this ‘spun’ papier-mâché’ drop
A single entrance
carved out at the bottom.
The community worked
from the sun’s rising
until the stars appeared.
Chewing upon wood fibers,
the workers blend their saliva—‘wasp spit’
creating the formation
of their castle.
~~~life being birthed from within
~~~the outside, a thick
Hundreds work inside this stately drop…
it serves its purpose
for a time and then remains vacant
or is removed by Autumn’s winds
or winter’s chill.
Many times the tear
hangs in life’s museum.
~~~no entrance fee!
Open your eyes
~~~beauty all around
tear drops forming
in my eyes.
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The doorway opened itself wide…releasing its hinges.
The architecture surrounding its space was strong like bar bells secure like a knot in a rope and held a delicate design… like petals lapped around a flower.
The wood dipped in varnish
darkened like a pool beneath a mid-night sky.
The stone-cut, shaped smooth like the feel of melted wax.
Stepping through, a silent pause taken. I was neither inside its chiseled arch or outside its course frame.
The way, suffice it to say, depends what you choose. Will you enter or believe yourself unworthy?
You , you are the image and likeness of the One knocking in the doorway of your being,
“Come In, Come In why are you waiting? Welcome.”
The entrance is narrow and it is open for ALL.
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How can I be glad when I hear you weeping? You, who have been my Shepherd, I want to dry your tears. How I wish to allow you to lie down instead of wondering if another shot will be fired. I live in green pastures, and I want to bring you to still waters. You cry out, ‘I cannot breathe.’ Your lifeless body pulled from a vehicle after countless bullet wounds. How do I help restore your Soul? When can I go back to the path leading to you? How can your name be heard without a war breaking out?
Do I fear your death, again, by those who say you are only here to save those who would strike down another in your Holy name?
I’ll set a table for you in the company of those who would laugh at my words. I hold your cup and fill it until it overflows. Goodness, kindness I give back to you. You can return to your house and open your door.
Then, and only then, can I be glad. Written under the wise tutelage of June Gould Ph.D.
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Time seems to hold its hands —each tic every toc ECHOES.
Beyond the valley, the mountains ‘catch’ the refrain launching it skyward.
Softly, the sounds drizzle back down to the green grasses —to the soil bed of the earth’s stage.
This performance never closes its curtain.
From this view, the show lives on.
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Words keep getting in the way… (A Journal Entry walking the Camino St Francis/September 2019)
What do you say
when words keep getting in the way
to describe You?
You are more than a feeling—
You are beyond all thought—
You are NO-thing—
You are EVERYTHING…
Along a path,
a tiny flower grows
from a crevice in a rock
split from dipping dew.
A hawk above my head—
its wings stretched from east to west
soars beneath the clouds
and it, too, calls for You.
A gentle breeze ensues
while the sun remains to shine
yet, there in the distance a storm
Even though it has not yet arrived,
I am soaked in wonder
and laugh at all these words
and hold a pause.
Suddenly, I am dancing~~~my arms,
turn into paint brushes.
I begin to sway, then slowly dip.
I dab an easel filled with
colors and waltz across a canvas—
a picture painting itself before
It is You…
You are in EVERYTHING
and I am a part of all
Before I move on from here,
I look back at the page
and, I glance at endless persons
You are there—
You are in EVERY~ONE.
All these words—
Oh, they keep getting in the way
attempting to create You…
and so, for NOW,
I slip from the page
and You catch me,
I close my eyes
wishing THIS moment never dies
and then I rise.
‘We’ go on
back to the familiar.
Yet, no-thing is ever the same.
while these words of mine
keep getting in the way.
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Drops of Color “Up, up and away in my beautiful balloon…”
Sailing higher into clouds, my imagination out of reach to find words.
My eyes look turning to the East. The sun joining this ride…igniting the balloon’s colors, the airborne vessel does not burn…instead it joins the Sun…two lights beholden in the sky.
The wind catches us launching us North— towering mountain tops, their peaks reaching to ‘touch’…jagged, rugged places undiscovered nor traversed by the likes of humankind and still, the mountains maintain their recognition…they stand unchiseled—created by an unseen hand. Mountain goats stand on peaks, balanced like ballerinas… they join in the flight.
Soft vapors bath me, one drop after another. Descending South, the current pulls this flying bubble swaying steadily as if the sky were an ocean. We float looking down upon rolling waves as dolphins lead us along as if pulling us in play.
The hours have passed. Beds of green grass, rolling like a million fingers waving, waving, waving…
Persons stand together. Yes, hundreds, thousands stand upon the landscape. Brown, black, yellow, red and white— their heads joined in unity.
The balloon bows and veers Westward. A purple sky reveals the beginning of dusk. Before this day ends, I begin to sing…
“Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon?”
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It is sturdy, and it has been here well beyond the years I know of its actual existence.
I pray it will be here long after I have passed, and another might seek its solace, its comfort, and its wonder.
This place knows when to let the light in.
Its entrance always open.
Darkness is a welcomed guest —the stars rest here for moments to give the shadows time to play.
This place I go needs no windows because you would not wish a sheet of glass to separate you from this haven —this place I come to be alone —and where I am met again and again by the One who lowers the ladder.
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Sometimes, I imagine I see a family of porpoises gliding in the sea of blue.
Other times, the clouds are a marching band. Stringed instruments roll on by while a series of drums and buglers float on.
Today, I watched as a small winged bird entered the film. It was, in fact, a tiny swallow, gathering the clouds in its beak pulling it through the sky, inviting the others of its kind to bring on the next display.
Was I actually seeing this take place or had I fallen asleep dreaming of clouds, and birds, and musical instruments, and an ocean of porpoises?
Take some time to gaze at the clouds… if you see a set of wings pulling them, you tell me.
Immediately, he knew
—their white button down shirts
—their black tapered suits
—their ‘fine’ beaks
so that every morsel of sustenance
filled the little ones beside
their patent leather boots.
He fell in love with these
feathered arctic penguins.
Like tiny toy soldiers
at attention, they lovingly stand
facing harsh winters in creches.
Taking turns amongst millions,
stepping outside to be a barrier
from blustery winds,
they step back ‘in’ to warm
long enough to go back ‘out’
combating the elements.
The ‘sound’ of their nestling heard
amidst shrieks of thousands—
the parents know their own chick.
He draws them
and draws them again.
I love him…
So Brian—this is for You!
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