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Drops of Color/ Another…

Drops of Color
Another…

I struggle to place the
word on paper.

Another __________

I do NOT wish to speak it aloud!

Something ‘within’ breaks
like a dam unclogged from a river
—it flows.

Another SHOOTING
Another Shoot-ing
another shooting

For too long, in my seemingly short life,
I have listened.  Sometimes, I haphazardly tuned out
individuals who spoke out about laws that focused 
on weaponry.

NOW, I hear the arguments, the jokes
unfurled…please, this is NO
laughing matter.

I hoped, prayed when the VOICES
of children rose like a phoenix rising from the ashes
addressing their concerns~~~
 their cries would be heard.

The voices of children, the children,
OUR children

their future!

Instead, BIG business prevailed.

Is there an answer?
What is the correct question?

They are ‘in’ us—each of them…

MADISYN BALDWIN

TATE MYRE

HANA ST JULIANA

JUSTIN SHILLING

We must respond for them!

Is this sad for you to read?
It is breaking  open my heart
to pen these thoughts.

BUT— Love
                   Love
                        Love
brings us again and again to a cave…
no room in any inn
—a child born to ignite the World.

We are here to LIGHT the world…
Called to do even greater things.

Can we drop to our knees?

Are we able to create a lasting story
where another life is saved
because we ‘release’ all 
that would hold us victimized
and rise to leave a future
where our children our mindful?

Let us consciously 
choose love 
so that our children 
are able to live on.

Faith Road

Faith Road

A lifetime of roadways

marked clearly,
most discovered on maps.

All these ‘streets’
—traveled by many.

Some of these roads,
it seems, I have traversed
a million times.

Funny, really…
Even after forging a way
over and over,
I see new ‘things.’
Were they always there?
Maybe, Yes!  Perhaps, No!
Why NOW do I see
what has always been present?

Today, I often go off the grid
—a road less traveled.

In fact, pavement is not
beneath my feet.
Pure earth pressed between
the traction of my soles.

What name do I give this road?…

‘Faith,’ would be the name in this
present transition
manifesting the transformation
of my soul.

Often, a metamorphosis
takes place inside 
that I do not SEE.

How could I?
My eyes look out!
Yet, what I see in front
of me—
You, Countless others…
Human and not so human.

I gaze recognizing
we are ‘all’ in each other

—we are One.

We need to realize
that ‘we’ live within each other.
Your cells
a blending of mine
and, mine yours.

Maybe if we paused
—a little while
—heard our inhale…
     our exhale
—we would allow ourselves
    to be embraced by the
    very creation we dwell within
—groaning in labor
    to birth the love
    of our communion.

Perhaps, I’m learning—
ONLY now to live my Faith
—Walk in Faith.

Join me—
the road may be narrow
but, we can all fit.

Faith  tells me so!

 

Drops of Color/ Leap Frog

Drops of Color
Leap Frog

Remember the days of
hide-and-seek,
kick the can,
red light green light?

Do you recall
tag-you’re-it,
hop-scotch,
and running through the sprinklers?

Hour after hour of fun
from sun up to sun down…

No electronic devices found,
batteries were not included…or even needed.

The only ‘mouse’ discovered—
the one scurrying into the bushes because
of the sounds of little feet
seeking the perfect place to hide away.

We played leap frog…
Now, the memory at play
—one got so low to the ground,
the other ‘leaped’ over
and released a gigantic,
R-I-B-B-I-T,   R-I-B-B-I-T…

Places were traded, more boys and girls
rushed into the grassy pond.

Before we all realized,
the street lights turned on.
We hopped home.
We were asleep before our heads
touched the pillow.

Sweet dreams 
ensued
leaping over stars
until tomorrow

when we all
become ‘frogs’

once again

leaping into our imaginations.

***This poem is dedicated to ALL our children***

A Bridge I am…

A Bridge I am…

My ten fingers hold
starlight—
they are ropes dangling
from a celestial sky.

