Two thousand eleven launched and birthed ‘One Single Drop.’
After nine years of expanding and unfolding new thoughts, heightened images, gripping photos, black and white sketches, inspirational messages, challenges, the expansion and expression of rings from ‘One Single Drop’ stretched so wide they appear GONE—yet, the MYSTERY was far from the TRUTH as a new direction appeared on the horizon and beyond the galaxies.
Two years ago ‘Sketch of Myself‘ took on an exciting journey based on Walt Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself.’ The weekly messages gave meaning to the birthing of new days as all life seemed to wake from silent whispers and the world was transformed into different shades of beauty.
Thursdays 2020 ‘DROPS OF COLOR‘ will continue a gradual unfolding of wonder.
The ‘mediator,’ the ‘inspirer’ holds a pen in hand and will dab hues of the Universe revealing the One who resides ‘inside’ each sketch.
The unfolding pages will be blanketed with poignant images and a smattering of words.
Drops of Color “Happy Thanksgiving” (Belated Thanksgiving greetings to my friends in Canada)
In this kitchen, there are many utensils…
Today, I’m handling the spatula of gratitude. Stirring again and again awaiting its gentle boil.
I add touches of spices. Each added ‘pinch’ descends into the enormous pot and an aroma ascends.
This day I prepare what IS with ‘thanks.’
This soufflé of words breaks open—
for all who read it is your ‘giving’ heart that reaches mine reminding me of the eternal banquet from which I daily taste.
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Each word, she recalled,
as if it were spoken directly to her, “Even the dogs get the scraps that fall from their master’s table.”
Many years have passed,
and she can ‘taste’ each syllable
as she has spent her lifetime
‘gathering’ scraps…each a fragment of her faith.
Her prayer beads dangle between
her disjointed fingers, fine instruments,
her hands—still soft, a tad wrinkled,
yet they remain open for the scraps
she shares freely.
Her faith has made her well
and, even as the glowing candle’s wax
of her being melts down,
a faint glimmer remains visible.
It is her faith that takes her into the darkness.
She does not fear…in her unknowing, she
trusts the ‘scraps’ of those who have made their way.
They leave, for her, soft hues
of penetrating light, places where her
footsteps can tread…a NEW path.
Death is not an end.
I can still see her shadow
as much as I long to ‘cling’ to her hand.
Her cane begins to fall…I have to let it drop.
I only pray to share the scraps of my
faith as well.
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An enormous ‘spattering’
of specialties assembled
Everything brought together
The finest details
—each a solitary note
—each playing its tune
on the scale
—a harmonic assembly
steel, hammer, nuts & bolts,
rails, beams and human
—every’one’ an instrument
in the design
ready to play their exact
rhythm, measure, when
beckoned by the conductor.
—gaps creating bridges
—the ability to cross over
and back to where
it all first began.
All the details laid
handed down through time.
Together, we have built
so very much.
Hard working hands
toiled to have a part,
to be a part of the dream.
wanting a place in the details
so that the dream could be
lived out in all.
Let’s work to make it
Opportunities for all
down to the last detail.
Only when each note
given a part in the details,
can we hear
the song as it’s
meant to be played.
let our IMAGINATIONS
bring to life the REALITY
—‘together we stand divided we fall…’
It’s really that simple
when we see
in one another
We are the bridges for our children’s
Let’s get busy on the details.
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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
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
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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
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
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.
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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
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
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
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—
How powerful ‘we’ SEE more clearly
in the dark solitude of
when we view only a small speck of
our shadow—that IS the True Self.
Does the False self come out in the Light?
Is it the illusion we pretend to be?
Wish to be? Hope to be?
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
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
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Ruth Bader Ginsburg
March 15, 1933 —September 18, 2020
May the rays
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.
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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.
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The earth rolled itself—
a small marble
gliding in infinite space.
From my perch,
the sun began to greet
a new dawn.
I held the rays spanning
beyond directions until
the inferno of flame
ignited the sky.
Staring into the sun,
my pupils engulfed in wonder—
I closed my eyes.
Inwardly, the flames
set fire to my soul.
Bang BANG Bang BANG
Bang Bang BANG
I fell to the brown earth.
I held Jacob Blake’s body—
I held his three small children.
Their memories will always hear
the sound of the explosion
as their father fell.
The ‘sun’ within Jacob
His father’s prayer,
a sung lament.
His mother’s voice,
a hymn calling for
unity…A United Nation!
