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…become the wave

…become the Wave

I dive.

Leaping no longer an option.

A force pulls me into the open sea.

I am not adrift.

Almost immediately, I am fashioned
into the swirling drops within which I am
now gathered.

A natural flow
—a rhythm undefined
—a sacred dance formed
     is now playing itself out.

In a solitary sweeping motion,
I am part of a wave…no, I have
become the wave.

Effortlessly, the substance of each
enmeshed drop follows a pattern
—one not designed, yet one
    seemingly written on unspoken pages.

Rising to a crest
—an unexplainable high
delving into a curl
—a hallow tunnel absent of any drop,
     yet held by each ‘strand’ of water.

The curl rolls over into its Oneness
—into the sea from which it has come
     and again, the creation of the wave
—the repeated pattern
     discovering itself for a first time
     until suddenly it discovers the shore.

For a moment, reunited with the sands of time
—like two lovers they embrace
     knowing they must depart…
     holding one another
—never forever.

And, the unknowing realization
they are never parted.

Their hearts linked to the vast
ocean of life carry them beyond.

Submerged in wonder
—in hidden depths.

Only now, am I learning to breathe
‘under’ water.

Drops of Color/ The Gate

Drops of Color

The Gate—

it is not so narrow.

In fact,
if you simply ‘lift’ the latch,
it opens.

In fact,
if you’re unable to lift the latch,
there IS someone to lift it for you
—trust.

In fact,
the truth is ALL are welcome to enter
through this gate.

—You don’t have to DO anything
     to gain access
—You don’t have to be a certain race
     to pass through.
—Your religious background/affiliation
     do not matter…
     in truth—if you wish to leave
     your beliefs at the gate’s entrance,
     you can OR you can bring them through!

Because, what’s in your heart
is heard here.

Beyond the gate, the path is inclusive.
No judgements.
Sticks and stones are on the ground.
There they lay unless you pass a pond
and wish to toss a rock and gaze at
the circles growing wider and wider.
The sticks make great kindle for
evening campfires beneath stars…
white diamonds
glistening in a cascading black sea.

The gate.
There is so much more to be said,
but, lift the latch—

ENTER

it is open for all.

It may be a bit
narrow.
Everyone can pass through.

Pilgrimage

Pilgrimage

Out of the sea,
I surfaced.

My tail morphed itself
splitting in two
—delicate stumps began to bend.

I was held in a moment of silent prayer.

Two feet sprang and I stood.

Limbs branched from a torso, like a breast plate,
and I reached skyward.

Ocean drops fell
upon earth’s bed.

I stepped and could not stop.

I was no longer held in a sea of blue.

I traverse a bed of green.

A hawk soared above my head,
I lifted my arms.
I began to fan each limb
faster and faster.

I was no longer on the ground—
this PILGRIMAGE so utterly new.

I looked down… ‘inside’ I said,
“This cannot be happening…
            I cannot—fly”

The hawk swooped beneath me—
its feathers became a bed for me
to lie upon.

My arms grasped the magnificent
wing span—I closed my eyes.

I don’t know where this pilgrimage began
or where it shall end.

The hawk led me to the sea,
I dove in— forever.

Drops of Color/ Solitary

Drops of Color

Solitary

The sea is
relatively calm—
white caps were making
their way before the
horizon’s line.

A solitary boat
rested along the edge
of the rising tide.

Stepping into the boat,
I cast off,
thrusting the oars
over the edge.

The winds rose
as did the vessel.

Carried into uncharted waters,
I reached, but there was
nothing to hold.

I let-go.
How do you let-go of nothing?

I heard a splash,
then another.
Dolphins were gliding alongside
this wooden boat.

A seagull landed
on the bow.
It let-go of the wind
long enough to hold
this present place.

Where am I?
This place?
Where are the waves
carrying me?

The sun has set.
The only visible direction
—an ocean of stars.

The rocking
has cradled me enough
that I closed my eyes.
Did I sleep?

The moon rises
from hid-den galaxies.

I am not alone.
Invisible oars lap the water.

I am destined for
the Unknown.

I know you’ll greet
me when I arrive.

Whom am I kidding?
You are the Vessel
I AM within.

See the faces…

See the faces…

Today.

I am praying.
(call it Meditation, Tonglen or Contemplation)

Not for me.

Not for you.

I am whispering into
the Universe
for our World 
gone asunder.

I cry out,
“What is Truth?”
“Where is Justice?”

See the faces of
innocent tiny eyes,
fragile minds
listening to adults—

listening, observing adults!

Grown-ups,
unable to communicate
without hurling 
words children are taught
not to repeat.

My prayer is for them—
‘our little ones’
that they understand
we make mistakes,
yet we get up and 
try again.

