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Drops of Color/ This Garden

Drops of Color
This Garden

I am
dwelling in a garden
from which no one is banned
except in fairy tales.

Tasting of its fruit daily,
I am invited to bite into
the succulence of life.
Revealed is the essence
of goodness filling
and satisfying the Soul
—no one blamed for
having eaten.
A still small voice
says,
‘share, offer and let
everyone consume and be filled.’

Open the eyes of the heart
and see
—find a way back
‘into’ a garden never really having left
—no more ‘mea culpa’
—no more beating the breast
of unworthiness.

Take in a land flowing
with milk and honey.

Let us care for this Garden.
She’ll take care of herself
if we falter to see all her
original blessings.

All invited to the table
in this Garden of Abundance.

About this morning…

About this morning…
Beneath a sea of bubbling
black licorice,
my ‘soles’ have walked.
Majestic stars, like diamonds,
splashed in the seamless ocean
flow above my head.

What was different about
this morning?
Twenty four hours earlier,
my body lay still on a table.
Overhead, it certainly was 
not the Milky Way.

I was in a galaxy of wondrous
beings who brought ‘balm’
to my eye.

The first phase of healing—
a picture taken.
The second phase, I beheld the 
crushing pieces of matter that
would no longer obscure my vision.
The third, and final phase,
the placement of a lens
delicately woven in by
the Physician’s Hands…
and a tender unknowing hand took mine.
I trusted all was well!

When I woke,
a sense of wonder ‘held’ me.
An unknowing fanned over
me, and a calmness pursued
as I lifted my eye’s lid—LOOKING!

What I sought as I 
gazed was uncertain.
When I stepped into
the visible sunlight remaining in the day…
something changed!

Just what…no words could form
the anticipation brewing within.

I slept well,
and as always, the moon beamed through my
window luring me to rise.
I took my first
step and held my place.

Pausing, I lifted my head, tipping itself
like a pitcher pouring itself from 
the opposite direction…Upward!

My eye bore witness to the stars
like SEEING them
a first time.
One by one they sparkled.
I began to count them, to name them
aloud…
so many, too many to add!

I wished to hold this encounter forever…
Mindful of many who have
moved on from this world
as I know it.

So often
I feel them keeping watch over me.
Lit candles
ignited in the sky.

Now, about this morning…
I am SEEING more clearly.

Are the stars more numerous than our descendants?

I have read somewhere this is so…

Perhaps, each one visible
and invisible to my watchful OPENED eye.
A Sacred Ancestor
invites me now to slowly
bow my head with thanks!

About this morning…I SEE!

Drops of Color/ Fiery Furnace

Drops of Color
Fiery Furnace

As the night slowly
begins to lift its shade
and stars melt into
a pool shining back upon themselves,

there is a moment, the sun,
a fiery furnace,
flips its switch ‘on’ throughout
the forest.

In that brilliant 
flicker, the trees reveal their
true colors, and then
go back instantaneously
to their grand splendor
of browns.

Unseen

Unseen

It matters not
what unseen path
lies ahead.

What matters
is the courage
to know when to
press on

or

remain still
for as long as it
takes the journey to 
unfold.

Drops of Color/ Strings

Drops of Color
Strings

Six strings
running parallel.

Its body
a hollowed tree trunk.

A branch
shooting through
the center
becomes a lengthy neck.

Six leaves
attached to the strings
—metaphoric vines.
Each leaf alters the
tune of the fitted
strands.

A hand reached for
a pic and plucks
E, A, D
then G, B and E.

A vibrational energy
staggers within the space between
the strings.

The free hand
stretches fingers between frets
—chords played.

Strumming rolls on
like the tide moving
in to meet the shore.

The sun rises
and a tune plays
itself.

Shadows streak across
the landscape.

A flock of geese becomes
notes flying through clouds
—their wings flapping,
writing a symphony.

As the day begins to set
—the stars become white
notes on a black page.

The music finds 
another way to 
express itself

—splashing into the Milky Way.

Fluttering

FlutteringCrossing the ocean
—her wings changed
the winds.

Broken in places
—she found the strength
to arrive.

Lightly landing on flowers
—scenting the traveler
with sweet perfumes
preparing its
‘fluttering’ life
for its eternal departure.

Drops of Color/ A Pot of Gold

Drops of Color
A Pot of Gold

At the end of the pier,
‘a pot of gold.’

Metaphorically speaking,
a rainbow of floating
kayaks—‘wait.’

Then, the sea,
the sojourner,
and a single oar

‘glide’

rhythmically, harmonically,
channeling the wind,
the waves and the vast
expanse of a voyage
leading to a pot of gold
that cannot be brought back,
traded in or possessed.

The treasure LIVES within—
the sojourner never the same.

Three Bees

Three Bees

Three bees landed upon a 
golden Sunflower.

The first Bee gently let out a 
soft buzz,
“This padding beneath my slender 
limbs is so lush and soft.”

The second Bee chimed in
releasing an extra buzzzzzzz
and questioned,
“How do you think this flower
creates such a wonderous
bed from which to nibble such luster?”

The third Bee…remained silent
for sometime!  The two Bees
stared, holding their gaze
before their companion
buzzed ever so subtly,

“The flower provides us this
gift by B-ing.”

Drops of Color/ Keyboard

Drops of Color
Keyboard

Some one
turned it around.

Ebony, ivory
—they have taken opposite forms.

Ivory has become keys of
soft brown wood, brown delicate pitch.

Ebony keys, now the color
of snow, hang on the
keyboard’s branches.

Closing one’s eyes,
fingers dance.
A familiar waltz flutters
across a long
board walk.

The song heard in each note
is that of the ocean
tumbling over itself
when one dares to ‘jump in.’

