From an Upper Floor

This Learning Place. . .

Frank Herbert’s Chapterhouse Dune has much that demands me revisiting. Reverend Mother Odrade as she visits Sheanna says that art comforts and reassures people. Please, she thinks, don’t upset me. Just reassure me, she says. And I know what pleases me looking at the primitive painting on my bedside wall of early Americana that I have loved since I first saw it in Sausalito, California 50 some odd years ago and on impulse bought it. I look also at the painting our Claudia did called Hope that I call the young Veronica and relate to it. I love her painting of the Monk because that also reassures me. Reassures.

The reassurance I feel is that physical life is stable. It is a time when living has a continuity, a constancy.   Things are in place, in time at a time when living to me are moments and events and a no nonsense daily-ness. There are things to do and people to love and somehow life was of a piece and of a peace. And yet coming to mind are the poems I wrote called Homecoming and Circa 1860 that were not a peace filled nor of a stable time. In Homecoming a part of it was laced with cherishing and later the same Veronica in the poem was saying here is the difference, now see it. And in Circa, there is the love that died. The anger that propelled the entire writing of the poem was vested in the time of it, the 1860’s. And I wrote it with that anger propelling. Was the anger placed in the 1860’s so as not to reveal the anger of the moment? Perhaps the anger from that time was happening still since all time is simultaneous and bleeds through to the moment. Yet the artwork I love is the art that reassures me of a time and place where life was cherished until it faded. That is memory. Life is a tapestry that we create and in the process there will be times when we begin to look back to see the pattern our choices have woven into it.

The history in Chapterhouse awakens many memories. Wood that is crafted and caressed brought to mind days when I would kiss the smoothness of what I polished and waxed and tendered. And the love that my hands transferred from my heart into what I was creating. I sanded what I crafted until it shone and glistened with the smoothness of the grain. I loved creating the wood toys for the grandchildren. What world taught me the art of carpentry? What if wood as we know it now in a future is only a memory? When I picked up the tools I immediately knew what to do. Will I always remember? I blossomed on this earth where the ideas could be manifested as quickly as I thought them.   I found myself grounded.

That is what matters with me today . And every day.   Ideas I executed grounded me. Chaos erupted with others with their trendy value systems and irrational behavior tried to be exquisitely proper. The undercurrents immobilized me. In their early years when the house in the country was our world, the children and I were in our element. Life was filled with hope and learning and the days were enchanted. We prepared for the holy ways of the holidays and embarked on adventures. Life was pieced and peace-d. We had no cognizance of worlds folding or enfolding. No implicate or explicate universe. We each walked in our world, with a secure cosmic foot in another and were at ease. We lived it; this quantum theory dignifying the growing knowledge. We had our grounding and the world was home to us until we were asked why we were different. We were at home with our books, our visions and ourselves.

In a few weeks I will be 85. My thoughts connect events that appear scattered, but the underlying threads are secure. I wonder if others give thought to these events to see how we contribute to the ongoing process. Do my peers give thought to differences and their addition to growth?   Does their reassurance signify an element of connection to symbolize our origins? I am where I need to be and am fortunate. Doing some good whenever and wherever I can. It is only when pointed out that others do not think as I do that I am glad I live with those who love me. As a reader pointed out, there are places where my kind of thinking would not be allowed. This is the only place I can function that is not in a geriatric dying place. It is the best place to finish up my life. I learn new things every day and these are what moth and rust do not destroy. It is an inner world I inhabit. I share it with you. And uneventful is a merciful word.

May 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.
What We Do For One. . . no lost causes. .

Sometimes there is need to repeat a post. When this was first written it was because I felt that my efforts were strictly one sided. And then I realized that many worked under this yoke and it was time to see the greater picture. And this is a must. Our boundaries or focus are limited and until we become conscious of our greater nature and purpose, we will continue to feel resentful and the results of our labors will be nullified. Until we see our contribution to the greater life and what we do enhances all life, we will not be aware of the importance of what we do. We were taught that what we do for one we do for all. And the all includes life in other worlds also. The picture becomes greater by the microsecond.