We forgive, we turn the other cheek.
(We do NOT inflict harm—we extend kindness at ALL costs)
We stand beside each other so that everyone can be fed.
—Fed with meals curbing hunger
—Given clothing so no one is left naked or cold
and shelter for those who do not even know
the meaning of the Dow Jones. 

This is a simple prayer,
I know,
filled with hope
while I still
sit beside woe.

Sometimes, I wonder,
Have you heard a single word?

Then I grow quiet,
no longer a word to utter.

I know you are here.
I need not worry about
tomorrow.
Yesterday has passed.

I will sit a while longer…

Prayer truly never ends.

Drops of Color/ Seven Hanging Pots…

I share this poem through tears…

My eyes swollen, I can barely read my own words…

NOW…
—Let us maintain kindness
—No matter how broken
     may we act peacefully
—May LOVE transform
     what at present remains unseen!

May we ‘see’ beyond the chaos all that is GOOD!

Drops of Color
Seven Hanging Pots
(In the Beginning)

Seven pots hung upon a 
wall beneath a window
hid-den behind a pair of shutters.

The sun was shining.
The first pot began unfolding its petals
and a voice was heard just inside the shutters
—“This is GOOD.”

Suddenly, an enormous cloud strolled across
the sky shading the light.
The second pot said, “I feel drops of water”
and the same voice whispered
—“This is GOOD.”

The third pot could barely hold back its refrain…
“my soil is so rich & fertile, look, look, see
all my seeds coming to fruition.”
The voice chimed in, “this IS all so very Good.”

The fourth pot shared with the others
an epiphany, “we are growing, changing.
At night, we seem to close.  During the day
we are so fresh and vibrant.  We have hung
here for some time and look what we have
weathered and continue to become.”
The voice said, “Ah, yes…very Good.”

The fifth pot giggled as little birds
and insects played in its gentle space.
The sixth pot noticed creatures
on the street below
and laughed along with the fifth pot
as the voice again softly uttered,
‘This is Good.’

Then, the seventh pot called
for silence.
The shutters opened.
A man and woman appeared in the window.
They gazed out at the lovely pots.
“We promise to tend to you.
Thank you for sharing your splendor
and beauty with all.”

The voice, like a song said,
“Alleluia, this is Good”
and took time to rest.

Satisfied

Satisfied

The time—
the hour…I know not.
Yet, it was as if a 
symbol clanged
and a host of drops gathered
from a Source
wider than the sea.
Into the skies they soared—
higher and higher
they climbed
until they were out of sight.

Silence ‘broke.’
With a rush,
the sound of stampeding horses could be heard
across a barren desert.

Hoof beats showered downward.
There was no rhythm—
but a melody.
A harmony was heard that could not
be transcribed.

Notes fell splattering
the surface.
Every drip, each drop
crescendo
into pools of sweet sounding
echoes
playing on, and on, and on.

Standing in this musical,
I cupped my hands
as they filled with water.
I drenched myself
refilling the cup
to drench myself again.

Then, I stepped out
as if in the center of 
the stage.

I was deluged
until not a speckle of
me remained dry.

A thirst rose in me
“Fill me more,
Fill me more…
so that I can bring it to others.”

—Satisfied—

I splashed these words for you…
hoping you are soaked in wonder.

Drops of Color/ In Our Hands

In Our Hands
A painted ceiling 
began its formation.

In this year’s beginning,
here’s a simple reminder

Drops of Colors
splattered with ease…
Images ‘ran’—one into the
next…the ceiling draped
like a curtain.

Without notice, the curtain
became engulfed in flames—
yet, the ceiling’s images
were not consumed.

Instead,
the paint burned with
crisper colors.

How could color become
more vibrant than 
it already is?

Pools formed and I 
dipped my pen.

Faces, millions of faces…
Young, old and in between—
Furry faces, long beaks,
slender gills.

What was being painted?

In Our Hands…images.

Images of teachers coordinating
parades…children with parents—
a line of cars.  Neighbors
outside, keeping a social distance
holding signs,
“I LOVE YOU, ‘Ms. TEACHER’…
I MISS YOU, ‘Mr. TEACHER’…

Stuffed animals littered the dashboards
of vehicles.  Window sills
and doorways held hearts.

Simple words written, “Thank you.”

Ordinary classrooms linked via 
Zoom…extraordinary!

iPads were given to those without
proper tools.  Many
simply wanted to learn…(so many unable).

My paint dried for a moment
until another pool drenched me.
I witnessed truckers delivering food, grocery store
attendants ringing-up customers—
our Seniors first.

Our wise guides, needing
our care—they the most
susceptible/vulnerable to this
invisible predator.

What hovers knows nothing
of religion, race or creed…
gender, sexual orientation or
political affiliation.  It cares less about
borders, boundaries and 
surpasses the length of the sea.

A pandemic is what spread
and so, too, Drops of Color.

First responders…EMT’s,
Fire Fighters, Police
were out to Protect & Serve.

