At night I hunt the sea for you…

At night I hunt the sea for you…

Quietly, I creep down to the shoreline—
my footsteps meeting the incoming tide.

On the dock, my vessel, ready to set sail—
the water is a black sheet of glass.

I paddle out, caressing the waters…
my oars, like lips, softly kissing
the sea.

Do you hear me coming for you?
I know you wait.

The stars overhead shine like beacons—
they, too, in search of you.

They wish you would come back, stay
in your place,
but they know you are lying in wait for me!

You were never one to stay in one
place—the apple does not fall far
from the tree.

You know I need you to bring me out
into these depths.
I have no fears, for I know you are
with me.

Still, you ask me to search, to find you.
How long, how long have I been rowing?

It matters not…I pull in the oars.

Closing my eyes, the little boat begins
to rock.

There is no wind—

It’s you.

I cast a line,
I need no bait.

You reach for the hook,
you tug and tug again.

I reel in, you pull back.
I reel in again, you pull back.

I hear laughing.
It’s you, you never simply allowed
me to make the catch.

The dance went on—
further and further you pulled me out.

The line broke.

I put the oars back into the water,
A bright star beamed
over the shoreline.

I’m on my way, papa.


Drops of Color/ The Center

Drops of Color
The Center





from this post
holding this center,
each celebration
moving within
its own

The gift
—when we all
back to 
the center,
we are ALL

Blessed Holidays

A Litany of Survival

A Litany of Survival

For those of us, each of us…
In your ‘image’—we designed.
Fashioned from clay,
You the Potter…turn the wheel
—“we,” the work of your hands.

Look upon what you
have made.
If we break, gather the pieces
—make us new again & again.
“We,” the work of your hands.

Set a table,
prepare a feast,
invite the homeless one
in whom, you dwell,
the one passed by
—“we,” all, the work of your hands.

To the ones who do not
who ‘take’ the wheel from your hands,
You do not resist…clay crumbles.
You let-go…weeping—
“we,” the work of your hands.

Fashion, for those of us, each and every One
—our arms, so they reach for the lost
—lengthen our stride so we might dance
and be glad
—open our lips so we might sing
this song
“we, the work of your hands.”

Soften our hearts
so that, who we are in You,
always changing, never the same
“we, the work of your hands.”

Oh, Gentle Potter,
promise you will stay, even beyond the 
survival of our lives.

Make, for our children, and their children’s 
a Promised Land
“we, the work of your hands.”

Drops of Color/ Painting Faces

Drops of Color
Painting Faces

How is it we choose
the colors we do?

Perhaps, the colors choose us?

When I dab 
a drop of blue,
I become the sky
—eternal my reach, like wings
spread east to west.

An array of red hues
becomes cardinals
—their song gliding
with each stroke of the brush.

Soft shades of brown
—I am earth
breathed out of soil.
Suddenly, ‘green’ sprouts all
—bushes, trees
bloom like a kaleidoscope
twirling themselves—
changing, becoming always NEW.

Yellow bursts of daffodils,
I become.

Purple violets paint a scene
within, a face
orange—a flame,
yet unconsumed
rising from its center.

All the colors painting faces.

Black, the splendor
which all things began

—a void,
and the dark made room to
fulfill a spectrum
of colors—LIGHT.

I see faces
in every color.

Most of all
I see You
—the designer
—who places in my hand
the instrument to create
the You
who dwells
in me


in every puddle of 
whose circle widens
with one single drop.


IS this prayer?

IS this prayer?

made flesh

Alive on this
page…prayer forming
like sweet incense
the vowels
leaving only 
lips parting.


A phrase
speckles of ink
splashing like
drops of rain
drenching my hair.
I shiver not
because I’m cold.

pour Yourself
from the well of my being.

There is an

Drop a stone—
you will not
hear the sound.
Might this,
IS this prayer?

In the hid-den depths,
You dwell.
You reside
here, in this House
with no walls.

The door always 
open.  You slip in
and out like a match lit
then blown out.

Finding a way,
this pilgrim
in love with the darkness of You.

A glimmer of light from celestial stars
paints the shadows of a soul
wide awake
upon a path uncharted.

The markers—
Trees speaking to me
the seasons…
branches pointing in every direction
like a compass
a magnetic pull
guiding me
to wander

believing nothing FALSE
except the steps
not taken.

The song birds prepare
a chant,
a litany
welcoming the rising,
the birthing of
a new day dawning.

The Ocean’s ebb & flow
meets the sand.
The waves roll
over and over
like lovers who
cannot withhold their
one from the other
curling under,
coming up for air,
kissing again

—praying the moments never end

made flesh—



Drops of color/ If…I only had a heart

Drops of Color
“If…I only had a heart

I would lift the window
inviting you into the ‘room’

where its soft essence
rhythmically drums.