A one sided effort does bring results.   Even when it appears to be a lost cause, it is not. That someone cares enough to do what needs to be done is never a lost cause. There cannot ever be a lost effort to do good in the universe.   That would be an oxymoron, a contradiction.   The ability to see this is paramount.   Even when no words are spoken there needs to be someone who cares enough to help expedite matters. If there is not, it is a fruitless life. But should there be caring, there is hope and a chance for life again.

Even those of lesser stuffs, those stuffs are only lesser because of the parameters set by others.   Take the parameters away and there are no limits for good. And that is what good is all about, what gods are all about.   Within the person there are no limits for good. What is life sustaining and life giving wherever the need is, is good.

When we wander through the mental houses of those we care about or are responsible for and find much that we would like to help with and then decide not to, the ‘then not’ means we wash our hands of the matter. To wash one’s hands of the matter is to relegate all to the dung heap. If the one who can do something about anything finds the matter too sticky, the flies will be attracted and the matter will deteriorate and rot. The purpose of keeping on, keeping on means that the people are still worth the effort. As long as a some one cares, there is hope.   Just one to care is needed.    Just one.

And often we are that just one someone.

May 9, 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.
Requiring A New World. . . .

Requiring A New World. . .

Toys and distraction
impinge on the infant mind
and the way becomes muddied.

My thoughts
have traveled the distance
and as all thoughts do,
seeded the worlds
with my infant meanderings.

I see the chisels working
within the worlds sculpting,
the breaking of rock,
the scraping of stone.
It is hard to move
encrusted thinking.

It requires a new world
to ingratiate new thinking.
It is not for here where
the soon to be rusted out
toys will be discarded.

A fresh world of ideas
will find rooting, a basis
where the heart will find itself

at last at home again.

May 5, 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.
AT The Precipice. . . .

At The Precipice. . .

I stand
at the precipice
of the world, wobbly
but still standing,
with ancient years yielding
to an Essence I refer to
as the Great God.

Who is it, I wonder
with arms ready to receive me?
Small and insignificant
in this Earth place
dressed in my humanity?

How is it to be
I wonder, when I take
that step putting me in a world
I claimed into being?

Carved out of the Earth’s heart
and mine, through a lifetime
counting still. . . .

Better to be unaware, I think,
than to know how else
to manage a life
and leaving with few regrets.
Splitting infinity at this late date
means I never left

the old country.

(click on photo to zoom in)

May 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.
Take a Few Moments. . . .

**We are the cabbage and the rose at once. Earthy and ethereal, at once.

**Memories are the bridge to the future.

**It takes time to pick up the threads of life upon return from being away, to make room for yourself again in lives that have already taken your absence into consideration.

**Old friends like old books demand that we return to them.

**To go over the same road again and again until the pain as well as joy no longer overwhelms
requires tough love.

**Life was not meant to be a vehicle of convenience. Breathing itself is an imposition of sorts at
times.

**Education is a thing of the heart and spirit and no learned institution can impart what is
necessary to complete a life.

**Inflated ego: over estimation for public consumption

**To be human is an art to be learned and perfected; part of the soil, organic in compound and
with divine nature imbued. It appears we do not think highly of the earth and its components.
Our behavior implies we must think being human is a debasement of sorts.

Photo by John Holmes

April 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.
The Counselor. . . .

Oftentimes what I plan on doing does not happen. And in its place comes a something long incubating but not surfacing. In reading recently I came across the topic of emotions which brought Doris Lessing’s Shikasta series to mind. The series brought up many topics for consideration. And the subject of emotions are a topic to consume worlds. (And they do.) I never thought differences in minute matters could cause great disturbances, but even in how we see things and render our explanations puts us ill at ease. That there is as much agreement among us is the marvel. We all know people incapable of feeling. We know of those who cannot say the word ‘love.’ When I related to my mother as a teenager reading a movie magazine that a movie star only kissed his children when they slept, she agreed. It explained why she never hugged us. So this was not an isolated case but more of a cultural or generational custom. Everything teaches, even movie magazines. I introduce the thought to some, while others may already entertain it, that we come to this world from places different than our Earth. Emotions are not commonly understood by all. Some dip deeply into the well of who they are while others surf who they are. It is all they can do. To Ms. Lessing who wrote with such conviction, I am indebted.

