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Drops of Color/ Windows

Drops of Color
Windows

Why do i go on sketching images
of windows…
leaving words on their ‘pane?’

I suppose it is the gazing ‘outward,’
and then I’m suddenly taken
back to lingering memories,
lasting moments.

I wipe the glass again
and clear the streaks.

Often, I leave the window wide open
letting in the rays of the giant flame
lighting the Universe.  I draw back
the curtains allowing the rain
to get ‘inside.’   I love the crystal
snowflakes, each one unique unto
itself, and my words slide down
the bank the drifts formed upon  
my sill.

When winds come, they rattle the
frame.  My words remain open,
the sketches illuminate a page,
and I find myself staring
into a future continuously
awakening, waiting

for each of us to open the
Windows of our Soul’s, realizing
we are all living what is in
front of us!

What’s your view?
What is the tapestry of life
opening through your spirit?

Break the glass if you are not
free to share.  Escape what tells 
you this is as far as you
can go!

Sit on the ledge of the window…
seek the wonder you are!

The greatest gain you’ll ever stumble
upon is becoming who you are…
not what the world expects!

Look out your window this day…

Can you see?

Totem

Totem

This totem
leads to here
and NOW…

Look no further than
this place you stand…

It is exactly where you
are meant to be.

Drops of Color/ …Take my Hand

Drops of Color
…Take my Hand

Oh, this night
 lures me.

I am like bait on a line
cast upon the black sea before me.

I walked dangled between starlight
and the night’s sky
where a light shines brighter than the sun.

Blinded am I,
as You  lunge
from the hidden depths
to snag me from the line.

I am held by You.
I am not afraid
that You will consume me.

I long to enter You
and You release me.

How do I express this love unfolding,
Beloved?

I cannot!

There are no words and, even if
I had them, WORDS cannot make sense.

Do I truly understand your intentions?

The love I seek is You.

I have known love through
endless encounters
—like the reading of the same
page over and over
until the words melt
into my Soul.

I wait for your love
that muses
in the night
like a song waiting for the melody.

There are no road
signs for this path.

No internet connections
link me to the outpouring
of your love.

You silently embrace me
and, when I believe 
You are gone, ‘lost forever’—
You set my heart like the moon
painted on a black sea.

Oh, the colors you allow me
to behold in these hours.

When the sun does shine,
your luminous presence
shines within me.

I wait
again and again
as you take my hand.

A quick note…
A gentle hand has taken mine.  A pilgrimage unfolds.  I’m off on a new path!
I will carry you in my backpack—until my return.
May the One holding your hand ‘always’ be with You!

Drops of Color/ Weights & Measures

Drops of Color
Weights & Measures

Balancing scales
—one side dipping down,
another side rising.

Who decides
the values placed
on the scale?

If we lived
the lesson

—to share our surplus
with the least of 
our brothers and sisters

—to satisfy those
who hunger and thirst

—to comfort those
broken, filled with anguish
because of unsurmountable
loss,

Then…really no one would be
entitled to set the scale.

We would all love enough
to see that ONLY
Love is the balance.

 

…the music

…the music
The tide is in
‘imagine’ the music that
shall ensue when the waters
pull each vessel out
dancing on the sea
changing its motion.

In Gratitude of Hours

   In Gratitude of Hours

“My life is not this steep hour
through which you see me being swept.
I am a tree standing before my background,
of my many mouths I am but one—
the one, indeed, that’s always first to close.

 I am the space between two notes
which, if wed, ring crossly:

For the death note craves finality—

but in their dark interval the two meet,
embrace again, and tremble.

And  the
beautiful song goes on.”

                                                                          ~~~Rainer Maria Rilke

In Gratitude of Hours

How do you pen
the correct words of praise,
of gratitude?

 How is it they flow like a river
and, at times, like a salmon pushing against the current?

 When words no longer suffice,
pictures form…
sketches, paintings, portraits, landscapes—each giving gratitude to and
for You becoming new again
as in the beginning.

 Gratitude often unleashes itself
like a fountain from my Soul…
no words, simply a crescendo of
vibrational humming rising, falling, growing
louder, and then, silently filling in the
spaces before another note plays itself
from the chambers holding my lungs.

 For these hours, I give gratitude.
And yes, too, and for You…
and yes, to all sentient beings.

 Praising life even in chaos,
we evolve, becoming new.
These hours of gratitude are
no longer chains that bind…
instead, they are hands, held open,
reaching out, touching, and joining
with a soft paw, the firm bark of
an oak, the sea and its sand
coursing through my fingers.

For these hours of gratitude,
I pause…

 The soft silhouette of the fern
invites me to stay awhile.
And so, I do.