No matter how deep the 
darkness— the particles,
the hues of a million
galaxies allow the bridge,
I am, to sway.

And, no matter the storms
let loose,
my ten clay toes are the 
boards creating the 
walkway I am.

‘Here on this bridge, I am, between
star shine and clay.’

We are not two separate entities.
We are One significant masterpiece
allowing movement to flow.

Crossing this bridge,
I am at peace on both
sides.  The landscapes on
one end invite me into
a garden of endless wonder—
towering trees aloft with green
satiny leaves…
ah, I play in their branches.

On the other side, I plunge
into the ocean and I’m
draped in seaweed and an array
of sea life swims beside me.
I tumble with the tide
and I trust
the ebb and its flow.

‘Here on this bridge between
star shine and clay,’

I rest in its center.
I quiet myself
long enough
that the stars shine
from my clay toes
and, clay ropes
lead me into a Universe
I can only
discover in my dreams.

A bridge, I am,
and always
it leads me back home
to you
where stars and clay
first began.
Inspired by Lucille Clifton’s poem, “won’t you celebrate with me”

Drops of Color/ Lean In…

Drops of Color

Lean In…

The table set
— a lasting Supper…

that IS what Thanksgiving has come
to be—for me.

Is this a poem?  Lean In…

I often pause, held in the image of the 
Beloved Disciple, Apostle of Apostles,
leaning in to the One about to break bread,
share from the same cup, a sip of wine,
and then pausing, pausing long enough
to ‘still’ the table and each gatherer.

Room made to wash the feet
of every person in the space…leaning in.

I lean in…in Thanksgiving
to each of you reading these words,
who sometimes scroll down to see
the photo first, or take in the art work.

I lean in…like the one in Michelangelo’s Last Supper
listening to the lasting heart beat.

She held his silent actions,
breathed in his every word.

Wait?  Do you think I made a typo
by referencing the One beside
Jesus as she?
She, it is, I exclaim, leaned in.

Why?  Because it is what I hold
and lean ‘in’to.

An institution painted her to be
an adulterous woman yet, it was she who
remained at the foot of the cross,
it was she who announced,
“He” is Risen—it is she who leaned In
trusting as I do these words.

Today, as you sit at table,
I’m leaning in, held in gratitude
and Thanksgiving.

Each of us serves what we have been
called to create.

Take and offer your abundance.

Lean in to the life you have been given.

Share the fruits of plenty dangling
from the vine of your Divine Soul.

Together, let us create more space
welcoming everyone to dine.

Yes, even scraps are plentiful.

Today is a Feast, a feast of Thanks.

Lean In…
there’s room at the table.

 

Your Thoughts

Your Thoughts

Untie the strings
gathering the bouquet
wrapped around your
thoughts.

Breathe in the soft scents
of the petals alive and 
bleeding with colors.

Let fall those fragrant
soft shovels held around
each pistil.

Allow the flowers to submerge
into the dwelling place
that is you—
until thoughts
faintly visible
begin to hear
the gentle murmurs
of your heart.

Hear it?
Hold it?
Welcome its message!

Don’t be quick to 
understand it—
simply behold.

Don’t rush off
looking for miracles.

See yourself
as a miracle.
Created, created in
the image and likeness of______________.

Do you see yourself
as a miracle?

Now rise—
Go out with only that simple thought
and gaze upon
everything.
ALL things
created in the image 
and likeness
of sheer Goodness.

Your thoughts?

Drops of Color/ Empty Cupboard Shelves

Drops of Color

Empty Cupboard Shelves

Each item on the shelf
waiting to be received.

This cupboard full
—the anticipation of food supplies
    flying off these shelves
    to feed others.

Empty, empty, empty
the cupboards.

We can fill them again
and again and again
in hopes that one day
we can proclaim,

“No one shall be hungry…all are full.”

The cupboard shelves bare,
waiting to re-stock
from the surplus
right outside the door.

Pure manna from heaven.

