The Frame

The Frame

Create what lies
within the frame


behold the image
cast between
four wooden slats


set sail.

The moment of birth…

The moment of birth…

the wide expanse
of a sunrise

Is it enough?

Everyday, casting warmth
even if hidden
behind an array of bundled clouds

Is that enough?

Birth…it is ongoing

leaving the safety of
a comforting cave, my mother’s womb.

Life pulses
amidst airstrikes:
bombardments of advertisements
offering more, More, MORE!

Enough already!!!

Beating to the rhythms,
~~~moments of birth
 guiding us back to
the comfort of the dark cave.

Success, recognition, honors,
all the fan-fare, the ribbons,
the golden certificates!

Not nearly enough!

One exhale of breath
releases what once seemed so relevant.

The inhale~~~
lungs expand.

Kindness, gratitude, forgiveness
of a self
alive in a moment
mindful of the disparities


Open hands, a heart beat softens
~~~bringing to the world what I am
able and unable      unto death.

And then, birth…

Yes, Mother Earth cradles us in
the ‘rubble’ of her womb
Written and inspired under the wise tutelage of June S. Gould,  Ph.D.

Drops of Color/ Fragments of a Self

Drops of Color
Fragments of a Self

Each piece
a story.

Every ‘frayed’ edge
holds a glimmer
of light
discovering in pools of deep
darkness vast avenues
rising to the surface
becoming whole.

Missing pieces, searched for,
lost until found.

Were they deliberate, these missing pieces?

Perhaps…the ‘timing’ absolute
to see the significance of the ‘absence’
longing to be addressed.

The wound, a fragment of a Self
beholden to its beauty.

Just who am I?  

A fragment of a Self where You reside.  Not only in a 
jagged ‘piece’…

You reside in EVERY segment.
You are the Life in me
endlessly becoming
a ‘work’ 
created in awe.

Drops of Color/ Dwellings

Drops of Color

Side by side, by side.

Bricks, mortar.
Stones, clay rooftops,
windows, shutters,
porches, balconies.


One and many.
All comprising this community
growing out of the sea
connecting every living neighborhood.

Countless stories written here.
Some lives, well, the chapters
ended as we understand how
some paragraphs close unfinished.

Others are writing sonnets
without recognizing the patterns
—they’re living the pages.

Many have just arrived
—no dust has settled on their covers.’

Uniquely different,
each ‘being’

in this dwelling place.

Thoughts, beliefs,
some shared, others explore signs
off a map 
while itinerant wanderers step
where no human prints dared trod.

We, you and I
—sharers in the wider
dwelling place of Gaia.

Received by all—
She, ‘Mother Earth’
welcomes us.

May we care for our common
dwelling place
and allow each story
to write itself home.

Drops of Color/ It’s beginning to look a lot…

Drops of Color

It’s beginning to look  a lot like…

Two small people.
More than likely.

They’re comfortable
beside one another.

He is mesmerized by
her ability to
weave, create a loop
and wait!

She loves him at her
hip…like they are two 
peas sharing the same

A gift being given—
a blanket to be received.

It’s beginning to look
a lot like—
how simple love can be!

A lot like love IS!

Drops of Color/ Living the Seasons

Drops of Color

Living the Seasons

The Season sets
itself for the fading light.

Darkness, a beacon
—camps itself allowing the
glistening of stars to dip
into the black sea

—an endless, colorless matte.

Hidden, though the images be
—in restfulness appear ‘pictures,’
‘paintings’ once thought unseen.

In the splashes of shadows
—mysteries lie


The frozen landscape
—crystal snowflakes.
A white layered comforter
blankets the earth
—birthing beyond what the Spring Season
lets loose.

Within each of us, in this Season
of unknown

what is becoming inside us?

‘Wait’…be still long enough
to allow the darkness
‘its Season.’

We awaken and ripen
when we settle into
the flow of Living the Season.

