From an Upper Floor

I Am The Tree. . . .

I Am The Tree. . .

In man’s history, there was a time when his consciousness with Nature melded. Man did not look upon Nature as object to be observed, outside of himself, but was at one with it. It would be saying ‘I am the breath that blows through the trees and wind we am’ and ‘man is sitting in the shade of the tree that he is.’ Man’s consciousness blended easily with Nature’s because of mutual perspective and love. It was only when man pursued different paths that his perspective changed and he began to objectify things outside of himself and objectified himself. It was a long process but he burglarized his own house. By taking or shaking himself loose from his grounding, he lost much and man then had to learn to communicate what before was emotional and tactile and needed no spoken language.

Over the years, in my independent study program, I wrote much from a depth I barely understood. As I read over my work of early years and see where the road has taken me, there is a knowledge inborn that has directed me. I read now with understanding and have explanations that I did not have the courage nor the vocabulary to explain. In revisiting a book by Jane Roberts, like visiting an old friend, I was prompted to search out the following poem, written too many years ago to count. Only to find that its explanation would now be found in a quantum physics book in libraries. The poem explains my connection with our beautiful planet and the history from which we come. Pause a moment to pursue it.

I Am The Tree

I am the tree. My arms are haven for life
nestling in the curvature of my spine.
My leaves filter the sun and allow
cool breath to creatures needing relief
from sun too long hot.

I nourish the ground with leaves falling
and fermenting and present the world
to my constituents with my needles
during the hard cold. I grace the landscape
and ease tired eyes too long squinting.

I am the stones of the Earth.
Beneath me I protect life finding a home
in the dampness for which they were made.
I carry vestiges of all life in my veins
to be read by eyes destined to see them.

I am the Earth, the planet, housing dreams
designed by man, elusive and real,
fragile yet strong. I bring forth life
hidden in the conforms of my arms,
spaced in the reality of mind
and spilling from my heart.

I am the all that is.

March 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.
There Are No Words. . . .

There Are No Words

There are no words
in this limiting lexicon
to tell of the place
where heart proceeds
to the precipice to touch
the face of eternity.

To tell of the unsteady stance
ready to drop the knees
at the altar of worlds
begging for recognition.

This they say, these giant oaks
in their flowing manes of moss,
straight out in glory
to the Great God.

This, they say, is the veil
that I tore away
to glimpse, simply glimpse
the other side
from where I stand.

No need ever to remember
how I arrived,
through bulrushes and
septic pools of detritus
to find this oasis
in a dry desert of mind.

Simply to arrive,
unbalanced on quivering legs,
at this great altar,
too late, but never too soon. . .

always on time.

photo by
John Hallissey

March 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.
The Night Before We Put Beau Down. . .

As family members separate to find their independence, or to find work in a mobile society, the premises from which these souls wander still requires a caretaker. We found in our domesticated animals an adaptability to our need for companionship when these members left. These sweet creatures become part of the family. For those who knew us when Beau and his buddy walked about town, it is with a grateful heart I say thank you to him who was part of our family for over a dozen years. This is for you, Beau, salut!

The Night Before We Put Beau Down. . .

He never betrayed
a belief system,
nor a confidence,
nor a value held tightly.

Yet today I see his legs
outstretched, uncomplaining
but with a distant look
not focused on me.

He has been leaning
a lot on me.
He speaks a language
signaling a departure
to which I have agreed.

It is time.
Body functions once dependable
now are a puzzlement
and my inabilities
loom as large as his.

We have been saying our goodbyes.
Like his predecessor,
he chose me by sitting
wet and sloppy on my foot.

Now I hold his years
of memories tenderly and
am grateful our lives were made
more compassionate and loving
by his obvious joy in our presence.

By loving us he made us all better people.

photo by
Joseph Hallissey Sr.

March 11, 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.
Sweet Morpheus. . .

In reading today’s post of Maria Wulf’s fullmoonfiberart.com she talked of dreams and how one does not question the dream nor truly its significance. Or one’s presence in it. It brought to mind my own questions during my life’s journey at about the same age as Maria and a poem I have not thought of in years. Only one of the many questions but it brought up a smile thinking that we all are much more similar, one to the other, than we are different. I wish we as a world would learn this important maxim. We could prove to be helpful to one another. Imagine that!

Sweet Morpheus

Ah, sweet Morpheus,
I succumb to you as a babe
to its mother’s breast
and find in you a reality
that does not dispossess.