To Nursing Homes, Hospitals
 the CARE providers came…
gloved, masked,
 gowned. 

Doctors, Nurses, Mechanics, Dietary Aids
reported for shifts that never
seemed to end.

People were talking— others were
listening.

Stars were visible on clear nights
and animals walked the forests
where traffic once stood
bumper to bumper.

Again, my colors dried—
the number of persons
taken by this virus still grows.

Tears became a pool—
A lament painting itself.

From a distance, ‘WE’ touch
—a love-making in motion
—an intimacy
     unfolding, yet far from revealed.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you
for ‘looking’ at THIS ceiling…

it is far from over
in fact, it has just begun.

What will lay itself out,
I cannot begin to know.

The Source I call upon,
the Divine essence
that guides ‘this’ hand,

does not say much at all.

INSTEAD,

An Invitation…
‘It is in Your Hands’
 to go into the World to
Love, Serve, Create,
Hope, Inspire,
Shed a tear,
Laugh until your heart breaks.

Let nothing divide.
Let communion be shared with ALL.

May we SEE in each other
The Sun
and realize we are all One.

                                   —The Painter of Ceilings

A Novel

A Novel

A beam of Light
—like a series of words
—descends ‘into’ a flower.

Each letter becomes a petal.
The stem forms a sentence
while each leaf a paragraph.

The One who gazes is
drawn into the heart
of a Novel—blossoming.

Now, the light transforms
the beholden and the beholder.

Truly, this is how it has
always been

ONLY the light broke any
divide of it not being so.

Drops of Color/ The Night of Christmas

Drops of Color
The Night of Christmas

Twas’ the night of Christmas
and I lay covered in bed.
Thoughts of this day
wrapped the gift it had been.

It began beneath
stars made manifest
in the dark and the chill
of winter’s wonders
glistened upon branches
and homes
dressed in lights.

I walked into a 7-Eleven
to purchase the news of
this day and I was
greeted by a gentleman.
“Merry Christmas” and I wished
that were the headline for the day.  
Before I reached
what I’d come for, I looked
at this man…
I asked him what tradition
was his on this day.
He quickly responded, “I’m Buddhist.”
I bowed as I spoke “Namaste”
and we hugged in the aisle.

Off in my sleigh,
I took off in the night
to a Starbuck’s for tea.
Again, to my joy-filled 
surprise…a choir of angels
shouted with glee, “Merry Christmas”
and I ordered my hot cup of
Earl Grey.

Then at the window,
a young man stood.
His name was Muhammed
and morning greetings ensued.

I asked if he celebrated this day.
He told me he was Muslim and will
celebrate come Spring.
I thanked him and said, “We share
the same sky…” he gazed out the 
window, looking up at the stars.
He spoke, “That’s beautiful” and 
again my sleigh pressed on.

I held the hot liquid
close to my lips.
Before I could drink,
I had to swallow my tears.

The Incarnation
of this day
is NOT only THIS day
it’s each and EVERY day…

The birthing mystery
broken open
IS for all.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah,
Blessed Kwanza, Happy Holidays

and to each and everyone

A Good Night.

What IF…

What IF…

What IF the stories
are TRUE?

What IF a mere child—
a girl with a name
we know as Mary
WAS overshadowed
by ‘some-thing’ other
THAN a man.

What IF she bore
a child…
not even she could
understand.

What IF—
Water really was turned to wine?
And baskets were filled
with leftovers…
some little boy (nameless) gave
the last fish he had—
NOW everyone ate
and was FULL.

What IF
these miracles TRUE?

Perhaps, then
might come true
the words…
“You, too, shall do
even greater things than these.”

The deaf could hear—
The blind could see—
A leper cleansed—
A hemorrhage ceased—
A prostitute ‘touched’ so 
she would know she’s loved— 

What IF
we looked closely
and realized
these daily miracles
go on

By persons
who daily whisper…
“Don’t tell anyone”

What IF?

Blessed Winter Solstice

Drops of Color/ Glory & Wonder

Drops of Color
Glory & Wonder

In a lowly valley,
stood a towering pine.

Lofty needles
formed its lengthy arms
lifting toward the sky’s ceiling.

A whisper from the tree
rose like the sound
of a hand sweeping across
a harp’s strings.

“Oh, glorious stars,
you illuminate this silent night.
To you, I raise my branches
in endless waves of gratitude.”

A pregnant pause
was heard.
The stars seemed to 
‘glow’ in splendor.

Like a host of angels,
they gathered their sparkles of wonder.
 One star hovered softly
floating effortlessly
adorning the top of the pine.

In harmony, a voice,
its face blinded by the brilliance of light made manifest…
Beckoned.

“To you beautiful tree…
WE give thanks.
Together, let us reveal
the Glory & Wonder
of Creation.”