The tide in—
the harmony echoes
and, as it rises to make its 
way out,

the pianist pauses
long enough to allow
each note to carry on
and on.

Eyes open—
the colors of the keys
have turned to blue
and, pulled down by
the undertow,
the urchins begin to sway.

Vivid Recollections

Vivid Recollections

DAWN (0-20yrs)
Crawling,
an open doorway
—hands grip the edge of wood.
Lifting, now standing on two
wobbly limbs
—hands let-go
then, The Fall.

Attempting again and again
fall after fall…

Years pass
—now, running through fields
gliding as if on waves
—swinging from branches.

Peace here,
but returning home
—the glass ceiling is broken.

Solace found in an empty church.
NO words.
Staring up at an altar
—seeing a suffering man
Love swaddled me.
I fall and then
—lifted by unseen arms.

School days, childhood friends.
I played hard, studied little.
On the field, I could release 
all that was pent up inside.
I excelled cracking the bat
at the ball, striking the racquet
hitting a winner over the net,
serving and volleying to lead
the team to victory.

So proud, on the sidelines
the family—an illusion.
I continued to play.

Countless persons stepped in,
unknown at the time,
—they nurtured me.

One man, a father figure, impacted my life.
He left the world too soon.
His final words written to me,
“How I wish I were your father
so I could have had you forever.”

Church, that quiet haven,
no longer had answers.

The introduction to substances
provided little/if any comfort to me,
especially when I had to care
for persons whose addictions
tore the bandages covering
the scars that never
could heal.

DAY (20-40yrs)
Wandering  away—
I put down ‘the games.’
I picked up books and a 
new family bound me in their
loving pages.

New writings.
Upon completion of my studies,
out I stepped
—working with neglected and 
abused children.
Next, I worked with 
incarcerated juvenile girls.

The work was natural,
easy to empathize.

Then, a call.

My grandma suffered a massive stroke.

I bargained with the One I
called God.  One moment I asked,
“Please, end her suffering,” then I’d ask
for a little more time.

I flung the Holy Book across
the room and wept.

I sat beside her.  She, unable to speak,
barely moved any
of her limbs.

I looked into her eyes.
She looked back and folded
her hands in prayer.
My Wise Ole’ Grandma.

Death came for her.
I chose to embrace the hand of
 Death’s path.
I walked beside others as 
a Chaplain as they faced
life’s transition
from here to eternity.

All are equal here.
 I recognized immediately that it
doesn’t matter if one is rich or poor,
black or white, male or female,
no matter what faith one practices
or does not practice.

In life’s turning of the page,
The End becomes New to 
the one passing.

The living hold
the memories.

DUSK (40-60yrs)
Another path revealed itself when I embraced the
role of a Peace Officer.
An only woman in a field of Blue.
I was surrounded by brothers.
A small few would have liked
me removed (and baited their traps),
instead, an injury took me out
of a hid-den prison.

No longer a hostage,
no longer able to walk, 
I wondered, if I ever would stand.

An old lover found me once
again.  Pencil in hand,
I began sketching images
of persons.
Ordinary people from
The Hebrew Testament and The New Testament.

Before I realized what was it happening,
the sketches took the stage.
I was breathing life
into old stories.

As many times as i broke open
the Word, I knew the journey would
be different.

What unfolded is
the story of my own words in
photographs and colored artistry.

Spiritually,
I have walked a path unknown.
Glancing back, I’ve 
watched a mosaic forming

many blank ‘areas’ held open
for life still being lived.

Changes began unfolding
for individuals who were
pillars in my life.

It was easy to be in a Chaplain
Role, but to these persons
I was more than Chaplain.

Loss, another loss,
cognitive changes,
decisions to move into a 
safer setting, taking the set
of car keys…

It was now time for me to walk.

First, down into the depths
of the canyon.
The Grand allowed me to descend.

Coming up,
I walked with others on
The Camino Mary Magdalene.

Alone, but not lonely,
I walked The Camino de Santiago.

My steps would travel to England’s
Coast to Coast, to Wales, The Pembrokeshire Coast Path and
to Italy’s, The Camino St Francis.

A Pandemic ‘struck’ the World…

I have walked a daily pilgrimage.

I suffered an injury that
shook my core.
Still, here I write, walk, sketch,
strum a guitar, provide pastoral care
and tend to the needs of loved ones.

I have lived the life of the sun’s
rising.  I have been to where 
the sun is at its highest point
mid-day.

I am at the place where the sun is
making its way to the west.

DARK 
I am not here, yet,
BUT, I’m living beside the
persons in my life who are
leaning toward life’s settings.

When the sun goes down
on another life lived,
I fall.  I touch the ground
where they rest.

I weep watering the earth.

I rise in the early
morning hours trusting
the stars lighting the way for 
those who have passed.

Lasting flames
light a way through the 
darkness I shall one day
follow.

I trust the words…

the words of the suffering
man I stumbled upon
years ago,

“I am with you till the end
of the age.”

Drops of Color/ Above the Mantel

Drops of Color
Above the mantel

The warmth of the
fire contained.

Rising
a sea
and the sun setting.

Vessels
harbored after a long
day of bringing in a catch.

In the distance,
you can hear laughter,
merriment,
folks dining on
what the waters have provided.

Can you see it in the painting?

Perhaps, one
 story drifting into 
another.

Can you hear the sound of the gulls?

What are you hearing
as you ponder so many possibilities?

Above the mantel,
a painting.

Contemplate what the tide
in your Soul is embracing.

When we are still…

When we are still…

and gaze out
upon wonder,

why, even the clouds
appear as if mountains

OR

perhaps the mountains
have transformed into
bursts of clouds.