From an Upper Floor

The Years The Locusts Have Taken. . . .

More Compensation. . .

In my last posting I wrote that in Life there is a balance. Emerson called it compensation. I have found this to be more than accurate. For me it has been a personal matter of Life giving and I receiving. And to receive, I must be open to what is given. My hand and eye coordination I see disappearing while my head still robustly desires to do. Like the little engine that could. Except it becomes both physically and mentally stressful. No amount of eye drops get rid of the itching and no amount of ripping out makes the article acceptable.

I came across a poem in one of my steno books I keep for notes when I go back to read journal entries. I looked up the entry for that date and found that I had accomplished nothing. There was nothing I could put my hands on. But there was this poem and no doubt if I went back through the files there would be much done in simple maintenance. And maintenance in our lives is a big plus. For me it meant the yard and house and family commitments. A neighbor saw me doing outside work back then and yelled to ask if I was for hire. Mister, I shouted, you could not afford me and neither can my husband!

So in this period now in my dotage, I still find though there are things taken away because cells die off and others sometimes no better, take their place. Sometimes better though. Sometimes. So besides learning how to print on fabric, much to my delight, I also found a new interest in the color blue or the many blues. I did a small wall quilt with it which you see here. I love it and it brings to mind the Lady of the Blue Cloths whom I have written about. It is a new love being born, and kind of like a bit of heaven handed to me. I look at it and smile and wonder. And I wonder a lot. Wonder with me, if you will.

The Years The Locusts Have Taken

There is nothing new to say.
All of life is a variation of a dream.
How often they resemble one another
and easy it is to lose myself in them.

They are a dinner of words;
a potpourri of feelings;
a smattering of knowledge
which I inhale and forget.

Old age is upon me.
I dredge the gulley for a word
and find I falter, stutter and
leave everyone perplexed,
unable to finish my thought.

I grasped with eagerness as I read,
‘and the Lord God said
I will restore to you the lost years
the locusts have taken.’
And I wept and said,

‘thank you. I understand.’

January 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.
Compensation. . .

There comes a time when even the simplest body language speaks to one and one has to listen. It is not an easy thing to do, this confrontation, but it requires some thought. It is easy to anger, but a dumb thing to do. And I try hard not to be dumb. But looking with an attitude of gratitude, I have nothing but awe to grant to this body that has served me so well.

Spending almost a year and a half when I was 10-12 years old in a sanatorium with a spinal problem had me on a curved steel Bradford frame on my back for most of that time. Children were kept immobile in straight jackets on these frames because that was how they treated chronic bone problems before antibiotics. When I was discharged my mother asked the doctor would I be able to have children and the doctor with exasperation I remember saying madam be grateful your daughter is walking. And walk I did, with difficulty and able to have three wonderful children but also to fall in love with my beautiful Earth and take care of the small plot of land for almost a half century. I took my commitments seriously and found virtue in labor and beauty in the doing of it.

So struggling with a continuing spinal and cervical stenosis coupled with a spastic heart that went into cardiac arrest twice have made things more difficult as I age. I learn new things and there will be new ways of doing things. My hours over the worktable lessen but I am grateful for the ways I can contribute to maintenance of our home that keep me mobile. My love of learning has continued to this late date and though my hands are shaky and my body and eye coordination lessens by the day I still do the things I love best.

My eye/hand coordination is not good but I learned this past week how to use the computer to print on fabric and I will be printing my poetry with a new idea in mind. The example I put before you.

For one who misses the old exuberance of my feet hitting the floor as my eyes open, the change to a more sedentary beginning of the day means that my body balks. The Lazy Boy chair beckons more often and I am inclined to rest my eyes, (so to speak). Naps are what the family calls them. Compensation is what Emerson called the balance of Life, God, or Spirit. He calls it the duality in life. For everything you lose, you gain a something else. There is an ancient maxim that says that the dice of God are always loaded. It may seem that there is an imbalance, but the balance is there. It must be so or the Universes would have long ago ceased to be. And I continue with those things that moth and rust do not destroy.

I forgot that I had written In Closing Times this past summer. I find it to have great meaning now.

In The Closing Times

Often there comes a time
to ponder great gifts
when a life has been lived diligently
for them to come forth. . . .

Yet oftentimes they come
in the closing times
when energy fails us
and the eyes dim. . . .

But no harm done,
for magnificent things
instead were accomplished
with greater meaning

and everlasting life.

January 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.
When The Real Money Is Counted. . . .

The Teacher Continues. . . .

When it comes to memory, how do we separate what is currently ours? Yet the question should be, what is not ours when we are part of humankind? What can we separate from since we do not know what it is we have participated in since time began?

