Drops of Color/ Purposeful Knots

Drops of Color
Purposeful Knots

My vessel of a being
mooring itself to a shore.

The sea offered countless
and, for a while,
I needed to rest.

Strands of rope
~~~woven chords
aided in holding
the vessel.

Secure knots looped once,
tucked in, and under


The waves splashed alongside
the stern, some leaped
into the hull.

The ropes,
fashioned in creative knots
artistic designs
allowing the vessel to rock in place.

The gulls call—
it is almost
time to loosen
the tightened strands.

The waves call~~~

Setting Sail for another shore!
Trusting a wave to carry me…

Back when the tide returns…

I look…

I look…

I looked up
and viewed the waves of clouds
like prompts set upon a stage.

An on-going performance,
the blue waters
sparkling in morning’s dew.

I looked out.
Endless…the miles could not be
yet, eternity was in sight.

I looked within,
pausing as I have done
each day.

between each breath that
I am the cloud.
The cloud is me,
splashing in a deep, deep
blue sea.

…that simple

…that simple

Pass beneath the trellis
—step gently on each stone

—walk into the unknown




Can you hear the vines
spreading themselves
upon your arrival?

Can you taste the salty
air waving in from the water?

In the distance,
the gulls cry out.

‘You’re here, yes, you’re here,
you’ve arrived.’

Close your eyes, bow your head,
offer thanks.

It is that simple.

It Happened

It Happened

A match struck,
‘timelessly’ for the wick— a mere heart beat away.

Ashes drizzle upon a Soul.

It happened…
unplanned, ‘unknown’ 
—the flame.

Engulfing the ‘chamber’
—that inner dwelling 
unaware of the absence.

Who chose the time?
No more hours spent on the Who?
What? or Where?

A gentle voice ‘breached’
my lips…

‘You can no longer burden my heart,’
AND now, my heart understands
and loves you all the more.

an unexpected crack
brought the LIGHT into
the cathedral
of this Being.
“Enlightenment must come little by little,
otherwise it would overwhelm.”
                                                        ~~~Indries Shah(Sufi Author)

Drops of Color/ Daybreak

Drops of Color

The braided forest
parts its branches.

Making a way
through the mist
knit within
his woven sea of fur
—a blanket of waves
cresting over and over.

Lifting his nose,
nostrils breathe in
the vast solemn liturgy.
Breathing out,
the emptiness carries
a silent refrain.

Each ‘hoof’ touching
the dampened ground
—a ‘note.’

Listening to the song,
he steps into the pond
—the mist dips in.

The night packed its
tool box,
stars turned down their radiance,
and the Milky Way
handed the baton to Daybreak.

Bathing himself,
the cool waters
—baptize him.

He rises,
uttering a soft refrain
—his melody echoes
into a timeless landscape.

along a pathway
carrying no cross
—freely the breaking of day
illuminates his presence.

He steps back into
the forest from which
he came.

His Gospel
a welcome
to daybreak.

Highland Boundary Fault

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
~~~ Mary Oliver
“Sometimes” (excerpt), Red Bird
Highland Boundary Fault

450 million years ago
a fault line formed
running geologically from
Scotland & Arran in the west,
Stonehaven in the sun’s rising east,
and traversing the Southern edge
of the Cateran Ecomuseum.

This, The Great Divide,
separates the Highlands & Lowlands
of Scotland.

Atop Conic Hill, 
overlooking the wonders of this 
‘creation,’…baffled by beauty.
Nothing does it need from me
yet, it seems to ask,

‘Don’t stop looking.

Please…ask for the discontinuance
of weaponry bombarding the 
landscapes & waterways, the skies.

That the land be soaked—
only flowers rise and children
tumble down our hills at play
trusting their parents watchful eyes
very near.

Avoid the pesticides, wrappers,
plastics that do not fit the terrain.’

Highlands & Lowlands ‘divide.’
They take on an entirely different

There IS no separation.

Drops of Color/ Hallowed Abbey

Drops of Color
Hallowed Abbey

In the meadow,
a hallowed abbey.

Steeples adorned the
drizzled with a million flakes
of snow fall.

The ceilings, a painting as if by

Is that him?!

The clouds, an image of the Artist
lying on his 
Each stroke of the brush changing
the patterns overhead.
Sitting in a pew,
nibbling on morsels of sweet communion

the only sound
‘her breath, her chomp, her breath, her chomp’

—silence tucked between blades of

Each viable shoot
a candle
holding a dewdrop
sparkling with the reflection
of the sun’s light.

She could not be moved from
this abbey…
she sat alongside its maker.

She understands
the mystery of Presence.

Taking another bite…
She’s One
with all that is

…here in this hallowed abbey.

Take ‘her’ lead…

Take ‘her’ lead…

A sandy beach.

Close to shore.

When the tide washes over her,
she pauses.

