From an Upper Floor

On Being Different

A recent journal entry on being different.

The Teacher Speaks. . . .

Take it this way. To be different means you step out from the crowd. When you, as an example, are different in your posing the question as well as answering with what it is you know and cannot see the difference, it is because the integrated material has long been in the chest. You do not see yourself as different because these thoughts and conclusions have long been yours. You see how they fit within the scope of others, primary as basic premises which have not gone any further. It does not bother much except for kin whom you would like to accompany you and be companions on your journey. But they like others, have to make the step up.

We give these thoughts for the blog. Should you step away from those who march, you will be castigated. But nothing can hurt the core of thought which has been your bulwark and has allowed you to age chronologically. The fact that ongoing thought matures one readily and faster than the crowds who march, is not a factor to stop one’s growth. A case in matter will be the fact that evolution means that the growth exhibited will be the potential for all. If one can do the unthinkable and it is good, then the potential for the rest of mankind rises exponentially. It is a good thing when thought outmaneuvers its opposition. Because then we know that one can continue living and growing and mankind will then prosper with new thought.

It seems far fetched to the average person. But it is not. To do one thing outside the perimeter of what is common means a step up in man’s evolution. It is a hard thing to be human, is it not? It was once easier but too many factions now prevent man from trying out his courage which he would find is dependable. We root for the different one. We know how hard it is to step out from the ordinary and still live within the confines of Earth. When the Master Jesus said that one can be in Earth but not of it means exactly that. One can live here and be in it but need not necessarily accept all the dictum of mankind. Those that are physically necessary we keep but the headwork is of personal desire. We would like to give courage to those who aspire to do for others what in private one does for oneself.

And They Believed

It has been said with anger
that I set the bar too high
for mere mortals to scale.

It was not for them
the bar was set but for me,
to rise as high as the immanent god

had deemed for me.
I could not know that
they would try to jump for me.

I was not the reason.
It was for them, you see,
for someone told them

they would never do it
and they believed.
I showed them though they could

and they surprised themselves.

photo by John Holmes

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September 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.
Many Truths

Many Truths

I once heard an elder say that people only know what it is you let them know. I gasped, because I thought she actually believes this. She still believes that her thoughts are private and that secrets are truly secrets. She does not know that privacy of thought is the last illusion. That there are those who are bulleted with thoughts as they walk in gatherings. Not realizing that they are picking up flagrant thoughts sent as flying debris and landing in the heads of unsuspecting walkers.

And lucky for us all that these are innocents. Never knowing that their fatigue in crowds comes from picking up so much litter. The reason for recluses going into the woods is this very fact of fatigue. Throughout history we have had our neighbors vacating our neighborhoods for the silence of the forests. Where the natural life is conducted in mind pictures shared by kin of their own kind.

My answer to this elder was to write Many Truths. You will now understand my thinking.

Many Truths

I tell you true,
if my eye caught it,
a picture has already
been taken of it.

If I know something,
I can tell you true,
the neighbor down the street
or the unknown one around the corner,
knows of it also.

If my ear has caught your cry,
or the deception in your words,
the heavens have heard the cry
and the deception, however layered,
in time is betrayed by you.

If my song is sung,
the heavens and my god
have heard the melody
and whipped the wind
and carried the joy or sorrow
to its Source.

It has always been so
and this I tell you true.
The difference?

I, now, know it.

September 12, 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.
A Need

A Need

I possess a knowledge,
supplanting the previous knowledge
by just one day.

The reason is this; I slept.
And in the dream saw worlds,
whole and hurt, clean and chaotic,
built and leveled.

And I saw fields
with high grasses and skies
not yielding to horizons
and I walked

I walked so far and then
walked some more.
There was a companion and
we talked, of worlds to be born,
of worlds to be healed,
of lessons still to be learned.

And then I walked alone.

But when I needed
to walk my fields,
for they were mine and
because I am landlord,
I went to them and found peace.

It is said that the fields
are not real, that they are
in my head.
I am also told that many
do not understand my need
to walk the fields.

But many do not understand
why when I awaken

my legs ache.

photo by Kathy Qualiana

September 10, 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.
Attitude With Gratitude

Even as a child I was happy to see the long, hot summer gone. With the Labor Day holiday over, for me the new year begins. The start of school again was exciting and I could hardly contain my enthusiasm for the smell of new tablets, new crayons and pencils. This excitement with learning has been part of who I am. And even now heading toward the culmination of a full life, the desire to learn something new every day still propels me. I now approach the autumn days and the long evenings of winter with an attitude of gratitude. As long as we are able, if we see work to be done, we do it. It is with that attitude, I submit. . . .

