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Illustration of a bird flying.
  • A Need

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    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
    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

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    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
    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

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    (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
    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. . . . .

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    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
    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

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    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
    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

    Kiss the Morning

     

    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
    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

     

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    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
    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

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    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
    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.
  • Argument With Crossed Signals

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    Another Argument with Crossed Signals

    There was a maxim often repeated when I was growing up that one never ‘tempts the gods.’ My ‘sense of’ justice and unfairness peaked early for me for which I was punished. When I was a child, I was puzzled  that the big people did not take issue with this unfairness. Later I questioned, why a positive statement could not be made without the old fear following, ‘if the gods allow?’ Or when humanity graduated to one god, the dictum became, ‘if god wills.’ It is a dastardly thing to do to people, this division of desires and penalty. The world criticizes the negative attitude and says you must be positive. And churches on the other hand teach free will and then hangs it all with providing it is ‘god’s will.’

     The Teacher Speaks. . . .Is it much of a free choice when one desires the good and then must have it tagged with if god allows? Again we must look at beginning and see where the churches fail, if they do. Our anthropomorphic god must be dusted off periodically if we are not to destroy ourselves. In the beginning there was much power thrust onto the priests and this was with people’s choice and desire. Who wanted full responsibility for his actions? Who wanted the knowledge that would free man and allow him to assume the course of his life? Look at it fairly. The church simply took upon itself to give man what he wanted. He wanted a father god to look out for him. The chain of command grew and soon there was no differentiation between the nearest priest and the almighty god. The priest was father in fact as well as fancy. He absolved the sins, he raised the Eucharist and played the part as the connection between man and his god. What behooved man to be a conscientious objector to the lusts and materialistic desires which satisfied the flesh when he knew that by donning a mantle of humility and reading off the list of his sins, which were legion, that he would be absolved of his indiscretions and made new again?  

    What composed the list of sins? That which man decided separated him from his god. Were they sins? Or were they just actions, albeit infantile of a people not grown to adulthood? The line is a slim one. Man knows and knew always what he was capable of. We have a case of wanting the cake and eating it too.   Can you see why this particular planet is unique in its ability to teach the striving soul of its responsibility?

    Ideas manifest in the quickest possible way. You dream of a desire and within its context it materializes. With little obstruction. And with this manifestation, man soon realizes or not so soon that this does not satisfy what was a hunger. He learns that he requires more and more or less and less. Within that there is much gained. What man realized was that the initial satisfaction was not long standing, so he prods himself to work harder and harder to afford more and more. Not consciously does he know this. He keeps the carrot on the stick and keeps moving it himself.

    In many ways man gives meaning and an objective to life which would not have meaning otherwise. The otherwise would demand of him an objective look at himself and a life which would need examination. Man steers clear of the inner path because he thinks it is fraught with dangers. The church has pointed this out in many ways.   Stray thoughts do pepper the mental landscape and requires courage to examine them. Easier to say the devil did it and never have to analyze their concept of either the devil or their god.

    The church continues to serve man until it finds it serves no one. When man takes upon himself the responsibility of his choices he will know he cannot blame anyone for his inabilities concerning his life. Then and only then will he gain the plaudits saying his is a job well done. Man has taken blame when things fail and in humility when things work out gives credit to a greater power than himself.  Unfair.   The good of one man in its highest sense will be the good for all men. How can something which benefits truly one man not benefit in its largest sense, all men?

    August 18, 2015
    Veronica Hallissey
    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 Reclused

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    The Reclused

    We do not violate
    the solitude cherished
    as a milch cow
    on a painted pasture.

    We usurp with kindness
    any benevolence dispensed
    on us as gratitude.
    What are we for

    you might well ask,
    since in previous times
    we reclused to the woods,
    garnering ourselves

    to buffet so many affairs
    as insults to our intelligence.
    It is not our distaste
    for people

    but games played
    and displayed
    to compete and outsmart
    what the Great God

    dispensed as common sense.

    Photo by John Hallissey

    August 16, 2015
    Veronica Hallissey
    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.
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