Have we lived before? What is called reincarnation can also be memory banks filled to overflowing. Yet are there not new souls on this planet who do not have practiced ways of behaving that can only be the result of centuries of living?

Can we say we have lived before when we fumble much in elemental situations? If we are asking these questions, it means the footwork has already been done to bring us to this place. And since talk shows and self help books have people eager to speak, what can be brought forth?

Can this incarnation be one of many? Can we not be walking in many worlds relying only on custom for this one? For some, one answer is sufficient. And for others, if thoroughly understood, would have worlds spinning into oblivion.

There are those who have been open to such a degree that worlds have impinged uncalled for. Understanding can only come when there is a frame of reference to assimilate the information. There is no mind that can understand everything. All expressions are needed in every world to begin to uncover the Essence of the Spirit that rules and loves.

In the frame of reference that use the word God in its religious life or spiritual life, everyone and everything is allowed to express the many faces of God. There is no mind that completely understands nor completely accepts all the expressions of Being. Whether in this world we inhabit or in worlds we give space to in thought.

The Why Of Mine

In me are my mother’s memories.
She still lives with all
of the memories in her and many in me.
Her anguish for rights violated
is felt in me . . . .gut feeling overriding
injustices in my life.

Her family, long dead, live in her
and in me, commingling.
I do not know their faces,
but one day I will wander into
a Memory Bank and withdraw my assets
to settle debits and I will know
for whom I do this.

In me, my father nods his head
and studies grasses neatly clipped
to a measured stance.
His dragging feet refuse to note
the hands on my clock as they did on his.
In me, his glance becomes
a studied look ferreting out a truth
in a lie, only to be numbed by indecision.

And my eyes hold others’ eyes,
when they meet mine so I can
uncover their treasures.
In me, the textures of my brothers
are bolts of fabric laid straight
and bias to life.

I note the patterns and the places
that fit me me and those that cannot.
The places we meet are enough for now.
In me my sister’s wrath
lays bare my own.
Altogether we meet in several times
but in her our father roams,

looking for himself in her labor
and in her, our mother stirs derision
concerning old memories kept alive
by today’s unresolves.
I have children who have children,
strengthened by others’ memories
and shaken by habits long thought
to be dead.

Wondrous to see the Refiner’s fire
culling the wooden nickels
crowding the silver and gold
in the Memory Bank.

One day the real money will be counted.

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

January 16, 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.
Memories With No Putting Place. . .

The Teacher Speaks. . . .what exactly is memory? Except long things outstanding, which in the course of living, become shorthand of a sort. It would appear that memories should not encroach on one, especially when they are not part of the current life. But since we take on the body of choice, then we also take on the long list of grievances as well as victories of the heredity. And since we talk of heredity as the line of choice, then we must also be prepared for those untoward things that crop up within every family line.

(I will be doing a series of posts on memory. The above was the beginning of this scribe’s dictation on Memory and I am beginning with the poem Circa. . . 1840 to show how my poetry over the years proved to be the example of how much of life is remembering or learning for the first time but all are ways of obtaining information. I hope to insert questions in my readers’ thinking and do feel free to comment. Life is a Process. )

Circa: 1840

She could say in reverent tone, I love you.
I polished the hearth
and set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?

The children came, one by one.
She loved them, each and everyone.
They were good. She said, I love you.
I’ve borne you sons and
taught them how to pray.
I’ve polished the hearth
and set the bread to rise.
While her heart cried silently,
do you love me?

The sons grew up and one by one
they went away. He never knew why.
He never knew that they too, said,
I’ve fed the chicks and bedded the calves
and got a perfect score in sums.
While their hearts fairly burst,
do we please thee?

He accepted the polished hearth,
the risen bread, the handsome sons
who tried so hard to please
as that which was his due.

One day the hearth no longer shone,
no longer was the bread set to rise,
no handsome sons to plead
with eyes that tore her heart apart.

‘You do not love me!’ he angrily shouted.
Wearily she turned away.
Did you not see the polished hearth,
the bread set to rise,
the sons who tried so hard to please

and love that died?’

January 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.
Some Thoughts. . . .

When in doubt about what to do; the human thing to do is one which will contribute to humanity’s growth.

*****

And without memory, one has no idea of how the past deposits its residual in the present nor what the present can do to frame the future.

*****

The one requiring more learning, more education is the one who feels the pinch of the harness most.

*****

To hold two opposing views in mind and still function is a sign of a mature intelligence.