“To go in the dark with a light is to
know the light.
To know the dark, go dark.  Go
without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms
and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark

~~~Wendell Berry

Blessed Winter Solstice

St. Somewhere

St. Somewhere
(Inspired by Poet Amy Gerstler, Poem for Bernard)

Down here in the basement…

A thousand times
I have glimpsed your face,
but there is not a single word
listed in Webster
that defines you.

What I have feared the 
most…well, it has never been you.
Rather, I feared the ones who believe
to have known you
—who set limits, raise bars, pass rules
AND when they look themselves in the
—they fail to SEE the hatred
of themselves they so eloquently
point out in others.

I have found you
when I lost you…St. Somewhere
—on the way into an uncharted forest
I never wished to leave.

I stumbled back.
I restrained my lips,
but the words, like a leak in a faucet
dripped, and dripped and dripped.

I’ve been standing in heaven.
I’m actually swimming.
The water’s risen—
it is here you have birthed me.

Your face splashes my pupils
and, I see another image,
and another, and another.

You are gone.
I come up for air.

My breath—a prayer.

A feather floats closely
until it caresses my cheek.

I do not touch it or remove it.
You leave me with
wings to fly.

We’ll meet at another shore
—in time, St. Somewhere.

Make Straight

Make Straight

How does ‘one’ make straight a path?

Year after year entering this Season
—a season where the dark holds
its way longer than the light.

Candle lit, a narrow flame
ignites the space.

Is the path of light, the flame
flickering in a black sea…
is it straight?

The warm rays extend in all directions
—so, are each of us
to discover that straight path
for ourselves?

Do our eyes finally open
when we realize
ALL paths led us to the
all pervading Light of Love?
The Light of Divine presence
pervades in each ‘one’ who
wears a belt of faithfulness
around the waist…and offers
food to the hungry and shelters
the homeless—
who offers kindness to creatures
and rejoices in the bird’s songs.

Oh, that our breath, slipping from our
lips, would wipe away all that
would distort the glory
shining in the darkness of this time.

Make straight our hearts
to find our way to Love.

Drops of Color/ Over the Bridge

Drops of Color
Over the Bridge

Life sets before us
encounters with bridges.

We choose, decide
if we shall cross
or remain on a side
we believe the grasses
to be greener.

There comes a point:
a bridge before us
NO choice
—we shall cross.

On the other side,
we have all heard
different accounts, stories
of heavens beyond
the twinkling of our sparkling eyes.

Alas, when the lids cover our pupils,
we will SEE
as if a first time

What IS…

Over the bridge,

every step taken
worth THIS journey.

Drops of Color/ What have we done with God?

Drops of Color
What have we done with God?

I keep picking up
one after another


why?  Why am I seeking bushels?

where there is despair
let me fill bushels of Hope
and carry them
no matter how heavy
to those in need.

Where there is darkness
let me fill the bushels with Light
and pour its abundance
until ‘we’ all SEE.

Where there is death
let me use the bushels to
bury sacred remains
in Mother Earth’s holy womb

so that as the dying
we know they are not lost


then we will rediscover the God who
lives in EVERYTHING.


“The Great Religions are the 
Poets the life
Every sane person I know has jumped
That is good for business
Isn’t it

Drops of Color/ Many Shelves

Drops of Color
Many Shelves…

a few items
delicately placed.

In this house,
there are ‘many’
extraordinary shelves.

‘If it were not so,’
this sketch, these words,
would not have been
created or written.

What lies on these shelves
—meant to set a 
table, a dining room
ready for a feast,
and all are welcome.

Everyone who eats
is no longer hungry.

Everyone who is hungry
is welcome & fed.

These shelves,
even when empty
are FULL.

“One thing is becoming increasingly clear to me:
that You cannot help us, that we must help You  
to help ourselves.  And that is all we can manage
these days and also all that really matters: that we
safeguard that little piece of You, God, in ourselves.
And perhaps in others as well.”

                                                         ~~~Etty Hillesum



What secret 
disturbing visitor
has arrived unleashing its
countless furies
upon the shoreline?

The flow, the rhythm,
cannot be marked in time.
Wave upon wave
crash into rocks
lifted from the sea
—formations like humpback whales
rising to feed.

Another break
—the waters crashing in upon

Blankets of white foam
scatter over the 
deep graying depths.

Gulls lift their wings
and effortlessly
they move with the
rhythm fashioning
a stormy tale.

I gaze
—eyes filling with the
salt of the storm’s debris.

I taste its offering
and I silently bow
in a posture of praise.

I understand,
or I respectfully acknowledge,
the surging force of

nature’s ways.

I meet her at the shore,
and I know
where to stop.

As naked as the sea,
am I.
I gather the ‘roar,’
the churning tides
inside the sea
that live in me.

The visitor I asked
about in the beginning of
this voyage,
is the Captain of the Seas
who keeps watch
over the vessel I am.

Always, this messenger
‘Sails up,
Sails down,
Time to harbor,
SET Sail…’

Now, I am still
grains of sand
finding shelter between my toes.

It is well—
all is well
with my Soul.