The Counselor

She sat across the desk,
crisp and sharp and
in charge of who she was.
Emotion is not fact, she said,
so separate what you feel
from what is happening.

Then why I ask is my heart breaking?
And with composure she assures me
my heart is whole. She does not see
that my world is built
on feelings that shape my days.

I was born to paint my life
with the wide brush of emotion,
to teach me to love,
to see, to care and learn To Be.

When love withdrew from me
and left me barren, I knew
I would not forget its power to lift
me high enough to touch the heavens
and to care enough
for this Earth I walked to sweep
the debris where others might walk.

To see the opening of the crocus
in the covering of snow to tell
of Spring arriving and of days
becoming longer with light and
caressing me with breezes
as soft as baby kisses.

She did not know of worlds
where these emotions were not born yet,
where facts dealt the cards to be played,
where feelings did not lay color
on days and nights and
where learning to live with feelings

were reasons why we asked to be born of Earth.

April 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.
Approaching Earth Day. . . .as a lover. . . .

Love Letter To My Planet Earth

My love affair started when I was about eight and laid upon the green grass and willed the clouds into playmates for my thoughts. I wished, I told my sky, I wished to be wise. I am not sure I knew what wise meant other than just plain smart.

But then I grew and being part of a large family, I learned to work. But I think I knew how when I was born. I loved my brothers and said when I was just five that I would marry them and take care of them and even promised to polish their saddle shoes for a dime. I weeded around the roses my mother rooted in the ground and covered with tipped mason jars for little greenhouses and tried to keep the chickens in the back yard. I kept the junks separated from the garbage and loved the climbing roses papa planted in the alley behind the garage so that the garbage men had a bright spot as they picked up garbage.

And when we left the city to breathe clean air I marveled as a young girl going to the outdoor privy and stopped at the back door before going up to bed and dipped my heart to blend the night sky to drink of a million stars and wondered how rich could a 12 year old be with the night so private housing so many brothers? And the air circled my pajama legs and I gave thanks to the clean air and promised to be a caretaker of a place I loved. I would dip into my bucket of stars and reach for a nugget and it would translate my efforts and keep me fed.

I would teach everyone to take care of our land because it is our home and we live here. It gives us what we need to live and heals us when we ail and loves us as its children. It is our mother and we must help her. And now after a lifetime, I am hampered by bones forgetting to bend, muscles forgetting to stretch and a heart that cannot forget how I have loved this parcel of a universe so generous with this gift.

How Much Better Would It Be?

How much better it would be
for this noble planet
if we cherished her like a lover?
Or loved her as a mother
who adored her child
and wiped the tears away
with a soft linen?
Or as a father whose arms
surrounding the child
are as steel beams supporting
the frame of the tallest building?
Who would not want these
for himself if he could articulate
what would heal
the dichotomy within?
Too few of us around
who love our home so fiercely
we would protect her vital organs.
The sun sometimes is hidden from man
and the moon embarrassed
to see its light dimmed with shame.
When patches of Earth split
from the shock of no rain and dust rises
and rolls across open land,
we wish then not to shake dust
from our boots but to greet
a sunrise in splendor.
Offer me this, the Earth Mother says,
that you will raise your arms
only to surround an Other in love.
Promise me this, again she says,
that the swords will be laid
at the foot of the evergreens now
and a boot will never crush
an Other’s right to live.

And I will forever cherish your children.

photo by John Hallissey

April 21, 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.
Light Touches. . . . .

Light Touches

Your light touch
on the small of my back,
gains for me a courage
lacking sometimes
to even climb the curb.

I appreciate that.
Somehow beneath the layers
of what I hold to be
the who of what I am,
is a someone still of note.

Comforting to lay my hand
on the side of your face
to note the structure
of the child no longer a child.

As the mother of you sons,
born of the best of who we as parents were,
Nature shares her secrets yet,
letting me know that the goodbye kiss
on your foreheads still tells me
you are not feverish.

You know my secrets also
as you hug your adult children
and show them that
no matter how old you grow,
your light touches reveal the depth
and speak volumes

of their place in your hearts.

art by Claudia Hallissey

April 19, 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.
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.