Broken brown people
calling people to peace—
praying for those whose
‘shots’ created this scene.
We do not have ‘all’
the words to fill in this story.
How can we begin
writing a new story
—what will fill the blank pages?
New suns are out there
beyond our sites
extending the depths
that cannot be measured.
Let us leap from the ships
of certainty we have
Let us swim in a sea
and discover how
we can all stay afloat.
What profit if we gain the world
and my brother goes hungry?
My sister has no clothes?
Children have no place to call home?
We build more walls—
and a virus spreads inside
what we attempt to contain?
We shoot and then raise the Bible
and fail to see the blood
spilling from within that book,
that Holy Book.
Its final pages reveal a man
who chose death
instead of lifting a sword!
I cannot stop staring into
It has blinded my ability to see
these words I write
yet, ink splashes upon the page.
From the sun’s flames
exploding within my heart,
All I can see:
BLACK LIVES MATTER
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I never knew you, yet you showed yourself to me on the street…in a far off land.
You were painted in chalk. Your eyes sparkled—captivating me. Still…I had NO idea just Who was gazing into me.
I sketched an image of you to place within these words of mine
a wise Soul wrote back, “The Lady in Blue.” I paused, I held my breath. There was something about THIS Lady—
Her story… her story it is told —she never left her homeland of Spain.
Yet, she appeared…
Appeared in far off lands. Her DREAM—to Preach Good News.
The Lady in Blue appeared to indigenous people,
I cannot put into words how she revealed herself to me at THIS time.
Lady in Blue it is my heart in your hands.
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Persons come from all directions to visit this place.
When they look out, they can SEE a vastness beyond words.
Many purposely come to visit the two Basilicas dwelling in this city.
One Basilica enhances the Sacred Masculine— the Other, the beauty of the Divine Feminine.
The two individuals for whom these Basilicas were named would NEVER had wished these ‘glorious’ artifacts of artistry to be in their names.
What they would have desired, is that when One visits this lowly city upon this glorious hill,
they would LOOK outward and behold inward the manifestation
of the Source of all LIFE residing everywhere.
Yes…even upon this City on A Hill.
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Legs dipping under then quickly—reach up, and outward.
Higher and higher the wind attempting to catch-up.
I breathe~~~ ‘in.’
My feet caress the soft grass as I cascade above its feathery green blades.
I breathe~~~ ‘out’ closing my eyes.
In between breaths, the silent gap.
My eyes wide open…
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you gaze at yourself
through a shattered piece of glass.
Now, that’s telling!
But what is being ‘acted?’
Are you putting on colors
or whipping them off?
Who did you make yourself
out to be?
Certainly, the world loves a clown.
there is still you.
I think you love the you that
the crowd does not know.
Who are you once the mask,
the make-up removed?
You conveniently mingle through
the crowd and no one shouts,
“Hey, that’s the clown who had us
rolling in the aisles—”
the one who gently touched the child
on chemo and the little one smiled…
The parents cried—
it was an expression of Joy.
Then with arms spread wide you
embraced a senior citizen
all alone in a nursing home.
She raised her hand touching your face…
her first movement in God knows how
long—you could hear a pin drop.
I read about a person
who ‘touched’ the crowds
and would say, “Don’t tell
anyone what I’ve done…
go show yourself to the
priests…that will suffice.”
No one listened.
They broadcast the
acts from town to town.
There was hardly a
place the person
Hey, Who Are You?
Are you that
Your show lives on…
I still see the
Your nose still has
red paint on it.
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The soft green
strands of hair
rooted in earth
stood as if their
a pink feathered
and stood eloquently
balanced on one leg.
began its bow
for the artist
to see the curtain closed,
and then flying silently
to the standing
yet, not in words.
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Yet, when one is ‘blinded’
by the light, no one
A galloping silhouette
casts from a beam
radiating a golden glow.
A black velvet mane
hovers in the wind.
Light opens the path
as a tail
glazes a dawning
welcomed by night’s
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—dipping down —drawing in the endless drops that fill the spring.
A sudden rush~~~ water swirling
—spinning the wheel —holding barrels of sustenance for only so long.
NOW, the wheel spills like a waterfall
releasing its content refilling once more.
The circle —round and round it goes empty, full, pouring itself out…
Simple, to discover the Divine
—in a wheel —in the water —in the wood that holds long enough to let go over and over again.