I walk through castles,
intermittently lost and found.
I am absorbed into a role
playing the part to perfection.
Words are given and mouthed
with a depth that defies understanding.

I move in sequence,
first here, then there,
placed by unseen forces.
Now walking, now running,
intent only on the play’s performance.
Direction matters not
nor the dream’s significance.
Reality only intensifies
the immediate action
in its precision.

Now fluid in movement, I race,
grateful as a young gazelle,
intent on bounding miles.
Always closer, never quite grasping,
the mind’s chameleon concepts.

Now congealing lethargy
finds me in the dream’s spent passion.
Evicted once again
and pushed back to the realities,
nay illusion,
from which I had escaped.
Hungering, I prod
the mind unsuccessfully,
willing myself into the somnolence
from which the dream took form.

Sufficient in its designated duration,
the dream eludes my persistent pursuit.
Elusive, challenging, tempting,
always wondering why in sleep
I question not the dream’s reality

nor mine.

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

March 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.
Mother God, Father God. . . .

Mother God, Father God. . .

We sit side by side,
shoulders hunched
toward each other,

stealing glances
like children do
looking for approval.

Mother God, Father God,
love me they say.
I am good. I try.

And they grow up
and away
looking at reflections

of their faces, so much like us.
I steal a glance like them
and touch your shoulder to say,

I did good? I tried.

March 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.
I Break Bread. . .

I Break Bread

I break bread
with these my brothers
deep into who we are
and what we have been. . . .

Not much, I hear,
but the faith is dear,
held tight to the heart.
For free it never was.

But come. It is time now,
again to break bread.
It will be for another time
in a place of our choosing.

The lives we lived
were hard won and
our work became our play.
Knowledge brought us close

to who we are and
never the choice so easy.
It came with good grace
simply because of

the gods who chose to come with us.

March 6, 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 Gates. . .

At The Gates

They stood as Amazons,
great and glorious
in their largess,
in their girth. . .

With moss flowing
horizontally from their branches,
thick as trees themselves.
These Spanish Oaks
stood their stance,
worshiping at the shores
of the waters
whipped to a froth. . .

Their centuries told
of standing at the gates
waiting for me, they said.
They knew there would
be a one who recognized
who they were.

Apostles at the gate,
they waited for centuries
for me to come
and kneel at the altar
of what they guarded. . .

and the way to here
was as nothing, but
the here is what is gold.
Many paths, many ways,
times innumerable,
but the rainbows end
held the glory.

With nothing to pretend
the answer, the life lived
as if the hope is inevitable.
To find it was always so.

The unearthing is the joy.

Photo by John Hallissey

March 3, 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.
Let The Lessons Begin. . . .

It occurred to me that a new meaning for the maxim, ‘at the end of your life you become more of what you were in the beginning’ throws it into another light. I always thought in terms of this life, that should you have been a brat as a child, you will become even more bratty as an elder. Now with this new thought, I am thinking in terms of a broader existence. For instance, other lifetimes, depending on who you were.

If you were a person of great demeanor, this world would certainly test your mettle to become even more so. Meaning if you were good, you could become very, very good. Perhaps good parents or honest merchants. Perhaps a farmer feeding the populace both body and soul; perhaps one of our master’s angels unaware.

But what if you came in ready to beat the system, knowledgeable, greedy and sophisticated? And I understand there are lines forming ready for the chance of borning again by those addicted to the toys of this world and bent on having their share. How else to explain the street smart except to have done it before? We have these by large numbers, legal and illegal, in the world. One then becomes greedier and more sophisticated to be one of the richest who get richer. The hope is that all of us will work at being better than we were or at least an improvement.

I did not incorporate this in my earliest thinking. That we are the summation of many lifetimes and some of us voluntarily take this gig, as balance and also as example. What we have again is a responsibility to be the best of who we are and to not send crossed signals. Except for those of trauma where memory is not closed off, the rules of life are followed by the majority and do apply.

We are a homogeneous grouping of inhabitants needing to encourage one another. Those talents given that are well earned had teachers who cared at different levels. So another old maxim takes over. Each one, teach one. Let the lessons begin. Let our behavior be exemplary and no cause for questions. And we the teachers of lessons on how to be the best of humans, will be forgotten which will be the best evaluation. That gives rise to another maxim that says a lot of work can be done in this world if you do not mind who gets the credit. The lessons of importance forever remembered and across the board, another step in humanity’s progress.

