From an Upper Floor

Book Drawing

Book Drawing

I have had more than a usual number who have been viewing my books for a drawing. The month has come and gone when I usually do and I missed my cue. Now I offer either a copy of Kiss The Moon, a book of poetry or The Last Bird Sings, a story within a story. The blind drawing will be on Wednesday night and the winner will be announced on Thursday, the 21st of April. All that is needed is for you to comment on a post or why you would wish a copy of either book. It is a fun thing for me to do and I am always happy to see which posts are looked at the most. So if you are looking to own a copy of either book, take your chance along with your friends. It delights me to draw the name of someone who says I never win anything! Because I am one of those. Twice I won dinners at 2 restaurants that went out of business before I could use my freebies. I know the feeling well. Take your chance at this and you may be able to say finally, I won! Good Luck!

April 18, 2016

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

The question is asked: What do I confront when I turn to my concept of education? That education is a thing of the heart and Spirit and no learned institution can impart what is necessary to complete this life. That all bards and philosophers knew that Cosmic Consciousness of the individual was what they talked about and indeed said it to be the great love of their life. That I know of what I speak because it has been a lifetime of education and confrontation and within is the only institution of learning of any note. And that Spirit does teach.

Jesus called the new consciousness Kingdom of God, and Kingdom of Heaven and Comforter. St Paul called it ‘Christ’ and Spirit of God. Mohammed called the cosmic sense ‘Gabriel’. Dante called it ‘Beatrice.’ Walt Whitman called this consciousness, ‘my Soul.’ It was and is the greatest love affair between the individual and the God Within. It is the ‘Sacred and holy I and Me.’ I call it ‘The Teacher.’ The Cosmic Sense changes one forever. There are no words to convince.

The mundane will overwhelm one day until we learn to insert the cosmic into the mundane, into the dailyness, is what we must do or the bridge may be closer than we like to think.

Revelation

I ask. . .

Would it ever be
the same, could it?

You say. . .

Once in a lifetime
has to last. . . .
it seems forever.

I say. . .

I cannot forget
the love that lifted me
so high I touched
the sky of heaven yet. . .

You say. . .

Were it so. . .
then be grateful
you know of love
that could do that.

I say. . .

it makes everything pale
in its light. . .
How to put meaning back
into the mundane tasks?

You say. . .

the labor itself is virtuous.
Let it be enough.

I say. . .

easy enough for you to say.
You don’t know. . .

You say. . .

but I do.
I was your teacher. . . .

April 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.
Barroom Floors. . . the divine implications. . . .

Barroom floors and spittoons. . . .

Oftentimes we are thrown onto ourselves to sink or swim. It may be a crisis at work, of illness, family or an unexplained malaise within us. We then must use inner resources simply to keep on keeping on. When conditions change, we look back and much to our surprise find we have done under uncompromising conditions, a commendable work. Not perfect, but when viewed from a different perspective, a cosmic perspective, our work has somehow gained a ‘wow’ factor.

This small quilt of scraps that was put together as a form of therapy to clean the worktable, surprised us. I forced myself to do what had once come easily and happily. I had not been up to par, but certain things needed doing. And recycling the fabric scraps was the priority. What resulted with no enthusiasm but a lifetime of ‘get busy’ is a bright and cheerful piece of artwork. (not yet completed of course)

It did not require an engineering degree or expensive tools, just bits of fabric scraps and a piece of flannel to attach them to. In simpler times it was done with scissors and needle and thread. What was the vital factor were the habits of a lifetime taught by someone who had a value system who cared about me, about life and about herself. Being a foster child, my mother was told every day that life was not free and ‘no one feeds you for nothing. So work.’ A hard premise and one difficult to live by.

But it gets one through hard times but not as hard as it was for the eight year old that she was who scrubbed the barroom floor and cleaned the spittoons of the saloon keeper who took her in. And these chores were done in the morning before she ran to her parochial school so as not to anger the nuns.

The patterns of our days make a certain shaped something of us. Our patterns contain crooked pieces and many times we would like to press the reject button. But life has a way of paying it forward that has a beautiful ‘wow’ factor as a result. Not perfect to be sure, but often better than we envisioned. The scrap quilt 100 years later shows a finely ground result of what we think are our insignificant lives. A small thing from earthly perspective but immense in its divine implication.

April 13, 2016

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

Before us we have children who wish to be taught and loved and nurtured and given what children deserve. A sacred passage into the world of delights and treasures and it all begins with the desire to learn. It is within the heart of each to begin this process that sends us on a road toward our basic need to learn the why of who we are. And yet for the greater number the first why is stepped on with boots heavy with mud. It is to the parents that the honor of injecting the virus of learning into the child falls. And with exuberance the process of learning begins. To each child, each person the process is inviolate. It is ours and should be guarded as a sacred trust.