With Gratitude

Let me take this day
and fill it
to the brim
with gratitude.

Let all my actions
praise the efforts
to be noble,
to be kind,

to be good;
let it all be seen
in the lives I meet.
Let me be the purpose

for this day,
to be recreated
for the work to be done
for those

who still live in the shadows.

Painting by Claudia Hallissey

September 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.
The Mind’s Sampler

(Do you ever wonder about. . . .

The Martha(s) will serve and clear tables and see to the children. Mary will also do what Mary(s) do. . . .puff up the pillows and sit at the Master’s feet. It is a tenuous thread that speaks of a psychologically explainable condition. Yet it does raise the hackles. It should as long as it is human skin one wears. And when one does not. . . the rest will be observable.

*****

It may all be illusion. . . but in this particular reality, illusion has a substance one must work with.

*****

Getting lost in great crowds of people, great numbers, gives one a sense of immortality. The great numbers are proof that the world continues to spin and as long as we are on the carousel and keep putting in our nickels, we too go around. But comes a time out of sheer exhaustion even the make believe ponies stop going around. And the time for sifting and sorting from too long on the merry go round has to be done.

*****

The true state of genius is having the courage to say I don’t understand and ask for an explanation. Understanding the basic premise makes it easier to build the pyramid as you make your way up. The broader the base, the easier it is to build on it.

*****

We are all safe. All safe. The journey is not a trial run. It is for real but like a class on the way to graduation, it must be passed eventually.

*****

Kiss the moon into Being. It serves to fuel the hot rocks of the day.

Photo by John Holmes

September 2, 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.
If You Have A Minute To Think. . . . .

One cannot legislate the future one way or another. It is happening at the precise minute you think about it. It cannot go away and no amount of fretting will change it one iota.

Your acts upon your days have already sent the future into a direction which will reveal itself.

Supposing man gave headroom to the idea that his daily thoughts form his future or the world he will find himself, would he care enough to change his thinking, his thoughts to build a better world of choice?

Our so called love of people serves to hide our very limited, if at all, love of persons. If we cannot love persons, what good to say we love people?

If we have difficulty with the ones who share our hearth and homes, what good to say we love the world?

Sometimes what you catch in an aging face is cosmic and intensely personal. It often means that the God Within has been called into conference. Not something one freely discusses with the common man.

When something passes over our understanding, it can mean it hasn’t been born to the senses yet; for instance, as born to see or born to hear. Once our understanding is broadened, learned and integrated, little will pass our notice.

When little passes our notice, our hearts may be broken. We might then be able to do something about peace on Earth and good will toward all mankind. And save our planet.

(I will be posting wall quilts from time to time. If you are interested Contact Me at fromanupperfloor.com They are for sale.)

August 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.
The Morning’s Bliss

Mornings have always been special. The sounds blended on the street as Princess (our then German Shepherd) and I walked. The lights in the homes spoke of early risers, the occasional car with lights on. The dog down the street spoke his urgency to get matters started. There still is a benevolence to the morning which I would awaken everyone to feel. It is a palpable part of the day. My body revels in the gentleness, which seems absent during the day but rouses memories and vitality to meet its essence. Times are different now but still such that find me alive and in dialogue with the divine within. We put the blessing on the day.

The Morning’s Bliss

The morning hours stretch before me
and I am the richest woman.
There is a privacy in all aspects.
The morning harbors life rising,
a world awakening
that defies description.
The birds who have survived the night,
the sun which did not get lost,
the flowers and plants that
have drunk of the night’s dew
and I , who also has
survived the night.

We are rich, we who
participate in the morning.
It is we who find it intoxicating.
Grasses which speak to each other,
blade by blade; flowers that open
their faces to the morning light;
trees whose leaves unfold
to the morning air;
all these greet the good morning.

It is a drunk that I am
as I walk the dog who sniffs
the morning with as much
exhilaration as I do.
I can hardly bear the goodness.

There is a sweet washed feeling
about the streets that hardly
resembles the daytime concrete.
It is a softness about me that I feel,
touch with every cell and taste
with my morning coffee.

It is what I remember
from a somewhere, touch
with a body that has been bathed
in this particular light and move in the air
that has buoyed me for centuries.
Grasp it I want to.
Love it I do.
It is the morning and it is mine.
I paid for it with the night’s labors
in the vineyards.

It is mine.

