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Face to Face

Face to Face

When I see you,

what shall you see?

Will I hear your voice?

Will my voice 
open like a new song?

Will time stand still?
Will the gaze
between us hold no space?

When I see you
face to face,

will I finally know
who I am?
And in this knowing,
realize
Who you are

and who you have been
all along?

 

Drops of Color/ Jonathan Price

Drops of Color

Jonathan Price

This is not ANOTHER sketch of a Black Man.

This is not a statistic of ANOTHER life
taken by the pull of a trigger…
the discharge made by a 
law enforcer, Peace Officer.

This IS an ‘IMAGE’ of a human being—
Created in the likeness of the One
who breathed life into this Universe…
The One who breathed life into the dust
of the brown soils of ‘Mother Earth.’

This is an attempt to ‘bring’ life
back to a life GONE too soon.

Every drop of ink—splashes a prayer
for Jonathan Price, his family, his 
friends, the one who took his life,
and for those who ONLY now have
come to know him because of this
‘senseless’ act.

This is a drawing of
a man whose life MATTERED…
especially because he was black.

You MATTER Jonathan Price.

May we not ‘rest’ until there is
Peace, Equality and Justice for
everyone whose skin
is a beautiful brown.

Life asked death, “Why do people
love me but hate you?”
Death responded, “Because you
are a beautiful lie and I am a pain-
ful truth.”
                                    Unknown

Night Rider

Night Rider

Late at night
or maybe
the early morning,

I step into
my auto.
I release the clutch.
The engine does not roar.
The sound of silence
releases the brake.

The pad of my soles
caresses the pavement
—the ride begins.

Along highways
and byways I go.
My vehicle does not putter
—it rolls.

We stroll through towns
long enough to know
it’s time…
Yes, time to get off the pavement…
time to create our own tracks.

We cut corners
—take wide turns.
Ah, the thrill of no traffic signals
or signs:
YIELD, STOP, etc.

The stars beckon.
I lift my feet
—the chassis
rises…we’re airborne.

I turn the wheel
as we maneuver
over steep mountain tops.

The ocean’s waves
glitter us with the salt of
the sea.

Desert sands create
castles as we hover
overhead

and fireflies join the
stars lighting our ride.

In the east a soft pink
hue revealed,
time to touchdown.

I shift the gears
—my soles again touching
the pavement.

I step out…
close the door.

Very few would believe…

but my night rider…

well, it also needs no keys.

Drops of Color/ Only a Dream

Drops of Color
Only a Dream

It was a dream.

Really, only a dream.

In the center of
a lush garden
stood a majestic tree.

The tree reached itself
beyond the sky.

Its leaves
oh, yes, 
countless leaves were a splendor
of cascading colors

AND

the leaves were the shape of hearts.

The wind picked up,
and I thought I heard ‘beating’
—one soft beat
followed by another and another.

Was it the leaves?
But how?

I rushed to the tree—
My heart awakening to the
strumming pattern. 
It, too, was listening.

I wanted to pull down a leaf
—just one.

But, then, right before my eyes,
the tree began to sway—
it moved left
then right.

I was beholden to a dance—
a sort of waltz.
Then, a soft blue leaf
let-go.

It crooned, hovered a while
until it settled itself
in the very palm of my
outstretched hand.

From the distinct time
the leaf ‘touched’ itself
upon me, something inside me changed.

How can I put it into words?

I was so ‘light’…
like the weight of a feather.
Yet, I was full
like a bucket of water
brimming over the edge,
spilling itself without end.

I wanted to pick a few leaves so
that I might send them to

WHY…EVERYONE.

Yet, as I reached,
I was held back.

The tree, THIS season
it seemed to say,
“This is ours to do.”

With that, a gust
swirled like a whip of a tail.

Several leaves let-go
floating on to their destination—
wherever that may be.

The time, the season ahead,
was a time for rest
as well as a time
of renewal.

A transformation of new colors
would be born again
come Spring.

I let-go of the blue leaf in my hand.
It was not a possession
or a keep-sake…
it was a companion, a guide.

I woke from my dream.
I was draped in a brilliant blue.

Wait, am I still dreaming?

No, I was wide awake.
I could hear ‘beating’
—a soft melody.

From my heart to yours.

Grow Brightly
and let-go.

The Fall

The Fall

How it happened
I haven’t a clue…

A crisp, clear morning dawned.
The forest was filled with sound.
Birds sang beside
leaves clapping their hands.

I heard the sound of my bicycle’s wheels
as they kicked up stones.
This was a ride I enjoyed so many
times.  I knew
each curve in the path
even with my eyes closed.

Suddenly, I was airborne.
 I remember my shoulder
‘touching’ the ground—
HARD.

Everything went black.
I do not know how long I was out
before I heard my name
called aloud.

Quiet now.
I was in search of my breath
and, when it came, I found
my glasses and was drawn
to the voice calling
my name.

My limbs
I knew broken, fractured.
I managed to walk my bike
home—the fall produced a new ride.

My flesh, in different
areas of my body began
changing colors—
deep purples, jaded greens
soft yellows.

I moved slowly but
I moved.  Sometimes
I cried but the tears
were that of ‘thanks.’

Earth padded my fall…
How so many things that
could have been 
brought me into this 
changing season
gifting my own being
with a deliberate
physical change.

Much unknown—
there are blanks left
never to be filled in.
A sort of dying has taken place while I breathe
—life sweeping away what no longer
seems to matter.

Another season
will approach.
For now, I AM living
The Fall.

Drops of Color/ The Poor Man

Drops of Color
(A Pilgrimage Journal Entry/Camino St. Francis September 2019)

The Poor Man~~~
the beggar man from Assisi—
is that you?