Guard The Children Well. . .

being the harbingers of faith,
though less than the scope of thought
but dealing at most
with a yearning heart. . .

Sweet trust
was given first and told
to list always
toward its strength. . .

The heart was given thrust
with the thought
that expanded learning
brought new life.. .

Not to give away freely
but guarded with life so placed
that questions raised would always rise
as to the reason
such peace was present. . .

Guard the children well.
They work closely
with those of heightened courage
giving wisely to those intent always

on making a difference.

painting by Claudia Hallissey

April 10, 2016

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

It is not always necessary or wise to hang onto rituals or traditions. Sometimes they are no longer appropriate to a new situation. But the loss of one of the finest customs of the past is a dinner invitation to someone’s home. In today’s world where time is at a premium, often dinner invitations take place in a nearby restaurant. Gone is the intimacy of someone’s home, their living space. And the time to form deep attachments. It was always a something special in my life and deeply cherished. It was a time to show my guests how much I loved them. And worth the time to bring out the linen tablecloth and to clean the silver. My regret is that we did not do it often enough.

After The Gathering. . .

I take the lemon wax and spray
and wipe to a fine polish the table
where food and love have been served.
I take the memories
from the last gathering and
camp them in a new place,
to be taken out in another time
by those whose work it is
to be the keeper of memories.

The table has changed places
as have the memories.
It is in place now and already
others have seated and supped.
New memories are being shaped
by those whose need within
is a hunger to touch places
too long isolated.

It is for each other we do this.
We bring together our selves
for the fine art of fleshing out
the canvas where we have painted
our lives to create a memory
for a world where none was before.

The memory will be our proof that we came and we were.

April 7, 2016

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

Taking Flight

There was a year I learned that creatures, no matter the species, have memory.   Birds I found are not forgetful. I had 2 mourning doves in my hanging planter outside the back door.   They started to nest that past week.   The planter was hanging just on the rim of the patio cover and when it started to sleet, I went out and told Maudie, (I had named them Maudie and Jack) that I was going to hang the basket closer to the house, just outside the kitchen window for protection. So I moved her in the hanging planter.   She did not fly away nor did she get excited.

I did what I told her I was going to do and she trusted that I would.   Maudie and Jack were seemingly a devoted couple.   They took turns sitting on the two eggs.   They had nested many years in the evergreen outside the back door.   And when it died I removed it and the doves went to the tallest evergreen in the backyard. They stayed around and no doubt their progeny also.

I was privileged to observe a behavior repeated in the best of families.   Maudie sat patiently on her eggs. I saw Jack flying in and out, handily at times, but often without a look back. He was ever nearby. And when the eggs hatched, Maudie and Jack spelled each other and flew back and forth with food.   I was privy to    lessons in love, in diplomacy, in mothering and a lesson in trust. The trust was a gift for me.

Maudie did this for me.   I then found myself saying to her over and over as she tried to edge them out of the nest, ‘don’t let them get too comfortable, Maudie , or they will never know they can fly.’ Jack was patient but only for awhile.   When the procedure was prolonged,   Jack flew the coop.   I never saw him again.

Maudie finally, gently pushed the fledges out of the nest.   The first one flew down to the steps and courageously flew into the maples.   The other, a timid spirit, was pushed out and landed on his feet on the bottom step.   Maudie stayed and watched from the iron clothes pole.   The little one did not budge.   I opened the door and told Maudie that I would pick him up and get him going. I picked up this trembling heart and whispered my goodbye and god’s speed and shot him forward and his wings opened to prove to himself that he could fly.   And he did and Maudie followed into the maples.   It was an enormous gift and I offered my gratitude to those invisible who made it all possible.

A grandson could not believe that the dove actually allowed me to move her. I told her I said, what I was going to do and she trusted me. And I knew she trusted me, knew it. I had been steadfast with her in the yard for a long time. However long is in a bird’s life. And she saw me every day through the kitchen window and knew I was there. The photo of the pheasant taking flight was taken by my beloved in law sister Diane when my brother gave flight to a bird that had been wounded and they nursed back to health. Here again, it was a matter of trust. It is an emotion and trait that we share with other beings in our world.   It is not to be taken lightly. It often is a matter of Life.

photo by Diane Rybacki

April 4, 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.
It Makes Little Difference. . . .

Excerpt from a journal entry of July 20, 1981. . . .

