From an Upper Floor

To Embrace The Essence. . . .

To Embrace The Essence

He was a young man when he went up to the top of the mountain and a very old man when he came down. What he saw we will always wonder but how close was he when he embraced the essence of God.

It was no mean feat we thought he did when he no longer deigned to fight the Romans as he had promised. But now all he said was give to Caesar what was his and to God what belonged to Him.

The essence is not real one thinks, except as one embraces and is embraced. It smacks too much of voodoo unless one tastes of the elixirs of worlds not even born and feasts on food nowhere yet on this world.

To Be embraces as awe in primary form. It is walking naked into the womb of the birth mother only to be embraced by love nowhere else a fact like this. Awesome, awesome, I know I speak, awesome. The heart stops and breathing is not necessary.

The mundane seems a wasted time and my friend Judas will think all is lost since his friend deserted a cause to liberate minds held captive. But note the harness now on the life of our friend and we who know the Essence of the Greatness that swells the bosom.

How else love, how else to keep on living when desire to pray becomes the prime reason of breathing? And all worlds become the altar for kneeling? How you made the flight up the mountain to stand at the precipice of the world is of no import.

But where you stand now is because you embrace with awe the expansion of a heart yielding to the embrace of inspiring and inspired love that you find you embrace in turn. To walk into the womb of your birth mother evoked from memory for countless lifetimes and know ultimate love, the creation of the soul of you.

It is no small thing to stand so and be revealed. It is sufficient reason to lay one’s life down. Instead one moves to work more lifetimes; the great love that spurred the mushroom to live in dampness forever and bring delight to the palate, the rabbit to multiply, the daffodil to bring light after the dregs of winter now gives breath to lift man’s tortured soul and give reason for being.

No matter the insignificant account given the primary being, the ultimate in service will not be curtailed. The need to discover reasons to maintain will be reason for breathing. Enough to be embraced by a perfect love. In itself it silences all need for the search in all life, no matter the dimension.

December 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.
The World Needs Christmas. . . . . .

Let us hold the candle. . . . . .

December 19, 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.
Christmases Past

Do you hear?. . . .

Lifetimes lived secreted
behind the woolly frames of memory.

We jog the frames
of Christmases past. . . .

Scents of

pine boughs and holly berries,
mince pies and cranberries.

Sounds of

apple crisp snow and
retorting icicles,
crackling fires and laughter.

And the sound of silence

as love stretches
through all dimensions
to encircle Thee and Me.

As real as tangible,
as the star beams
on the evergreen.

A promise. . . .given and kept.

Do you hear the angels?

December 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.
The Past is Still Happening

DECEMBER CONFIRMS THE JUNE WOMAN

It is June and I stand poised on the landing of the half circular staircase. I am hearing the strains of the Canon not heard in this, my lifetime. Shocked still, caught in the shadows of half remembering and yet reluctant to confront the shaded memories, I wait.

She is visible, the young woman gliding with joy to the music which carried her down the long hall. She curtsies to the throngs lining the great walls.

I stand, not moving. Her joy is mine, translating to an emptiness in my heart. The tears scald my cheeks and the rest solidify in a mass in my throat. I cannot swallow. I am in danger of drowning from within and without.

II

It is now December. I am before an ancient building in a city bearing her years gracefully. The snow is circling my feet and the wind is freezing my eyes. I am rooted to this spot. The air is ringing with the sounds of holiday; lights flicker their ritualistic colors in harmony. Yet I stand immobile.

On the second floor of the ancient building, caught in the winter of my memories, I see the long hall stretching before me. The strain and refrains of the Canon carry the young one still, waltzing yet. The violins smooth the way for her memories to be built. The red vests of the rotund violinists complement in contrast their black, slicked hair. They bend and bow in homage. Their music locks her destiny forever.

My eyes are in danger this time of freezing in their sockets with the salted tears that cannot stop. The memory does not move, not to one side nor the other. My will forces my eyes to see what can only be played in my throbbing head. Courted through centuries with great care to remain hidden, I unwittingly jarred the box housing those memories.

In retrospect, I was ready. It was my time. I turned away shaken and knowing,

the past is still happening.

December 14, 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 Past Is Still Happening. . . .

DECEMBER CONFIRMS THE JUNE WOMAN

It is June and I stand poised on the landing of the half circular staircase. I am hearing the strains of the Canon not heard in this, my lifetime. Shocked still, caught in the shadows of half remembering and yet reluctant to confront the shaded memories, I wait.

She is visible, the young woman gliding with joy to the music which carried her down the long hall. She curtsies to the throngs lining the great walls.

I stand, not moving. Her joy is mine, translating to an emptiness in my heart. The tears scald my cheeks and the rest solidify in a mass in my throat. I cannot swallow. I am in danger of drowning from within and without.

II

It is now December. I am before an ancient building in a city bearing her years gracefully. The snow is circling my feet and the wind is freezing my eyes. I am rooted to this spot. The air is ringing with the sounds of holiday; lights flicker their ritualistic colors in harmony. Yet I stand immobile.

On the second floor of the ancient building, caught in the winter of my memories, I see the long hall stretching before me. The strain and refrains of the Canon carry the young one still, waltzing yet. The violins smooth the way for her memories to be built. The red vests of the rotund violinists complement in contrast their black, slicked hair. They bend and bow in homage. Their music locks her destiny forever.

My eyes are in danger this time of freezing in their sockets with the salted tears that cannot stop. The memory does not move, not to one side nor the other. My will forces my eyes to see what can only be played in my throbbing head. Courted through centuries with great care to remain hidden, I unwittingly jarred the box housing those memories.