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Is this a poem I’m beginning? Is it a conscious moral inventory? Black words are spilling across a white background. The ‘words’ are the fruit splashing from a pen.
I’m a white woman. Yes, a white, retired Peace (Police) Officer. I’ve undergone countless hours of training. Defensive tactics were taught to me and to other brother and sister officers. Never a choke hold was spoken of—nor role modeled!
One instructor, who taught us DWI (Driving while under the Influence) procedures, expressed first and foremost that when someone is intoxicated ‘we’ need to understand that the person’s JUDGMENT is impaired. The responsibility befalls the officer to handle the situation with great care, caution and safety for ALL— including self.
To expect an individual to ‘follow’ verbal commands when under the influence— the expectation is absurd.
The Use of Force continuum is there to protect persons… the aggressor and the one attempting to stop the aggressor(s).
Shots to the back. An individual fleeing…on foot. All information on Mr. Brooks available. A simple warrant could have been completed. An arrest made later.
Simple to write. Easy to say. I was not there.
Yet, I’m sketching another picture of a black man. A man whose life was taken and the law would decide a sentence.
There is a LARGER issue cracking open the stained-glass windows covering hid-den truths… NOW, things being filmed on camera —LIVE— and still questions… maybe he/she is guilty? A life gone too soon by the very hands called to Protect & Serve.
I have my own story —a knee taken to my neck (metaphorically). A situation dismissed… I was, according to investigators (at the top), an oversensitive female.
But, a wise teacher (MT Winter) guided me… It’s not the time to make this about my story.
This is about Rayshard Brooks, George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor countless others and…I pray, “NO more.”
I pray, “Lord, hear the cries of your people.”
Come, Source of Life…I pray.
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An empty chair, brooms, buckets, shovel, a hose and a single pair of clogs.
Inside… She’s setting a fire —a steaming cup of tea placed beside her rocker.
She is in from her garden. She’s picked the vegetables —she’s milked the cow and taken the creamy suds to the family down the road.
Three small children— Dad lost his job. Mom diagnosed with_________.
Several persons who await her produce ‘attempt’ to slip the woman a coin— she kindly smiles —shakes her head —closes her hand around theirs…tucking the coin ‘back’ into their possession.
Some in the neighborhood don’t even know her name.
She prefers to remain anonymous but, every once in awhile someone calls her out.
“What you see in me is in You” she whispers—
and moves on.
She walks to her home
there are many more like her.
Persons in the most ‘unlikely’ places changing the world.
The real saviors of the world NOT calling attention to themselves yet, LIVING each day caring
Caring for the earth giving her the bounty to share. Loving creatures who lovingly return sustenance as if appreciative of the love received.
You may vision a mansion differently but, THIS tiny place holds a treasure the world could not afford…
With the exception of LOVE in return.
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in case a predator seized upon one of the woolly lambs.
This time— there was a Giant.
A large ‘flock’ needed protection.
A few precious stones pulled from a pouch
A Giant fell.
A hush could be heard for miles and the ground shook.
A shepherd— the one no one even gave an account for—
He is still remembered as a king. And even he—fell. He stood back on his feet— remorseful.
Be mindful if you gather stones…
and how you might be called to use them.
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As I write these three words,
I keep hearing the sounds of
the hammer driving three
nails into the flesh of an
I hang my head—my lament so raw.
Unraveling the words, my white, feminine flesh
spills black ink from a pen.
I do not know how to
frame the cry within me, choking me.
I must write, but what?
I sought the words of a Dreamer…
“…Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia. Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain Tennessee. Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, and when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when ALL of God’s children, black and white, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”
~~~Martin Luther King, Jr.
28th August 1963
I wish to sing, but my tears flood my
wind pipe…I’m choking.
Mr. Floyd, the simplicity of my words
are an attempt to BREATHE for you.
Was this your life’s purpose…to ignite a flame?
Your purpose so much more!
Across the country, from Minneapolis, to Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Illinois, Utah and—
cries are heard.
Systemic shifts are caving in
amidst a pandemic.
Lives are being lost.
The Earth is quaking.
Will we all perish in our inability
to see we’re all FREE…we are all created equal?
God Almighty, how you weep now with us.
You breathed life into the dust of this landscape, brown soils, creating humankind…
my heart is not able to reckon what we are
living in NOW
this was/is not a part of your Design.
Come to our assistance—
Come, if ONLY, to embrace our sorrows.
Let us sit for a while in these ashes.