*****

The bottom line of all behavior is the preservation of one’s self. When all holds are not barred, the one holding one’s own life is the behavior of choice.

*****

To delve into a psyche without being asked is to burglarize a house.

*****

We cling to old beliefs, regardless of the damage they have caused, regardless of change in the world, often because we think we will bury our parents forever. If we believe like they did, we think we keep them alive. And somehow think we fail them again as we have when we were children.

*****

The heart will determine what the eyes see. And put into the head the meaning of it all.

*****

Some prayers seem to be answered and some are not. The final question should be, why not mine?

January 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.
A Good Friend

A Good Friend. . . .

There is a dark side to everyone’s personality, especially the sensitive one. This dark side often rides the sensitive so heavily that others find them burdensome. Yet needful because being sensitive, they are often also understanding and responsible. When one needs a someone, they are always there, to make the poultices, change the beds and do the laundry. Not to wring their hands and whine that they do not know what to do.

And that is the difference. The dark side of the personality has learned how to make a situation better because they have had to learn through their own lives how to make themselves feel better. They know what makes an other feel good.

It is hard to live with such a person but harder still to live with one who wrings their hands and runs away. There is nothing within such a one that makes the connection between their soul and the other who is hurting.

A Good Friend

You stayed the night
while I lumbered my body
through a partition closing me from life.

While I fought
through a sea of memories
holding me hostage
to long and lonely years.

You saw me through
eyes of tears reflecting the hardness
mine needed to smelt with coals
being fired in a heart of no use.

But you stayed, close as my skin
and had you pulled away
I would have understood.
You stalk me yet and I stand.

My eyes have shed their steel casings,
now ground as dust beneath my heel.
I look inward to softer places
and find the world not so hard.

You tell me you need to stay close
because you wish to claim
my strength if only by association,
but I ask,

of what heavenly use is a soft shell crab?

art by Claudia Hallissey

January 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.
The Sound Loaf

The Sound Loaf

Evolution or God
(perhaps one and the same)
finely grinds the meal
ever so slowly
while I cannot breathe
with the dust in the air.

But there will one day
be understanding
with the digestion of the bread. . . .
The wholeness of the grain
so nicely baked till the hollow sound
is heard when tapped,
gives credence to the sound loaf.

I can no longer wait
for it all to cool.
It has taken far too long
for this bread to be made
and yet still to be digested.

The bellies are still
immature for whole grain.
Pablum is the mushed up cereal
of sort for feeding infants
too long in the pram.
I suffered the parents to grow up

and now have no time to wait for the children.

January 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.
If School Is To Keep. . . .

The Newborn. . .

The infant balls her fists
and pounds the transparent air
as if her fists will give her strength enough
to break the frustration binding
her to an indifferent world.

Where no one exalts
the intelligence she came with
nor the energy to make new and
make a difference in this world.

How else to register
her complaints except to disturb
the nights where her caregivers race
to lay down their heads?

How to make them note
that this new human is
one of anxiety pressed beyond belief?
And intending that her presence
will be taken seriously?

We hail the newborn and
wish them well.
The journey is arduous and long.
The bulrushes must be chopped and
a new road must be hewn.

It is a work
not for the fainthearted.
But a one to be done

if school is to keep.

Photo by Jody Simons

December 30, 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 Use These Hands. . . .

To Use These Hands. . . .

As dawn breaks, my fingers of both hands curl about each other and I marvel at their slimness, their ability to elicit the feel of themselves, each digit wrapped around the other.

And I think that nothing, no other world will ever make me feel such blessedness as my hands’ ability to do so many things over the course of this life. To kneading bread, to winding the yarn, to smoothing the brow of my very sick child and have him tell me later that it helped him sleep. Everything I touch holds a lesson for me.

The square inch of soil I spooned with young hands yielded secrets kept from generations. The eyes of a child as my hands embrace young shoulders tells me what went into their ancient heritage. And I grasp their hands in mine and convey my love by touch.

I would use these hands to mold and make and set trends never before thought. I see the beauty of the great god in the blending of these human genes and see the perfect Adam and perfect Eve emerging and see the virtue in the making and the doing of the homely tasks that will start the holy process once again.

And I will open my arms and spread my hands to grasp the youngest by my hip and be grateful for hands that show how very much I love on this planet called Earth.

art by Claudia Hallissey

December 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.
Love Embraces All Worlds. . (without exception)

(this is my Christmas card for this year 2015 to my readers and loyal supporters in time and thought to my efforts in my blog. May you have a meaningful holy day or holiday whatever your persuasion. There is no misunderstanding when heart speaks to the each heart.)

December 24, 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.