In retrospect, I was ready. It was my time. I turned away shaken and knowing,

the past is still happening.

December 13, 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 Journey. . . . .

(they were hard years, but those times when we touched hearts, ahhhh, those were the golden days.)

The Journey

So we pitch our tents
on the side of the quiet river
and look for landmarks
in the morning.

It has been a full day,
rafting and wandering
through the rapids
hoping for a night of calm waters.

Still, we hope.
Christmas will come knocking
at the midnight door
and hope will enter.

And she will be welcome
for she enters with a promise.

Art by Claudia Hallissey

December 8, 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.
Chance Encounters

Chance Encounters

You cannot accommodate an attitude that sees only the good without giving notice to what the other is doing in laying garbage on unsuspecting shoulders.

It is a real gift to be able to give voice to an Other’s most cherished beliefs but neither does it give them tools to withstand life’s disabilities and allow them to work at standing upright themselves.

Conscience is a commodity with a price. It is the voice within us directing our own belief system.

To be given the tools to work at life is the best gift of all.

Sometimes what we consider to be coincidence is truly a matter of heavenly intervention.

The quality of the diversions bespeak the fellows.

The ‘not knowing’ of the moment is tense relief only to be recognized as the fool’s paradise in retrospect.

It takes a long time for humanity to grow up. And some play at it better than others.

Some wear their conscience in their breast pocket and others sit on it.

If you cherish the childish, you don’t grow up. If you lid the childlike awe and exuberance, you get old. Not necessarily mature, just old.

December 3, 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.
Answers That Know The Questions To Ask

The Lady Of The Blue Cloths

Can we go today, he asked? Perplexed, I looked at him and wondered now where since most of the errands were done that we considered a must. Soon the holidays would be upon us.

To the lady with the blue cloths, he said. To the lady who knows things. And of course, I said. You haven’t asked for a long time. Because he said, I knowed when I ask-ed the question! And how, I wondered, but first we needed to get ready.

Soon we were on the way. He was quiet and wondering his wonders. I asked him again how he knew the answer when he just had asked the question! He stuttered for a bit and looked straight ahead. You know, he said, when I ask-ed myself a question. I wait and knowed I knowed the answer when I aske-ed the question. Somehow, pieces come into places, he stammered, like puzzles and I knowed that I knowed but I had to ask out loud.

I listened to this and still wondered. But why then do we need to see the lady of the blue cloths? Because he said, because. Because it is almost time for the Glooorrrriaaaaaaaaa time he said and I needs to find out from her some things she knows. Her answers he said, not mine answers.

We were met by his friend at the door of the shop and she led us to her table. She held his hand a minute and their hearts melded. Why, she asked, are you wondering how to say it? I am thinking he said, how you knowed what you knowed without asking questions out loud? She touched his cheek. Like you she said. When I feel a light breath on my cheek or a warm hand on my shoulder even if no one is there, I know my angel is. And knows my question. So by the time I put the question into words, the answer is in my heart.

I thinked that way so with me, he said. I knowed you would know he said because I know too. I think real hard and in my head pieces like puzzle come together. Angels are good friends, real friends. He got up to go. Never afraid he said, never afraid. Angels carry blue cloths. They say blue cloths good to wipe tears. You have lots of angels here. I come back just to see them?

Any time, she said. With the holy days we have lots of them. They follow me sometime he said, follow. Never alone, I never alone. She smiled at me in leaving and gave me her hand. The warmth of it raced to my heart and I drew breath. You are good for this one, she said. You are good. Charged, himself and I floated home.

Painting by
Claudia Hallissey

November 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.
Thanksgiving

How Much Of A Difference

It was morning
though the night still hung heavy,
the clouds hovered,
the sun unable to rise.

The children gathered for breakfast,
morose, unhappy and angry,
heavy still with sleep.
Mother looked with unhappy eyes
and father, already delayed
flew out the door.

What could she plan
for this crew this night
as she scrutinized each face
when they exited.

That night the same faces
appeared to sup together,
hostile, unable to summon
the good things of the day.
Seated, they glowered
and the mother, with hope
passed the platter.

Have some love, she murmured,
as she handed the platter to the eldest.
Puzzled, he helped himself
and in unbelief said to his sibling,
have some love.

And around the table the faces changed
as the platter of love was passed
and with a whisper
bestowed its blessing by each one.
The father then picked up a plate to share
and to his surprise murmured, I bring peace.

And around the table, peace was passed
to accompany the main course of love
and talks resumed and the world
was given another chance.

On a level we cannot enter,
we cannot know how much of a difference
it takes to make a difference.

(Do you think that the problems in the rest of the world are of a greater nature than the wars fought within the four walls of any home? Think again for this is where the Cosmic Concern is. What is handed out as ultimatums for the growing family is what we in turn will be concerned with a few years down the line. Let us pass Peace at our tables when we gather together for this day of Gratitude.)

November 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.
Old Friends. . . .

Old Friends

I summoned courage
from every quarter
with friends who
fleshed out my life.

There was Valor. . . .
a recent one whom
I befriended
and Patience who gathered
the young and nurtured them.
He was special.

And among these
were Honesty, a brilliant one
and Honor who brought up
those who lagged.
But also Trust,
a good friend to have beside me.

Altogether we formed
a contingent sent out
to regroup those who diverted
for the moment of excitement.

It, of course, could not last
and the old friends
were called upon time and again
to replenish forces.

It is a hard game to play,
this one of breaking rules.
The cost is harsh
with little profit.

Enough it is
to make use of those things
that prevail with values
hard won over time and tested.

That is when the gold shows.

(double click on photo to bring up details)

November 23, 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.