Let us bathe in the folly of all
May the loss of George Floyd’s life simply not be a moment we look back upon and ‘recall’.
Let freedom ring
until God Almighty we are all Free at last.
I pray my ‘eyes’ behold the Dream Come True
before I take my last breath.
Forgive me while I still breathe.
I cannot keep silent.
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Nor did ‘rock’ hold the weight of an array of limbs and twigs.
The branches were laced, intertwined, woven together on a bed of water.
Yes, this house built upon a weightless stream running slowly —rushing effortlessly down yonder.
The builder, out in the early hours of dawn chopped trees like a pecking of a chisel until…”timberrrrrrrrr.”
Yet, no sound heard except the pounce of the wood caressing the ground and then the mighty branch being hulled by a tug boat.
But, this boat has no motor.
An enormous tail works the water like a shutter —swift movements —a thrust forward then back finally arriving at home base.
The builder tugged, pulled, lifted and sewed the wood into the foundation.
Protected from the weathers —inside, one dry elegant room.
A family gathers. Day has begun —hidden they remain, until the first star appears.
The lumberers sharpen their teeth as off to work they paddle.
Their house on the water BUILT and fashioned with care.
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There it was lying on the path— a price-tag dangling from its handle.
Who lost this treasure? A simple red sand shovel… it held the potential to go ‘deep’ into the sand. Oh, what ‘one’ could create with this ‘toy.
Reaching down, I held it by its neck… placing it in my pack so that it was visible…why?
Days passed— the red shovel stepped with me, but it began to weigh down my being. “Let me dig,” it seemed to say.
I was not about to stop, and then in front of me,
a clear path— flowers strewn on both sides… scented walls greener than green cascading with blossoms… a pond of fresh lilies to my left —they held my gaze I heard the fall!
She was five maybe six— she was on the ground. She was hurt, she wanted to cry. A little hole was in her pant leg— her tiny hands cupped her tiny knee.
As she rose, her father grasped her hand. As she rose, the little red shovel in my bag climbed out.
As I handed her the shovel, a curve in her lips turned upward… a smile revealed.
“You, took a fall~~~ now you can use this shovel to dig for treasures… share with your brother.”
I glanced at the father and then the mother— their eyes spoke words that were not echoed aloud.
Then, the little girl holding the ‘toy’ in both hands, said without prompt, “Thank you!”
I walked on. I discovered the buried treasure.
(Excerpt from a Journal in Wales/Pembrokeshire Coast Path)
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Second, they dunked their heads coming up for air before a full immersion.
A baptism of fluttering ensued and the community gathered around the ‘font.’
They welcomed everyone before taking flight
even those without wings
who dipped mere fingers into the waters for a blessing.
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“This” coat stitched in love. The garment which I refer to IS the piece ‘inside’ the fabric.
One person responsible for THIS design is my mother. (amongst a host of others) She used various ‘strands,’ pieces, designer rags to form me. At times, in moments of her own sacred stitching, she would tear ‘patches’ of me. ‘Somehow,’ in my small mind, I knew— I simply saw her brokenness.
Without SEEING— my world became FULL of colors… deep reds soft blues gatherings of yellows blankets of greens rays of orange black like an empty kettle and white stars flickering without fading.
All the shades ‘fit’ me. I have attempted through the years, to ‘invite’ others to embrace the many colors of their coats.
Oh, the tapestries we are~~~ The forms holding our shapes.
Each of us fits this Universe.
Without YOU, this coat of creation would be less than whole and that pattern never was imagined without you.
You are part of the seam threading life without end.
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There is ‘something’ about moving with the current.
Moments can push us beyond the movement of the water’s flow.
Tossed off course, we discover a resolve within to find the path.
To accept the course D-signed.
Sudden wakes guide the bow into clear waters.
Gentle waves tickle the sides of our vessel.
Lifting our head, —Sails extended.
The wind blows—
“Divine Spirit” a presence reminding us
“I’m here I’m here I’m here.”
Climbing into the mast —looking outward
No land in sight—
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Please, don’t leave any coins— these flowers are my gift (for you…)
Their beauty—behold. Their soft scent—take in. Touch their petals—their skin. Hold their stem—fragile, yet firm.
Tend your bouquet of flowers even it be one or two.
Treasure the flowers picked this day just for you.
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the scent of the flowers’ sweet perfume fills your nostrils.
I remember your garden of roses.
I would listen from a distance as you clipped and trimmed.