I am responsible for who I am. The responsibility cannot be assumed by an other. I may be an alien in this world, but this world, this beautiful world is not an alien place. It is here to sustain and nourish and be here for me. I created my reality. How can I say without appearing to be out of my mind that Jesus knew of what he spoke and that the veil can and will be lifted or torn away and you too will see and hear? That revelation was not concluded with the bible and is an ongoing thing with the individual. . . .

(The following poem was written in February of this year, 35 years after the entry. It was an awesome, heart rending experience for me in the midst of a wood of Spanish Oaks with their windswept moss. I could not be prepared for what was outside my frame of thought at the time. The surprise of it all? That I stood and did not go into cardiac arrest. And did not babble incoherently. This poem was a Given. Taken down as I heard it with my inner hearing. The result? The serenity. Just the serenity. With my heartfelt Thank You.)

It Makes Little Difference

It makes little difference
the road one takes 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 pain.

We cherish the journeyer, the traveler,
the one who found no words to match
the awestruck heart.
It makes little matter for what touched home
in the trunks of the trees, in the music of the wind
rising to the acappella; 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.

Painting by Claudia Hallissey

March 31, 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.
Think It Through. . . .

Men may live lives of quiet desperation but is it not better to punch out the heavens and settle the fight?

                                  *****

Some people prefer to sit on hot rocks.

                                                                               *****

The path for the journey home is such a steep and narrow one that the intensity of the heart is calibrated.

                                                                             *****

There is Grace in the wait. But only after the knock out.

   *****

One can circle the world many times but be no nearer to one’s final destination that what is taken by the first step inward.

   *****

The rock of Gibraltar does withstand the chipping away at it but only to a point.

                                                                            *****

There is an art to waiting. It is an art form and once learned, a great privacy maker and comfort.

                                                                            *****

Moments of waiting allow one to disconnect from a cacophonous world and center in on the inner voice intent on self preservation. Guilt arises when something as prosaic as waiting in line can be so delicious as to be judged sinful.

                                                                            *****

To have a sense of the past, a hold on the future and an immersion in the present should be a prerequisite for life.

                                                                            *****

As we stretch to pour the milk out of the pitcher we are blind to the fact that it is only out of abundance that we continue to pour.

                                                                             *****

We are laughed out of the curriculum when our search involves basic origins and we find some answers.

photo by
Stanley Rybacki

March 29, 2016

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

Back in the ‘70s when I awakened with notes written during the night with the words, ‘the past is still happening, the future has already happened and here in the Now we race to catch up with it’ I barely understood what the words meant. It was only in the past year I learned of the quantum theory that all time is simultaneous and as I approach 85 years, it is only now that I know this is how I have lived my life. It would have been a support of a huge kind to have had Religion or Medicine or Science as a help. Not an easy way to make the journey, but at birth there was already a blueprint drawn that determined my direction. I stayed the route with its heartbreak and joys and have found a serenity that answers my deepest questions. In the poem Rolling Thunder I flex past and present and future tenses to show an unrolling of lifetimes that merge one with the Other. To me it most clearly states how it is all the eternal now. Life is everlasting and the sunrise is the suggestion of my youngest and sunrise indeed, sparks our lives in all ways.

Rolling Thunder. . .

from what was a formless start,
were pieces sent scattering
into a nothingness. . .

Our consciousness spoke
one to the other and the thoughts
formed a place ready to hold our dreams.
We then broke off pieces of who we are and
went in search of meaning. . .

For sport, for something to do to fill ourselves,
for then we came to that place where thought
demanded a something to hold.
It was called Manifest.

This thought was like rolling thunder
with the threat of storm. It was filled with power.
That power engulfed the whole of us
and we emerged.

We grew and contributed to this great turbulence
and life took on a beauty which ennobled us
as creatures of this space now forming worlds at once.

In the center we knew our sense of power,
like thunder rolling and even now continues
its unrolling of events from our lives and dreams
and as it all unfolds it becomes part
of an Other’s dream.

The dreams are dreamed and pieces spark Others’ dreams
into an unrolling of the Great God’s Becoming.

It is with this understanding that the why and how has
neither a beginning nor an ending but is everlasting.

We always were soul stuffs and
were known by one name.
And when our thoughts grew with power
we came into Being and are known by one name again.
It is Creation we are involved with.

And we light up with surprise every time.

artwork by
Claudia Hallissey

March 26, 2016

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

Nothing To See. . .

You dropped a kiss
on the top of my head
as you headed out the door.

I wanted to hold onto
what the night had brought
and the morning promised. . .

Too late, I think,
another chance missed,
to gather to ourselves

what time would bring
in another lifetime with
unwelcome surprises.

And with no knowledge ever
of how it all came to be. . .
How could you not see

what was written indelibly
on the wall of night?
I know, I know.

There was nothing to see. Nothing.

photo by John Holmes

March 24, 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.