…would surely go

…would surely go

When I was a child,
I heard a nursery rhyme
about a little lamb.

Its fleece,
well, it was white as the snow.

The adventurous feminine seedling
—her name, Mary,
and this little lamb followed her
wherever she fashioned to go.

I decided to follow them both
from a distance.
Granted, I am an adult now…
and a faint voice whispered between my silent steps,

“listen to the thing you fear”

Did I fear Mary? this Little lamb?

Truth is…
as I gazed more closely into the Nursery Rhyme,
I recognized Mary could barely see!
She was led to believe the lamb was white!


She, Mary, was the one who followed the lamb.

In a dark room,
her ‘lens’ holds images before
her eye sight vanished
—spools of memories
tragically set ablaze.

—traces of a collage
of brutalities revealing
a history’s past and present.

The lamb
sits beside Mary.
She no longer believes
in its fleece
of white snow.

Instead, she feels
its countless
stripes—where fur once lay.

One lash
Two lashes
and MORE followed.

The lamb remained at Mary’s side…
it would not abandon her
and stayed until it died.

Mary could not see the 
road ahead
she rose, Again.

She knew every where
she went,
the lamb
would surely go.
Written under the wise tutelage of June S. Gould, Ph.D.

No Matter

Drops of Color
No Matter

It was early.

The sun phantoms beneath the horizon’s line.

A penetrating canvas
knitted the night.
Galaxies of starlight
illuminated the dome overhead.

In a tiny wooden house,
the sounds of scratching heard.
Small steps made atop scattered straw.

Then a noise
~~~a crowing,
“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Moments of silence~~~gripped in wonder,
“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Soft clucking heard
in between 
the bellow of the Trumpeter,

“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Tears, one after another,
liquid vapors washing my face.
My eyes~~~pools
filled to the rim
dripping over the sides.


These tears were not because of any betrayal,
any failed remembrance~~~while hearing the cocks crow.

The moist mist
revealing my breath
in the crisp air
was the realization:

No matter the past

No matter the cares, worries, wounds,
the endless thoughts of what needs to
be completed, losses never to be found…endings.

I am reminded, by a feathered friend,
before the light even close to 
announcing a NEW day


The rooster ‘sings’

the LIGHT will soon be here.

Sing…what IS your song!

Sing, “Cock~a doodle~do”



This is not a march.

This is a dance…
the cadence between seconds

The trees, like ballerinas
rooted in divine pirouettes
~~~limbs swaying
~~~trunks fashioned and reshaped
through Seasons of ballets.

Ewes in pastures
birth lambs
~~~playfully squealing
they run to mama’s side
for a splash of milk.

Highland cows,
gentle Giants,
display their lengthy horns,
flowing red locks,
BIG eyelashes.

The cadence is ALIVE…

Time to sway.

The Tenderer

The ‘Tenderer’

The world blossoms with wonder
in the
care of the invisible ‘Tenderer’
who lovingly
circles the universe
after year, season after season,
moment by moment,

transforming life ‘into’ its
FULLEST manifestations.