The winds whispered through the trees—
the leaves clapped their hands.
“ALL Praise and Glory” sang through
a tiny pink flower on the side of
the trail~~~

Yes, now I know it is You.

A painted blue sky…a picturesque sea
washing itself above my head—
while the sun holds it center and
I feel myself revolving with you
Brother Francis, poor man,
beggar man~~~Lover of Creation.

Walking toward Assisi
the dust rises like incense with my
every step.
Small stones, large stones, lie in the
valley…an uncharted path giving way
to mountains dipped in soft clouds.

You’re near poor man, beggar man~~~
the Lord’s Troubadour.
You sang creation’s love song
and Praised creation’s Lord.

Your story Blessed Francis
lives on.
Sister Death came for you~~~
You welcomed her.

You’re here poor man,
beggar man from Assisi.

The Christ in You
is the Moon’s Fullness…
the Light, the Darkness—
Your friends.

How powerful ‘we’ SEE more clearly
in the dark solitude of 
our beings
when we view only a small speck of
our shadow—that IS the True Self.
“No? Yes?”
Does the False self come out in the Light?
Is it the illusion we pretend to be?
Wish to be?  Hope to be?

Poor man…
Beggar man…
You lived the journey simply—
it was yours.

I live mine
through your words.
“Who am I?  Who are you, Lord?”
Some days, I feel further from the discovery
of the answer to these questions
AND my being “Rejoices.”

In some ways, my prayer so small—
Pray, “I NEVER know.”
So like you
Poor man
beggar man from Assisi…
I walk on like you till
Sister Death takes my hand.

Francis, One day I’ll walk beside
you in the stars…

For now…I’ll simply bow
in Holy Wonder.

Feast Of Francis —October 4th

Alive

Alive

You think
simply looking at me
that I am gone…
only my life-less branches
remain.

But, I tell you—
I AM alive.

The color surrounding me—
The blue sky
moistens my aged bark.

The brown soil~~~
my bedrock.

Down, deep~~~
the silent darkness
the womb of my being
 is from where I began.

My roots stretch
so far down—
the naked eye does not see.

So many dispel the dark—
cast it off as something not ‘good.’
Yet, it is from the 
spring of blackness
light became
Manifest.

In Oneness, dark and light
blend the Universe
beyond our narrow ‘scopes’
of belief.

So, NOW,
look at me again.

Even if I one day fall
to the earth—
I will rise again.

How?

If I gave you the
answer—would you
really believe?

 

Drops of Color/ Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Drops of Color

Ruth Bader Ginsburg
March 15, 1933 —September 18, 2020

May the rays
which extend
through her shadow’s passing,
ignite within us a passion
—to bring truth to light,
—to forge peace,
—to live justly,
and to humbly walk with
the ‘Source’ of life
seen in ‘countless’ faces,
cast from a host of traditions
stretching beyond horizons unseen
trusting that LIBERTY 
is meant for ALL.

You’re Asking Me?…What Hope is?

You’re Asking Me?…What Hope is?

Hope is waking up
—taking in that first
conscious breath,
and whispering a silent
Thank you!

Hope is,
when that final breath taken
a soft voice whispers,
“Thank you for Coming!
You’re Home.”

Drops of Color/ A Treasured Map

Drops of Color

A Treasured Map

I have sought a treasure—
a hid-den gem
unseen and, yet, visible
—so I’m told.

I’ve spanned countless miles on foot…
Endless terrain.

I’ve followed endless maps.
I’ve utilized devices
pointing the way.

Did I find the treasure
you ask?

Well…
Here is what I can tell you~~~

When I have set out
and stepped ‘off’ the map,

I have found
the pearl of great price.

I did not bring it back with me.
Others are searching for it.
I know them when I see them
(The Ones who’ve discovered the pearl)
and they know me.

Yes, once you find it—
it’s within.

Keep it there—
‘stay’ off the map.

Trust the direction guiding you

—it’s your course to journey.

Beloved

Beloved

Eyes painted with stardust.
Suddenly a ballad playing itself
caused me to rise.

A flutter of strings
accompanied by pecks upon keys—
was this a dream?

Wrapped in my comforter,
a soft feather caressed my brow.
I held open the palms of my hands to 
receive this prayer
and, I felt the soft wings
nestled upon my flesh.

I flew from beneath my
covers.  I sought out in search
of the One who lay this gift
for me to receive.

Into the forest I traversed.
The majestic trees towered into the sky.
Their branches, like a conductor’s hands lifted,
calling each note to begin to play—
dawn would soon be here.

I said, “Please, please tell me—
I seek my Beloved.  They have left me
this feather…please have you seen
my Beloved?”

The leaves giggled.  I hurried my pace
—my breath, a song…
Urgent was my tune.

A deer stood in the mist seeding the valley.
Ears lifted as I cried out…
“See this feather, it belongs to 
my Beloved…help me find my
Beloved before the sun lifts
its pregnant rays across the sky.”

Drops of dew held on every blade
of grass.  I lay down soaking myself.

“Beloved, sing to me, I’m here.
Come, gather me in your wings—
Let me soar with you
to unknown places.  Let us orchestrate
an Opera for those with
ears to hear.”

A rush of wind whipped through
my hair—but, it was not the wind.

Gazing into the horizon, a pair of
wings stretched wide.

One day, I will come for you.
Your time has not come.

Now, you must sing your song
—strengthen your wings
—soar.

You are the dawn
creating the cast for a New day.

I stood and began walking
—each step as light as a feather.

I could not stop singing.

Drops of Color/ Please, Please, Please…

Drops of Color

In Memory of Daniel Prude, 41
Died March 30, 2020

Please, Please, Please…

This poem can 
barely      write        words
 to          breathe.

I pray the image
holds a ‘human being’
without a bag over 
his head.

Please, please, please
let us come together
in the Oneness we
already are.

Amen