It is a jump start evolution needs.

Photo by John Holmes

March 1, 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.
All Worlds Become An Altar For Kneeling. . . . . . .

Is It The Water?

Is it the water, he asked,
this youngest son of mine
as he watched me
mindlessly wording wow,
oh wow, oh wow. . . .

or is it the trees, he continued,
as I looked through the veil
that had separated me from
a lifetime of what I knew.

The oaks whose girth
surrounded vast space
could have stood centuries
of wind battering their bark.
Their streamers of moss flowed
from branches large enough
to be trees standing alone.

It was surreal.
I was standing at the brink
of a precipice walking
from eternity to eternity.

How did I part the veil
or was it pulled aside for me?
This altar of Nature whose sacraments
were a body of whipped waves
careening the shores
of this piece of land like
drunken sailors;

the wind pulling at the moss
of these Spanish Oaks
standing in prayer at the whim
of the Great God;
I was their altar boy
and I would have knelt forever
with the bells calling to worship
the recalcitrant intent on their toys.

This is where the journey takes you,
I say, to this place where the traveler
meets himself and finds his God
has come the way as his companion. . . . .
and the surprise is one of awe. . . .
oh wow, oh wow, oh wow. . . .

and it is for real. For real.

February 10, 2016

photo by John Hallissey

February 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.
Everything Teaches. . .

Teaching Respect

It was a muggy summer evening when a dear friend of many years and I went for a walk to catch up on our friendship. It looked like it might rain that evening if we were lucky. So far it had been a dry month. As we were passing her yard I said let us put the toys in the house in case it rains. And she said what for because the children will be playing with them in the morning. But I said, it will ruin them if it rains all night. So what she said, they’re only toys.   I said but they cost money and it was hard earned money. Don’t you respect the work you both did to be able to buy those toys? She looked quizzically at me and asked what was I saying. I said when you respect the work that goes into earning the money to buy the toys, you hope that the children or the grandchildren will take care of those toys because they appreciate the hard work you did that bought them. She said she never thought of it that way.

It is true that we teach respect for property when we teach respect for the person who worked to buy us material things. Or what they work for and buy for themselves. We do not vandalize nor cause damage of any kind. We respect the person and respect the work done to buy things. The items represent the individual and the work done and in caring for them perhaps we would become less of a throwaway society. In the same breath there was a big lesson for me to learn.   The lesson was in the letting go when giving a gift.

My work in making the sweater in one case and in another a sweater being lost in the coatroom of the school was a difficult lesson to learn. And no matter the hours going into the knitting of the garments, in this case, what I needed to learn was the letting go or my spirit would be wounded and nothing created ever again. I learned that the pleasure for me was in the doing, in the creating. And the final pleasure in the joy of the child in getting the gift from Grandma. And in both cases worn proudly. But the newness to the child wears off as the sun rises and becomes hotter in midday. So the sweater is pulled off and in a fret tossed into the back seat of the van and in the latter case, the loss was in the coatroom perhaps by another child who envied the garment or perhaps mistakenly thought it was his. The lesson for me was in the release of the gift. For once the gift is given, it no longer was a responsibility nor worry of mine. I had had its pleasure all the way from the anticipation to the creation and then to the recipient. And there my release was complete. To expect gratitude forever was unrealistic and would have strings attached. That was not my wish. A hard lesson to learn, but it has stood me in good stead.

Also attached was a lesson learned well about children. In our early years in social work when summer camp was in session, the end of each period brought revelations unbelievable. The children would come to the barn where camp business was dispensed. The end of the period would find the tables filled with towels and clothing and sneakers, with names either sewn on them or in them. This sneaker belongs to Joey Winner. Not mine, says Joey, not mine. But it has your name in it Joey. Not mine he says, not. Where is the other one, someone asks. Home, Joey says. Then this is the other one. Not mine, says Joey. Not. The big question always is, how did he get off the bus with one sneaker on or off? No doubt someone asked where the other sneaker was and Joey in a rush to get off the bus and there were many Joeys, probably shouted, in my bag! And Joey disappeared into his mother’s car no doubt telling her that his other sneaker was in the bag. The towels with the names collected and mismatched items filled bins with names no one claimed. Not mine, was the chime, not mine. It was the same all summer, every summer. Some things never change.   But one has to wonder to what name the child responds. And from where.

Photo by
John Holmes

February 23, 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.