Years have shaped her
stately posture.
Persons come from near and far to
LOOK upon her simple elegance.

Endless photos ‘clicked.’

The ‘lens’ cannot consume her.

Many pass her by
missing her completely.

The waters weep.

Her depths reachable.
She stands.
One day the ebb & flow will carry
her out
as her roots let-go.

I stand.
The waters wash away
the sands.



The sound of a machine.
Around me, shelves miles high.
Boxes piled, ten stories high.
Dangling from the carboard containers,
a rip cord.

Is this a dream?

Inside this place,
I am ‘inside.’
Is it a fridge?
It is so cold!

What is this?
Why am I here?

Wait, the volume is swirling outside
—Propellers, that is it—they are slowing down.
We are going down, down, down.

A door is opening from within.
A handle sliding itself.
I cannot see.

A voice yells, “PULL, PULL, PULL.”

Air rushes in sucking the breath
from my Soul.
I reach, but there is nothing to hold.


The boxes, they are shaking, rattling.
Below, I see the Sea.
Vast waves wash towards a shore.

I look.
From here, I bear witness to an absurd sight:
A colony of ants swarming
the sandy beach.

They are NOT insects…they are PEOPLE!
There are hands reaching toward the sky.
Some are throwing themselves into the waves.

A voice, ‘Toss the boxes, and yank the cord.’

Food, food, food—inside the boxes.
I toss each item held in this refrigerator-plane.
I pull the cord like I am starting an old fashioned 
lawn mower.

A parachute jets itself open and the 
banquet-boxes make their way with
no order
no process
no arrangements
no iron bound walls.

BUT, they are hungry
—starving human beings
seeking sustenance.

I am launching boxes and they spill
into the water.
They are lapped up upon the shore.

What do I hear NOW?
This refrigerator is empty.
The propellers amplify.
I do not understand ‘starvation.’
I do not know what it means to go without.

I am awake.
This is not a dream.
I walk to my kitchen,
open the doors to the fridge.


I am searching for the rip cord.

May everyone be fed.

Written under the wise tutelage of June S. Gould, Ph.D.

…would surely go

…would surely go

When I was a child,
I heard a nursery rhyme
about a little lamb.

Its fleece,
well, it was white as the snow.

The adventurous feminine seedling
—her name, Mary,
and this little lamb followed her
wherever she fashioned to go.

I decided to follow them both
from a distance.
Granted, I am an adult now…
and a faint voice whispered between my silent steps,

“listen to the thing you fear”

Did I fear Mary? this Little lamb?

Truth is…
as I gazed more closely into the Nursery Rhyme,
I recognized Mary could barely see!
She was led to believe the lamb was white!


She, Mary, was the one who followed the lamb.

In a dark room,
her ‘lens’ holds images before
her eye sight vanished
—spools of memories
tragically set ablaze.

—traces of a collage
of brutalities revealing
a history’s past and present.

The lamb
sits beside Mary.
She no longer believes
in its fleece
of white snow.

Instead, she feels
its countless
stripes—where fur once lay.

One lash
Two lashes
and MORE followed.

The lamb remained at Mary’s side…
it would not abandon her
and stayed until it died.

Mary could not see the 
road ahead
she rose, Again.

She knew every where
she went,
the lamb
would surely go.
Written under the wise tutelage of June S. Gould, Ph.D.

No Matter

Drops of Color
No Matter

It was early.

The sun phantoms beneath the horizon’s line.

A penetrating canvas
knitted the night.
Galaxies of starlight
illuminated the dome overhead.

In a tiny wooden house,
the sounds of scratching heard.
Small steps made atop scattered straw.

Then a noise
~~~a crowing,
“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Moments of silence~~~gripped in wonder,
“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Soft clucking heard
in between 
the bellow of the Trumpeter,

“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Tears, one after another,
liquid vapors washing my face.
My eyes~~~pools
filled to the rim
dripping over the sides.


These tears were not because of any betrayal,
any failed remembrance~~~while hearing the cocks crow.

The moist mist
revealing my breath
in the crisp air
was the realization:

No matter the past

No matter the cares, worries, wounds,
the endless thoughts of what needs to
be completed, losses never to be found…endings.

I am reminded, by a feathered friend,
before the light even close to 
announcing a NEW day


The rooster ‘sings’

the LIGHT will soon be here.

Sing…what IS your song!

Sing, “Cock~a doodle~do”



This is not a march.

This is a dance…
the cadence between seconds

The trees, like ballerinas
rooted in divine pirouettes
~~~limbs swaying
~~~trunks fashioned and reshaped
through Seasons of ballets.

Ewes in pastures
birth lambs
~~~playfully squealing
they run to mama’s side
for a splash of milk.

Highland cows,
gentle Giants,
display their lengthy horns,
flowing red locks,
BIG eyelashes.

The cadence is ALIVE…

Time to sway.