he didn’t learn that from me!” are the same ones who say, “that is my father all over again”, but this time with pride. How much of anything are we responsible for?

When we are aware that what we contribute is non constructive to a situation, the responsibility to change is ours.   Awareness demands responsibility. We cannot fault another for not seeing what is evident to us. But we can change ourselves and with compassion help to rewrite what we consider to be an unchanging destiny.

The loving gesture is noted. By a someone. The homely task must be completed. By a someone. The brow must be sponged. By a someone. The book unread remains unread. By a someone. The song unsung, remains unsung. By a someone.

The needs of the elderly are close at hand. And the needs of the very young are close at heart. But each generation is privileged. At no other time has the view been so clear. And at no other time have the responsibilities been so sharply defined in so many areas. I did not beckon the memory out of its hiding place to whip across my visual screen. It was a simultaneous response, the one invoking the other. And into the present a depth was reached that connected the great grandson to his great grandfather.

How much are we responsible for? We teach even when we don’t know we teach. A loving gesture with bread. A loving gesture with a book. Both with reverence, a source of food. One for the body and one for the mind, yet both soul food. These were good lessons, but what of the others that do not make us proud?   I pray, let me begin now.

October 9, 2015

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.
Intensity Of Purpose

Intensity of Purpose

One of the first unhappy side effects of the medications taken for my cardiac problem was that it took away my morning exuberance that had me thrusting my feet to the floor all the days of my life till then. (yes, I am grateful they have kept me breathing!) But without my inner motivation it was difficult to find the world I was in love with.

It is the intensity of purpose within, which gave me the desire to manifest, to make real the ideas I gave birth to. This is the way of all of us; the inner motivation that demands expression. It is by far the most desirable of gifts, inspiration. It allows us to delve into the many mysteries of life and bring light to them. When quantum theories talk of time being simultaneous, all of a piece, it is telling us that nothing is lost in this world or any world, but is enfolded into the implicit core of experience, of values waiting for the ones with desire, inner motivation, to create.

Many time we discover ways to explain experience or explain past events only to realize we are creating new ways to explain with accumulated knowledge, these events. Inspiration comes from within. . . in-spirit, ours. It is time for all of us to follow our wonder, to where we will enhance life. And to encourage our children to make space for this wonder to be joyfully used and guarded well.

It is the divine in us seeking a voice.

(Excerpt from A Pearl Of Great Price)

I gather my roses, split upon a fence rail,
blooming profusely. In bunches
I gather them, first one, then another,
an armful and they are mine.
Thorns do not a rose make,
but intensity of purpose yields the bud.

Many roads lead to the place of many rooms.
The roads are diverse and
great the number of rooms.
But so you were told.
The rooms reflect the sun of many days,
and the nights of many moons,
the heart’s intent and the mind’s purpose.
You live in them now.

Do not try to delineate the rooms
with structural perimeters.
They move and breathe and are created
and recreated moment by moment.
Their reality is your creation.
Their occupancy will be determined
by your intent.

October 6, 2015

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.
Times Such As These

We are told that hearing you will hear and not understand and seeing you will see and not perceive. Simple words meaning simple things? But of course you see and of course you hear unless physical impairments prevent us. But it is even more than that. In the process there are the cries in crisis and there are the tears that are not seen.

The father asked his son at breakfast, ‘are you not speaking?’ And the son answered ‘I spoke yesterday.’ They were across the table from each other but worlds apart. The father was asking why are you silent. And the son was already mentally in school and gave his oral report yesterday.

The daughter was hurting and gathered courage to tell her emotionally distant mother why she ached inside only to find later her brother coming into the house mimicking her talk with her mother, laughing. The daughter shared her heart and her mother not knowing the place her daughter was speaking from, dismissed it as a nothing.

Neither parent heard nor saw what the child’s body language, words or eyes were conveying. The Master said, ‘hearing you shall hear and not understand and seeing you shall see and not perceive.’ How much are we missing? We should at least be wondering. What is more to hear than what we hear or see what we see? When the process begins, the pain will be poignant but welcome it. It will mean that you and your god are in conference.

Times Such As These

I lock up the room
and pocket the last remnants
of words laying about
unattended.

Fearful that pieces
of my heart may be found
scattered among them.
And why not?

Times such as these
leave us with little salve
to heal the open wounds
which once were hearts.

For whom do we weep?
The children whose siblings
will no longer come to the table
to covey with no doubt
the events which took their innocence?

Or the parents
whose hearts were transplanted
when word came
that these unspent stars
were already breathing the rarified air
as heaven’s most blessed?

Look at us here.
Pleading that our children
will be safe as they try to understand
what we in our dotage have not learned.

To resort to arms means death in any country.

Photo by
John Hallissey

October 2, 2015

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 Regain Our Knowledge (that we are safe)

One of my reader’s comment on a poem of mine was that it gave her a safe feeling. And after much thought, I came to some conclusions. The first being to educate ourselves to broaden our premises so that the unknown will become a known. The narrower our premises the more outside our frame of reference will raise concerns. The more we learn, the more at home we become with things outside our focus.

Not all babies of course, fall into arms ready for them. We are born with a cry and clenched fists and need those arms to quiet a fierce pain of separation. Life presents many obstacles not to mention a peer group only too happy to help the child lose the feeling that the world is a safe place. Parents need to nurture the feeling of safety. It is only then we begin to lose our fear.

It seems a lifetime is spent talking to ourselves about fear. If we reacquaint ourselves with the knowledge that we are always safe, the who that we are, no matter the condition of our environment, we lose our fear of the world and can begin to work good for ourselves and our Earth. Too much time is spent trying to lose our fears from the first step outside the playpen to our final fear of death. From beginning to the end, we are one mass of fears. The media and architectures of business, the things that run our lives designed to sell us what we don’t need are all designed to feed our fears. Fear is between the ears for this is where it originates.

Regaining the knowledge that we are always safe, will help us lose our fears. We then will know that life is everlasting, through this world and those still to come.

We Break Bread

I have broken bread
with old friends for what seems
to be many centuries.

We continue
our conversations begun
when yet we were in
other times and were other people.

But it has been, you see,
only a minute.
We bring to mind all things old
and some things new.

‘Twas but a quirk of Nature,
so that our hearts would grow
and become one heart.
It all has a familiar fit.
Don’t you think?

All things will be new again
when we break bread
in the next of times.
But you knew that, didn’t you?

All things new are really all things old.
Even some of us.

photo by
John Holmes

September 28, 2015

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 Cosmic Prayer For Mankind

You and Your God Within

Whether the still small voice you hear is called Comforter or God or Teacher or by any other name you consider holy, the promise is good. What will be brought to mind is what you once knew and now remember or what you need to learn. And one day, some time, you will open your hand and you will find a key. And that key will open worlds for you and bring to you the peace that is beyond understanding. You will find the dichotomy, the hurting split that had you in pieces will be healed. You and your god within will be in dialogue when you are in doubt and of one mind in peace. And when you speak, you will be speaking for the god within. You will say in truth, my god and I, we are one. It is not a walk in the park, but a journey to the heart of you.

A Cosmic Prayer For Mankind

We would wish for much.
We would wish for the sublime love
that was preached
from every mountaintop.

We would wish
for a mother’s love to be there
for the infant and the father’s hand
to caress the brow of every child.

We would wish for peace
within the human psyche
and learning to be brought
to the dinner table and
the breakfast table every time.
And love to be served
as the main course.

It is much that we wish for;
much that we yearn for.
But peace is designed
for the human in mind
from birth to the grave.

Bring peace.

Photo by
John Holmes

September 26, 2015

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.