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Drops of Color/ Built on Water

Drops of Color

Built on Water

The house
was not built upon sand…

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.

A Perfect Contradiction

A Perfect Contradiction

Once a seed
held in a bed
of dark, liquorice soils—
you ‘broke.’

You, already ALIVE
pulsing, surging,
taking in sustenance.
You pushed softly,
until your delicate
nature
burst from Earth’s womb.

Inhaling life,
—you stretched
—you reached
—you expanded.

Enveloping the sky,
you bathed in the light of the sun.
You wrapped yourself in
the crescent moon
and glistening stars.

Inside,
your rings unfolded.
Your task in this world
if, it be termed a task—
to Grow.

Each day
you trust what is
needed to allow you to be.

Season upon season,
you have been bent,
reshaped, broken by storms,
healed by soaking rain.
You rested while snowflakes
gathered around you
until you burst with buds
painting the world
green beneath a sky,
blue as an ocean.

Waves of clouds
gathered to greet you—
welcoming you to
THIS time.

A cycle of perfect
contradictions—
You stand…

Life, death and rising
again and again
in a fashion
unduplicated by a human hand.

Drops of Color/ Red Shovel

Drops of Color

Red Shovel

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)

Grow in Splendor

Grow in Splendor

Wake up!
Throw on whatever garment
adorns your closet of hangers.

Splash your face.
Forget wiping off the fresh scent
of water drops trickling down
your neck.

Grab a pair of shoes—
better yet, go barefoot.

Thrust yourself out the door of your dwelling
and allow the ‘dwelling place’
within you to immerse itself
in the depths of a million blades of grass.

Grasses which rise
without command—they stand
because this is their splendor.

Glance around you.
Look at the trees—
their branches extend
holding rays of light.
Their leafy coats capture the wind
—they carry the birds’ songs
in Spring’s timeless birthing.

Oh, the clouds, they too, grow like a sea
of parachutes, hovering for a time,
casting shadows upon mountain tops.

They carry rain into desert places
and dissolve without worry IF they
left their mark in the world.

The splendors of creation
—my feet bathed in mud.
I stumble ‘in’ this moment purposefully
dropping to my knees.

Before me flowering without assistance
yet, birthed by a Holy Unseen Mother…
her whispered voice
impregnates the Universe birthing
what grows into Fullness without worry.

It need not ask, “Who am I?”
Already, it knows…

It is the Incarnation meant
to be at this moment of Life.

It is your turn—do not even give it a 
thought.

Grow in Splendor.
Become the FACE of God ‘already’
alive in you.

Gaze at the blossoming flowers—
allow the petals of your being to
draw back

revealing the LIGHT
shining through you.

Drops of Color/The Font

Drops of Color

The Font

One by one
they flew in.

First, they appeared to
dip their wings.

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.

An Umbrella

An Umbrella

Something said,
“Leave the Umbrella.”

But, “It’s pouring.”

Again, “Leave the Umbrella.”

Who said that?

Clicking the button,
the sails folded in upon
themselves.
It leaned itself
into the wall.

An umbrella cannot speak?!

Stepping out,
I glanced back.
No, I was not turned into 
a pillar of salt.

My right foot
was in a puddle.
Makes perfect sense
an umbrella would NOT 
have allowed this 
present situation
to dry-out.

The left foot,
not particularly cued
into the puddle its pal was in,
unknowingly ‘plunged in.’

Heavy drops of rain
began to wash over me.
My ‘soles’ were soaked,
why not my Soul?

I stepped from the 
pool I was in,
and I heard this
sound…

It was a pleasant
“SQUISHHH.”
The ‘waters’ in my shoes
drenched my shirt,
my pants,
my hair, my—
EVERYTHING

AND

became a song!

I began to dance.

Now something said,
“Get the Umbrella.”

“What, NOW?”
For Whaaaaa…

But, I got it.
I reached for the
umbrella…No, I did not
open its drape.
Instead, we clung to
each other.

We danced.
My sails opened
and the umbrella laughed.

“Don’t you love a rainy day?”

Still believe umbrellas don’t talk?

Drops of Color/ This Coat

Drops of Color
This Coat

“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.

Isolation

Isolation

A quiet room,
an invisible altar,
a solitary being.

She understands silence
and even ‘welcomes’ it.

A glowing candle
ignites a hymn.

Underlying conditions
do not deter the rise and fall
of her beating heart.

A host of guides
daily ‘enter’ her dwelling space.
Their labored arms
give birth to love.

A soft bell chimes
through the halls.
She opens the door of her
hid-den cathedral.

With extended hands,
She ‘receives.’

She dials the phone—
I answer…
Her proclamation:
“The Body of Christ!”

I simply respond, “Amen.”

Emphatically, before she hangs up,
she whispers
“I Love You!”
The candle flickers.

The sweetest ‘communion’
I have EVER tasted.

Drops of Color/ Reminding US

Drops of Color
Reminding US

Each one of us
—a vessel.

Our sails
—how they love the wind.

The ride changes
from day to day.

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—

Soar

Look

Look

There you were…
Your yellow shutters opened wide—
The slender green houses
growing beside you
were like a frame
accentuating your gentle presence.

There you stood
outstretched—
The blue sky above you
tipped its hat.
Puffy white clouds
cast shadows all around
you…your beauty
majestic.

A mountain of stone appeared as a
backdrop…if one LOOKED
closely enough,
your soft color
painted the rock.

I almost passed you by
—So tiny
—So dainty
—So unnoticed.
All that mattered was YOU.

You spread yourself—arms extended.

Your invitation
for ALL

Look…

Look often THIS day.

Life is speaking its glory.

While words are attempting to bring
this reality to light,

Your lack of written expression
FILLS the page.

Drops of Color/ Come

Drops of Color
Come…

Come pick a lovely
flower from my basket.

Find the color
or colors that pick you.

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.

Inside

Inside

Inside…

there is a flame
so intense

heat surges
through my pores.

I rush outside to
meet the cold
and an invisible
blaze
surges with an 
uncontrolled
ferocity.

I do not wish
this fire quenched—

Only now
am I trusting
the ember’s receding.

The ones burning
down and at 
the same moments
setting aglow
what I have tried to 
release again and again.

The shadows—
‘ashes’…
death soon to ‘spring’
again to life…

“Unless a seed falls to the 
ground dying,
it cannot begin again ANEW.”

Inside…so very
warm

an incubator
“You are” while 
winter’s snare is outside.

A resurrection
awaits in an
empty tomb—
inside this
Soul set on fire.