I’d ask, gently of course,
for you to ‘Please, lift the latch,
crack open the pane
of your treasure chest’—

I’d whisper
a prayer.
‘Please accept this invitation’
so we might combine the song
—the sound of our hearts
beating together holding each measure…
not a single note off beat!’

If I only had a heart, I
could stop searching and be at

‘If…I only had a brain’

I could unload a treasure trove
of words.  I would write love letters
signed with x’s and o’s.
You would know them, they were
from me, because,
well, because I did not seal
the envelope
—so much love enclosed
—a seal could not, would not hold.

If I only had a brain,
I’d write eternally—YOURS.

‘If only I had courage…’

I’d descend into the abyss of
clouded thoughts
where NO light dares to shine.

I would light a match—
the flickering flame would set
off sparks setting aglow
caverns of Souls believed
themselves ‘unworthy.’

To each i would hand a candle,
eyes would OPEN.

We all would recognize the light
each of us is in one another.

Courage, yes, we all would rise
—darkness would fold itself back.
Our shadows would be like stars.

If only I had courage,
I would whisper aloud,
‘SEE, the reign of heaven


Woven in place
and, when the time
be ‘ripe,’
they will unravel
setting sail
into the unknown.

Drops of Color/ Tight Rope

Drops of Color
Tight Rope

Slender pole
in hand.

A sliver of a thread
called a rope
holding feet.

Movement, S L O W—

Wind burst
pushing the walker.

Slanting into the wind,
not looking down
nor up.

The elongated toothpick
gripped by fingers
—knuckles white holding life.


This is NOT an ACT.

Life is walking a tight rope.
Falling, oh, yes slipping from the rope
IS a reality.

holding, reaching out for
the resources in hand


getting up again and again

trusting an Unknown presence

holding the narrowed line at 
both ends

—offering, guiding
and leading you

—to step
and walk the path

—designed for your soles
to discover and live out

one solitary step at a time.

In Thanksgiving

In Thanksgiving
It was a banquet
—the plastic table cloth
festive with colors.

Underneath, painted boards
—a ‘dining’ room table.

Dirt floors
steadied the plastic chairs.

The walls painted in gold
—the window nailed shut to
hold back the cold.

The meal served
—hot from a brick outdoor oven
—the food set on the table
before us
—food that would offer 

a month’s worth of sustenance.

They shared it
offering thanks
after every bite taken.

A lasting Supper.

Drops of Color/ What’s Next

Drops of Color
What’s next?

What, what about Rascals?


Oh, the Little Rascals:
Spanky, Buckwheat, Alfalfa, Darla,

The ‘He man Women-Haters Club.’

Memories…how a gang of kids
brought ‘out’ life’s moments.

Spanky…Leader, coordinator: he was trusted.

Buckwheat…always welcomed.  Although
inflicted with a slight speech impediment,
he was able to get his
point across.

Alfalfa…dashing romantic.  He sang (off-key)
but, he was destined for 
Broadway as long as…

Darla…the ‘girl’ outside the club,
never ceased to be a part.
She had her own talent and
she filled Alfalfa with inspiration.

Froggy…well, if you recall his voice,
there’s no further explanation.

Butch…why, well…there’s always a 
Bully.  Butch unsettled the group,
came between the boy and his
favorite girl. YET, he caused the 
gang to recognize how they
were significant
—one to another.


the pup with a circle
naturally woven around one
of his eyes.
The all seeing ‘eye’ that
stayed ‘in’ the gang.
Wagging his tail, pulling
at pant legs, hoisting ‘goodies’

Maybe, this is not a poem
—a bit too Rascally.

Then again,
a glance back
beside a sketch of characters

What’s next?

Maybe recalling
some GOOD ole’ days.



You really are
the reflection
of yourself
staring back
from the MIRROR

Drops of Color/ The Amusement Park

Drops of Color

The Amusement Park


then suddenly STOPS…

Hovering above the magical ‘landscape’
—a scene.

Held in place,
beholden to countless ACTS,
performers, attendees…
like a stage packed with whirling
in harmony
—life enjoying the dance
—the merriment.

Could it be this way
for all? Glancing in this moment of pause,
silent meditation…in an Amusement Park.


‘Each’ of us given a ‘ticket’
to enter this LIFE…

No price tag for entry.
No conditions placed based on
race, color, creed, gender, religion etc.
No passport
—Citizenship: Heaven.

Alive, within the Reign of Heaven,
We all EXIST.

It is how we choose to LIVE it out!

How we dwell in this
amusement-park together…

A light flashes…three, two, one.

Hands raised in the air—

Trust the ride.

Live it to the fullest!