 Always gratitude in my being
that You join me here
…in these hours.

 

 “I am not what happened to me,
 I am what I choose to become.”

                                            ~~~Carl Jung

A note of thanks for the kind messages shared regarding The Book of Hours. Many of you have inquired how you might read The Hours again in their entirety.
Simply go to www.onesingledrop.com    Click on BLOG and scroll back to the ‘beginning’ of The Book of Hours.
The penned words and photos were birthed during the height of  the pandemic and found their way to my 2022 website and are now concluded. 

 

…becomes

…becomes
The very stone becomes
the reflection in
the water just as the
water becomes the 
stone lapping the shore.

Book of Hours/ Final Hour

BOOK OF HOURS/Final Hour

 “We shall not cease from exploration,
and the end of all our exploring will be
to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

 ~~~ T.S. Eliot

Final Hour

Here we are…but where?
Weeks ago, at least it seems weeks, I sat before this
windowpane.  Outside, there you were…so, very far
away, yet, I felt if I simply lifted my hand,
my Soul and yours ‘touched.’ 
It was the messenger that
brought us here, joining us…
Spirit of Life, I did not
know you then, and yet, I did. 
Here I sit again, and
begin again this circular dance. 
I trust the steps
I have taken before, I am taking them for
a first time…NOW. 
Perhaps, the words penning
themselves on this paper make no sense.
Is it sense I seek? 
Heaven’s no…it is you I seek who is the
complete contradiction of any sense…
at least for me.
You are lasting…for even if I confuse myself
with ‘thought,’ You are a thread with no end.
You weave beginning a day.  Curling through the
eye of the needle, you swivel unseen through night,
stitching your way through dawn.  You ignite the sun.
The complexity of the day, a pattern you know…needing no
practice.   As dusk’s seam wedges into this exploration of life, the thread
unveils itself all the more releasing yet another strand
to make the journey again, and for a first time.

Pray with me…thank you!

 

 

 

…blessed Union

blessed Union
A small vessel 
—A vast crystal clear sea
—a blessed Union

Book of Hours/ 10:00 p.m.

BOOK OF HOURS/10:00p.m.

 “Preach the Gospel
at all times…
and if necessary
use words.”

 ~~~Francis of Assisi

10:00pm.         Hour

 The        pause      I         make
between     each        word
is       the      prayer    I   make      with
  words!

Silence         is    a       response    when
        the    heart       waits     for
  each            breath   and      trusts
              another        follows!

When      my      last     breath
                   taken—–     

               I         pray

the        hours         lead       me          back
          over         the      tranquil         paths
   I             have        wandered         and         allow
me          the      gift        of               knowing   I    am      in
                heaven     from        where   I   have
                           always     resided .

Pray with me in this hour…
11:00 p.m. will arrive next Monday—
Promise you will stay…invite another!
No worries if you pass.  I hold you in the hours remaining.

 

Peddled

Peddled
The bicyclists
rode in with the tide
and peddled upon the waves
letting-go of the handlebars.

Book of Hours/ 9:00 p.m.

BOOK OF HOURS/9:00p.m.

 “Follow the grain in your own wood.”

 ~~~Howard Thurman

9:00p.m. Hour

9:00p.m.—this hour has its own chord.
Each hour has played its own unique melody…
Each a separate key on the keyboard, and yet,
‘all’ these hours hold a melody, a harmony
that is lasting and eternal.  Each moment in
this hour, the stars glitter and, if you seek
this quiet place inside yourself, trust you will hear
The Big Dipper begin a hymn.  Orion will join in
and The Milky Way will splash a tune across the
night’s sky while Pleiades, the seven sisters,
lead an acapella.  Here I sit.  I start to hum.
The vibration begins in my belly.  This, my favorite
form of prayer.  I make it up as I go along.
A shooting star leaves a trail continuing the
refrain.  This hour, a chorus…everything
chiming in in this darkness.
Countless beams of starlight
illuminate the stage. I am dancing, and the melody rises.
A perfect pitch finds its way into the night…
Hid-den creatures, all with one accord
begin to ‘hum’ from their bellies.
The Universe is a concert breaking open.
Every player has a part in the performance.
This is REAL, this is life’s live
Production, and it is not put on for just
this night.  This show is sold out—
the curtain never closes.
Encore after encore…this hour, this holy
Hour, a lowly bird trusts its perch
and sings the world to sleep.
I find a branch to sit upon and listen…
I simply listen.

Pray with me in this hour—
10:00 p.m. will arrive next Monday—
Promise you will stay…invite another!
No worries if you pass.  I hold you in the hours remaining.