A love song you would hum as the hot sun blanketed your back
and the roses unfolded
each and every petal.
Knowing, yes somehow knowing, you were singing a ballad for them.
You are no longer here and yet,
here you are in this paper rose garden.
Now… I close my yes— teardrops of tiny petals lace my cheeks.
And, smiling~~~ my heart beating softly
knowing you are not gone.
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I heard the ‘plunge.’ The ‘rings’ it cast while making its way to the sea’s bottom eventually splashed at my ankles.
Unaware of time, I see the tide slowly recede, and there I am standing in a barrage of rocks… some jagged, others smooth. There were stones the size of boulders, unmovable, unshackled. Yet, the water seemed to carry them with ease.
I bent low…’it’ was the stone I threw!
I picked it up, but then settled it back in its place.
In the moment, I became the stone carried in THIS life by infinite tides coming in, going out.
Where I am presently… is it my choice?
Only the tides will tell.
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Let loose your heart~strings… trust each note will turn out right.
Your words a melody— a hymn of effortless praise.
What is ‘inside’ of you —a concert of longing —an opera still searching —a rock band waiting?
Bring your yearning— Let ‘out’ the music that IS you.
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She ran… then she picked up her pace. The sounds of bloodhounds in the distance —in pursuit. She quickened her strides —they were after her.
There was no path— briers covered her garments branches slashed her ankles. At night, mosquitoes would draw her blood still~~~She ran.
In the evening, the North star pointed the way. By day, she covered the banks along side the river.
She fell to her knees when her captors drew near… “Show me God”…”You brought me this far.” She walked into the water… She never swam a stroke in her life.
The waters rose —to her knees —to her hips —to her shoulders.
She trusted and she crossed.
The visions she had— Were they from the blows to her head She ‘saw’ what was yet to come— She was haunted by the memories of her family being carried off, sold… Why? Because of the color of their skin?
She ran… making her way to freedom. BUT, she was shackled within knowing her people were enslaved.
Back she went… When she was told she should NOT because it was too dangerous, she refused to listen.
She listened to the voice speaking to her… Her God said, “Go, FREE my people.”
She fled ‘back’ into a villainous landscape where persons used/misused the Scriptures to ‘possess’ lives. Her God would not hold ‘kin’ to that~~~ THAT way would NOT lead ALL to the Promised Land.
Her God led all people, all things, all seasons to lands flowing with Milk & Honey.
Yet, history has a way of repeating itself.
We are all One… MANY believe this true.
Yet, there are still systems at work religions intertwined ‘laying’ down the voice of the gods they see themselves to be.
The same voices that passed (Fugitive Slave Act, 1850) the law allowing slave owners to return and reclaim their run-away property.
Again—she ran. Others ran beside her. She went back for the sake of OTHERS… For the freedom of others… this was her ONLY reason… her greatest gain.
Segregated still— she gathered her people like a mother hen.
She led them into battle, to fight for freedom.
Violence was NOT her nature— The scars of slavery, like roots, thread through her people’s skin. She would NOT allow tomorrow’s children and their children to carry those stripes.
Harriet— in which direction do we run today?
Spirit calling Harriet— lead the way Woman, daughter, sister of God.
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I SEE the window. I know what is ‘inside.’ Metaphorically, I was born between the pews.
At a young age, I was always drawn to the window— the light from ‘outside’ stained the glass in colors not a single word could convey.
I cannot give you a day, an hour when it happened but, somehow the glass shattered and I climbed out from ‘inside.’
I let go of everything except what I carried within—beating aloud.
Now, now that I am out I see someone has repaired the window… better yet, it has been replaced.
Wouldn’t want anyone sayin,’ “Another Gone.”
So, here I am on this sidewalk—
So many beside me.
Maybe ‘we’ are the broken pieces the light shines through
because from out here we are ‘in’ the dwelling place where not a ‘single’ One left out or restrained.
I have found heaven… it has been here all along.
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As the first chime begins to clang~~~ the coloring of the dawn ‘high-lights’ the sound.
A sweet caress of a face born anew.
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Sometimes I can sit for hours and the only words that caress the paper— the point of a pen… the rest ‘paint’ a picture…
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You have held the day casting light chasing away shadows.
You begin your descent giving way to the night.
The sounds of the ocean loud and fierce— I can no longer SEE the curl of the wave into the shore. Yet, I hear it crash.
Closing my eyes, I am lulled to sleep sweet dreams of light comforted like a blanket
in night’s fall.
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