A Potter’s Wheel

A Potter’s Wheel

The moon drifting
into the depths of the western sky.
Deep blue shades laced with hints
of lavender.

An arm’s reach—
stretching across the ceiling overhead—
the eastern ‘print’ growing in 
hues…pink, orange and other splashes
unwritten by crayola.

Softly, my steps crunched the ground
frosted in winter’s bedroom…
The season invited me ‘in’
as did its roommates…

Before my eyes,
clinging to the ground,
—a Great Horned Owl.
Wings outstretched like a canopy…
in its talons a small bird
—its prey.

We shared a glance,
but the meal was his.

Lofting itself into the skeletal trees,
he carried the feathered creature…
—its weight did not encumber his 
take off.

Perched in the branches,
he looked first to his left
then he turned to the right.
Suddenly, like a potter’s wheel, his
head twirled effortlessly
scanning every which way.

I stood motionless—
He flew deeper into the woods.

I walked
glancing left
then right.

I twirled
beneath the sheets of
clouds just overhead.

I tumbled to the frozen earth.

Was I prey?
or was I predator?
Was I both?

The silent echo of my breath
lifted to meet the frozen particles
joining the vapor spewed from
my being.

This bedroom I was held in
was both ‘comforter’
and a final place of rest.

Who’s There?

Who’s There?

Tiny ‘dimples’—
light beams
like a face filled with
the dome above my head painted in stars.

The wind hollowed—
my steps not my own.
I was pulled in the direction
of a ‘breath’ guiding
each ‘sole’ planting itself.
I, a mere vessel.
The sail of my being
thrust in the current’s flow.

But, then
a sudden sound.
What was it?
It, too, held in the swirl
and it pushed drawing nearer 
to me.

I did not look back…
Instead, I picked up my pace,
yet, whatever was behind me
seemed to be doing the same thing.

‘Crackle,’ then ‘crunch’…
then, one long chord~~~
a musical note struck
skidding across
earth’s skin.

Before I had a
moment to turn,
the wind caught me
from behind. The pursuer
clung to my back.

A soft blow~~~
the equivalent of a gentle caress.

After its ‘strike,’
it delicately
hovered until it touched
the ground.

I began to laugh!
You, again…
You, show yourself
in a vast array of splendor.

Again, the wind gathered itself
carrying a ‘leaf’
and me
beneath the night’s sky.

Drops of Color…The Ceiling


The Ceiling

The scaffolding—
a wooden floor.

hay-like as I lie on my back
nestled in.

Over my head—
a matte.

From a quilted tip
a simple line flows—
another follows.

In my memory—
traces of masterpieces a hundred years and
beyond filled a ceiling.

NOW—I AM ‘re-creating.’

A space between—
stories, divine revelations…
meaning, understanding, lasting

All GOOD, even with dark shadows
casting sides un-frightened to be

The artist long ago…
A Soul bleeding colors

so, too, I.

The ceiling—
the one above my being
rumbles then quakes…

I am being MOVED—
I slide across wooden floor boards.

Jabbed—my hands, my feet
my side

I am bleeding.

The ceiling ‘cracks’—

I cannot leave
the colors 
seeping from within me.

Drops of Color
re-creations forming.

A tree holds 
the center—
Roots spread infinitely in an
expansive Universe.

For a moment…
I stand

I will be back—
simply going for
MORE colors.

The ceiling,
THIS matte,
a Dome of Transformation.

Sketch of Myself/Crack Open

Sketch of Myself/Crack Open

Crack Open the shutters…
Colors are on their WAY!

In Gratitude and Growing Love for two years of journeying with me through Sketch of Myself
Inspired by Walt Whitman poem “Song of Myself”

This Moment

This Moment

No words write themselves.
In a deep forest,
I stand…

Nestled in pines
embraced by ivy
covered by maple leaves.

Songs sung
in clicking branches…
the wind whispers through
and throughout.

I am held…
Looking up
a ceiling of blue
reveals I am NOT lost
in this forest.

In fact, I could not be more found
than I am in this moment.

A tiny feathered friend
breaks the silence…
a cacophony of notes.

This ‘piece’—written…
The words of her song

I do not know…

Words end here…

For now

Sketch of Myself/ Menorah

Sketch of Myself/ Menorah
Light the Menorah—
each branch
awaiting the festival Hanukkah

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

At a loss…

At a loss…

for words.

And, yet…they steep
from this pen

running over the cup
filling spaces all around
the saucer
the bubbling liquid
of fluid—
and vowels.

At a loss…
a bridge forms
allowing me to cross
the uncharted stream
of fluidity.

Rising inside of me
a tide—
from where it comes
I do not know.
Nor, does it matter.

At this loss,
I am finding what
flows from within the
‘spring’ I AM

Without needing
any longer
direction, ideas, thoughts, guidelines
rules—from others.

I trust what pools
from the hid-den depths
of my being—
treasure chests of GAIN…
gold fashioned from
the fire
cooled by the waters
dripping over me.

The sea
I have become—
Vast, open, timeless—
fierce, calm, soothing,
tumultuous, unending.

At a loss,
I step ashore
gather my breath
and jump back in.

The splash—
a single drop.
I am alive in all the ripples
finding rest in every wake.

Sketch of Myself/Silent Wonder

Tis’ the Season

Whatever ‘phrase’ you choose to extend—may it carry the message of our Universal ‘ONENESS.’
“We” have all been gifted with dwelling on this Glorious planet~~~
You are a part of EVERY shining star…

Gazing with you in Silent Wonder…

Sketch of Myself/ Silent Wonder
One branch
then another—

Each tender shoot
curled into the other
discovering a silent longing—
a resting place.

Forming a circle
—no ending
—no beginning
the pines hang
on a brilliant star.

Many would come to gaze
upon the site
and were changed forever.

May the season
find you ‘gazing’—
leaving you in silent wonder.

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”



There is an art
to knowledge.

A blank page
suddenly filled with
colors, shadows, images.

A scene is displayed—
it carries ‘truth.’

A story revealed…
a simple glimmer
until another ‘matte’
is set upon an easel.

This time new shades
scatter the naked canvas.

I trust ‘knowledge’
to be like THIS.

If ‘truth’ ever be a ‘fixed’
held in a frame,
I pray I know enough
about knowledge to toss
the image into the flames
where ashes will rise
carried away by the wind

AND invite me to
long enough
and embrace the invitation

THAT knowledge
invites the creative soul
to discover
its ever growing wonder

never to be chiseled
in stone.

Stones crumble.

The gift of knowledge
is the ever-increasing
to strengthen, to surpass
all we ever thought
we understood.

Sketch of Myself/ The Direction

Sketch of Myself
No matter the direction—
discover the wind,
unleash the sails,
and go ‘in’ the flow.

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

A Call to Act

A Call to Act

A call
loud, emphatic, running on,
and on, and on.

A lowly other
sits quietly
refraining from ACTING…
taking the moments
necessary to gaze ‘into’
a window within.

Who are you?

Only you can respond—
filling in the blank.

Your actions can be
pure when you do not
re-create what the obstacle
before you is—the one you scream
at, protest—even jab.

It is exactly what is in the window…
It’s your MIRROR

Let your actions
be a reflection only of love.