August 28, 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.
Kiss The Morning Into Being

I think I will have it as my epithet. It means a word or phrase that describes an attribute of characteristic quality. I like it. Kiss the Morning Into Being For It Has Long Won The Battle Over Night. My need to know what I needed to know was my long night. It has been a journey of a lifetime but I would not take a million or billion dollars for it and I would not give a nickel to repeat it. Now that the pearl of great price has been bestowed, I breathe easy. I did not know when I could not refrain from what I was doing that it was something I had to pursue until I found what was lost. It has not been easy but the moments of joy were indisputably brilliant. Can one live a normal life and still pursue the pearl of great price? One can. It will be an uncommon life to be sure.

Only trusted loves know all sides of us. To some of my readers the serious side is evident. There was a time at midlife, in my fifties where some of you are, when I shopped with an idea of who I was in mind. I came across this poem while looking at previous work and thought, I will post this. Your mother will identify with this poem or your grandmother. Times were different. It brought back the time with a smile. The wall quilt is one of my favorites. I love the young woman’s strut. I hope you enjoy the post.

Perspective

I am an average American woman;
five feet five inches with
solid poundage to fit a size 12;
with white hair framing
a midlife face that has loved,
laughed and cried a lot.
But alive still.

I’ve searched the mark down racks
for you to see me in
Calvin Klein jackets,
Evan Picone and real leather suits
that rustle when I walk,
all shrouded in a mist
of Bill Blass.

Did you know I see me
with ruffles at my collar,
rose buds on flannel nightgowns,
after a dusting
of Johnson’s Baby Powder?
Drinking from a cup patterned
with violets and being sophisticated
when soaping with

Yardley’s English Lavender?

August 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.
From Whence Cometh My Strength



Much comes to mind when I read Jon Katz’ s blog http://BedlamFarm.com which is a favorite. His problems I can relate to because my most formative years were on The Farm.   When I write my memory is always sitting in some farmplace.   His blog by guest writer Carol Gulley on My Farmer and Me took me back again with her words about how it really is with farmers.

How it was before we really knew how to farm and what it was like rising every morning in a freezing house and getting dressed around the stove pipe which went up through a corner of my sister’s and my bedroom before going into the chimney. How it was before the bathroom was put in because other matters in the barns where our living was made before we could think about improvements in the house. The animals, the cows needed to be milked twice a day and the horses needed tending and the chickens needed to be fed and the pigs needed their nourishment.   My brothers and my sister and I were new to farming, but our mother made the decision to get us out of the city so that we could breathe fresh air.   My father had lung problems from working in the chemical plants and he knew he could make a living on a farm.   But he over estimated his abilities. His inability to understand nutritional needs of plants and animals made for arguments every day.   His memories of farming in the old country were not what our farm demanded.   What we demanded of our land to sustain our large family was not what the quality of soil originally could do. That it did in the long run was due to the perseverance of my mother (who I often said would have been able to run the auto companies without having to go to the government for bail out monies) and my brothers.   They learned what the land needed to produce and what the vegetables and fruit trees and the cows needed for optimum production.   It was not an easy way to live and many times the argument came up to go back to the city.

Yet my best learning years were on The Farm, where I learned to love the land and my Earth planet was like wearing her as a second skin.   Memory told me of other times and places where I was able to flourish with a sensitive heart but also with an awakened mind.   Old city friends visited in their new clothes and polished cars.   And my mother gave them baskets of strawberries and crisp apples to take home.   I do not remember money being exchanged. My mother’s way was to pay it forward. My sister went to market with mother with fruit, vegetables and eggs and those years brought real money home.   It is not a way to live for the fainthearted. Much to my chagrin, I also learned to love heavy cream as a staple yet and missed it sorely during the years of marriage when budgeting to the penny was crucial.

Carol speaks true. Her words bring to mind many memories that were difficult for the teenager I was to live through. But living through those times helped me to grow in ways I could not imagine. Throughout my life I yearned for horizons where sky met my earth with no obstruction.   My eyes hungered for the places from ‘whence cometh my strength.’

(The Red works I have made is a deeply satisfying thing now for me to do.   I missed it completely during the years of parenting when it peaked. They are for sale. Contact me if you are interested. I use old wood patterns for my block designs.)

August 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.
An Ever Fixed Mark

An Ever Fixed Mark

What can be written
that has not been written before?
What are the new voices saying
to old hearts turning mellow?

Not much one hears
is different except
the ever fixed mark
which shrouds a piece of truth
and shows its consistency.

It is exactly that. . .
an ever fixed mark as the old salt said.
We guide our actions
and think our thoughts
in its direction.

Heaven fixed the mark.
Upon this tablet it is written
that one must learn
to love oneself primarily, else
the same imperfect thoughts and actions
drive a wedge clearly through us. . . . .
But first adhere; the mark does not fail when

it is etched in cursive splendor upon the heart.

Artwork by Claudia Hallissey

August 21, 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.