Small Town

Small Town

In a small town,
all the doors to homes and businesses
were closed.

No one was out walking the streets—
even the traffic signals flickered,
a steady red on, off, on and off.

The church bells began to chime
at the same moment
the thunder struck.
Rain fell on this small town.

Suddenly, a window opened,
another was pushed out
followed by another.

A tiny hand reached out to
capture a drop.
This act was mimicked by
another small hand
reaching out from another window.

A game seemed to ensue.
‘Who would gather the most drops?’
Was there any significance?

Then, someone  wandering the streets,
‘arrived.’  Deluged by the storm, the 
hooded figure walked on.

The small hands gathering drops
seemed to know this stranger.
Out of their homes, the children came.

They approached the stranger.
Extending their hands,
they offered up the drops collected.

With glee, the stranger smiled and spoke,
“You understand, gathering drops of rain
is like speaking a prayer
without words.
We can change the world,
gathering drops of rain
to wash what needs to be healed.”

When the storm ceased,
countless buckets of water
were outside each establishment.
A few extra were in
the town center…
tiny creatures had come to sip and
had no fear.

The children left,
each one walking back to
their home.

The stranger vanished—
not a word spoken
but, a path made of drops
was visible beyond the town.

 

Drops of Color/ Home…again

Drops of Color

Home…again!

Your garment
changed in color
as the Season swept in.

You let-go.
The branch from which you dangled,
breathed a heavy sigh.

Landing upon wooden boards,
although you were not attached,
you felt yourself at home.

The connection—immediate.

The veins in your paper-like flesh
sought sustenance,
yet it was no longer needed as before.

You lie there beside others.
 A driving wind enveloped
whisking each of you away.

Carried off in every direction,
your destination—uncertain, unknown.

Still, you knew you were
making your way

Home—again! 

Message in a Bottle

Message in a Bottle

The ocean surged
and seemed to reach upward
pulling at raindrops, plucking
each one as if suspended from
a vine.

Standing on the ocean’s shore,
seafoam, like a blanket,
draped itself around my ankles.

Drenched was I, unmovable.
My feet inched deeper and deeper into the sand.

The tide rushed in
bringing with it a bottle.
I reached in time before
it engulfed me—
and…it pulled back out.

In my hand, I examined
the bottle containing a 
message.

It beat.

Was it my heart
or the pounding rain
drowning out any sound?

I opened the lid—
the paper slipped out.

I read each word.

I began to laugh out loud.

Did you, God, send this message
to me?

The rain splashing the page
caused each letter to vanish.

The note was not lost.
It became me—

now it is I who
carry the message from a 
bottle.

How I love a rainy day.

 

 

Drops of Color/ Notes

Drops of Color
Notes

Sheets set ablaze.
Scores of ballads ignited,
yet not consumed.

Every note a live ember
rising.

A perfect pitch
lights the rafters overhead
with music.

An inferno of sounds
cradles the room.

A blanket of crescendos
wraps around the listener.

Spellbound, the piece stoked
—a brief rest
—a crisp pop
—a sudden crackle
—sparks of vibrations
    extend coloring the pages.

Beyond the enclosure of the
concert hall,
a tiny bird flutters its
feathers.

When it sings,
the song inside itself falls like ashes
from heaven’s canopy.

Bravo, Bravo, Bravo.

Wings of flames
carry the sparks.

The sun calls it home,
setting into the western sky.

On the other side,
a fire being set
waits for wings to 
drop the flames.

The notes await
the conductor’s cue.

Chariots of fire
singe the sheets.

The song plays on
engulfed in cinder
holding a tune.

A Perfect Pitch

A Perfect Pitch…

as one petal 
unfolded into another
launching the ‘inner’ symphony,
one note after another
played itself.

The sweet scent perfumed
the air as each bellowing
trumpet unleashed an
Alleluia…

For this reason,
the flower’s purpose,
its sainthood revealed—short.

Yet, the song eternal.