“We have to consciously study how to
be ‘tender’ with each other
until it becomes a habit.”
~~~Audre Lorde



Leaving a feather
—the tiny winged
creature flew into
the dense forest.

I left a lock of
hair and trekked into
the brush.

Days later
—I returned.

The lock of hair taken
—the feather still there.

I picked it up placing it in my cap.

It was then I heard the bird’s
song…I joined in.

Drops of Color/ Birds and Feathers…

Drops of Color
Birds and Feathers

fly instinctively.

Inviting others,
they soar in patterns

Wide is their berth
—carried by winds
—refreshed by waters
—the ground, a feeding place.

Trees, a haven.

New beginnings blossom
igniting fall leaves.

Numerous, the varied sounds

—they call, these ‘musings’
and believe in their silence.

hid~den Angels
draped in wings.

Perched in the monastery of life
they lead the refrain.

Lifting the sun,
their feathers
layered like candles
burning the sky with waxy
hues of light.

Do they stick together,
birds and feathers?
Or do they call us
to find the sun
and spread ourselves
touching the sky.

Paint Can

Paint Can

Into a can of paint,
I leapt.

The colors—a museum of Monet, Angelo, Chagall


I was standing dripping with delight.

“More, more, more”
I bellowed.

A paint brush, invisible,
delicately swiped itself across the sky.

A fountain of colors
changed before my eyes.
I stood 

holding the ground.

‘No,’ it was the ground holding me
so I would not lose sight of

The Artist’s Splendor…

dripping, dripping, dripping. 

Drops of Color/ A Lion’s Cry

Drops of Color
A Lion’s cry

What happens when a Lion cries?

What is it like when the beast’s
roar is a lasting, enduring whimper?

What does it mean when the sharp
claws used for thrashing
remain curled within its massive paws?

What if its teeth, distinct razors,
do not bite or shred or grind?

What…when the Lion
lays itself down
refusing to shed blood
no matter how many times
it be inflicted?

The Lion weeps—
The Lion cries—
its long flowing mane now carpets
the ground.

“Forgive us…we know not what
we do.”

To have left a place better than one found it…

To have left a place better than one found it…
(Inspired by the book
In Kiltumper: A Year in an Irish Garden)

Arriving, everything appeared so new.
Taking in all the wonders…
Were my eyes like a camera’s lens
snapshots, one after another
—no order, sequence, structure?

Who was before me, holding me?
What did anything mean? Did it

Somewhere along the way,
a book forming.
The pages left unnumbered.
Words splashed on a page and then
like a barren desert, they
disappeared like a mirage.

What was this place?
Who am I or what is it I’m becoming?
I’ve discovered buried treasures.
The jewels, the gem stones, the 
hidden diamonds in the rough.

I left them
so that another passerby would find
them and walk on richer for having
found the pearl of great price.

Now, my pockets are empty of all
that I thought, hoped, dreamed I 

Everything realized in 
the absolute of nothingness.

Belongings left for the next sojourner
to embrace the ground of being, the
soils millions of years old laced in 

What I have found…
May I have planted a new garden
of blessed abundance for what lies
beyond…when my footsteps rejoin
the landscape into which  I was breathed.

Green Dresses

Green Dresses

Perhaps, a Spring sale?
Shades of Green
—some ‘greens’ soft, translucent
others vivid, striking, blossoming.

Every ‘rack’
more and more green dresses.
No brand names here.
No ‘designer’ holds ownership.
Yes…each dress altered,
shaped, fitted.

Gathered eloquently at the neck lines,
the greens drape down
—the sleeves allow the defining
brown skin to enhance the 
elegance created
and being re-born.

The dresses touch the floor
stitching into the ground.
No price tags attached.
These garments not for sale.

These green dresses ask only
that we tend to them
—that we look upon their loveliness
—that we stop needless cuttings
so the green dresses
may LIVE into
lasting tomorrows.

Drops of Color/ Horse

Drops of Color
(Inspired by Geraldine Brooks book: Horse)


A book
came galloping into
the meadow of my being.

Swiftly, attempting to keep pace,
I turned page after page after page.

Trotting through paragraphs,
black letters took on new meaning.

I dropped the reins on the white

I heard a soft whinny.
My eyes filling with tears
blinded me until
I saw the book for what
it was…

A message,
historical grains of truth.

The race is never over
until we all have
moved beyond the finish

leaving no one behind.

Nothing shall I want…

Nothing shall I want…

A tap heard on the window—

Pulling off covers,
tiny dust particles
cascade down the glass.

I gaze into the night sky,
a solitary star.
I crack open the window.
Star light pours ‘in.’
I watch as the planet makes its way into my

I hear song birds.
The stars turned to winged

More bird songs outside the window.
No-thing shall I want.

Let me be kindness—

Let me offer and seek goodness
here in the house of the Lord.