Sketch of Myself/Quench Your Thirst

Sketch of Myself/Quench Your Thirst

   “When you stop to quench your thirst,
                                         find a moment to discover your reflection~~~
                                                  You’ll NEVER thirst again…”

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 11

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 11
September 14th, 2018


His name…


His office along side
the sea.

He picked his rock,
his office chair, on this
particular morning.

He brought large palms
pure green.

Before he began to ‘weave,’
—he laid out his ‘good’ book
—a few precious stones
and a tiny vase
holding a single flower.

He placed some crumbled
crackers on the stones
beside him.

One by one they arrived—
and then zebra doves.

They definitely knew Dave
I mean David.
If he did not tend first to his clientèle,
a turbulence more alarming
than the sea began.

David wove ‘hats’—
covers for the hot sun.
His craftsmanship…pure elegance.

His price…whatever you could place in his
empty cup.

David’s business practice
some would say was a tad unethical.
He quoted a few short verses he knew
by heart…yes, from his ‘good’ book.

I did not purchase a cover for my head,
but I left something in the cup.

David put his forehead to mine.
Looking directly into my eyes,
I held his gaze…he held mine.

No verses in this moment…

David said, “A”…exhaling
then continuing the breath after a
silent pause, he went on “LOHA.”


The island greeting…

I think the most beautiful prayer
I ever heard.

I left David’s office.
I glanced back after
walking a few steps.

David waved
as did I.

He went back to his work…

and, while I am writing
this prose
along side the sea,

I’m just beginning to
understand the work
that is mine to do.

David and I understand
office space…

I think I need to leave more


Sketch of Myself/ …ONE and the Same

Sketch of Myself

  “Each pane ‘holds’ its own view and still the picture is ONE and the Same.”

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 6

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 6
September 9th, 2018

This Morning’s Gospel
           written by the Sea

The Opening Verse
           carried by a wave
                and quickly pulled under

The Second Verse
         held the wind~~~
               a haunting ‘note’
                splashing the blue ‘reflection’
             from the sky above

The Third Verse
    lifted beams of lights—
rainbows…like boxes of
   crayons melting into the waters

The Forth Verse
     whispered, “I Am Carrying You”

while the 5th & 6th verses
    spoke, “Be Still”

The Seventh Verse closed,
      “The Gospel of the Sea”

a fish leaped…

“Thanks be to ALL”

Sketch of Myself/A NEW Season

Sketch of Myself
                                          “A NEW Season of Becoming”

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/Day 5

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 5
September 8th, 2018
A Pin Cushion

How ‘funny’ metaphors
come to be.

How it is our minds
paint images revealing
something held ‘deeper’ inside
well beyond the frameworks
of the rational mind.

So many needles poking
in this vast cushion.
Aboard a gigantic vessel docked
at the sea’s side—
NOW, in the middle of this ‘cushion’—the sea,
the vessel, a single head of the needle…
a pin prick.

Still, there are so many
heads upon this needle.

I am being ‘poked’ ceaselessly
as I ‘discover’ a room.
I am stitched into this tapestry
at times
threading the needle
before the string almost runs out.

I am this string
dangled from this needle
and, alas
a piece of cloth
holding my stitch.

Silence ensues…
Drops of rain
dump into the moistened cushion—
Rays pour down upon its damp
surface followed by
blankets of swimming clouds
casting shadows pouring
below seamless depths.

I dive in—
HERE I am home
tossed by the sea.

I am drowning in delight…
The only sounds the
soft waves crashing into the sides
of this dancing ship.

Rocking, rocking, rocking…
the ‘cushion’ I am upon
invites me, “Look out.”

Drenched in the tears
of this metaphor,
so much more to say
or maybe the words
have found a way to sink in

into this cushion.

Sketch of Myself/ Stories…

Sketch of Myself
                                                    Stories…still Standing

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 4

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 4 (Setting sail from Vancouver B.C.)
September 7th, 2018

The Brown Tent

Deep shadows of brown—
the soft leathery hide
of this tent.

Held inside a forest
beneath shades…hidden.
Reflections cast in every
direction that was
outside this house.

A gentle knock
on its canopy…
the zipper gave a tad.

Stepping more closely
extending a hand in word—
the zipper lifting another notch.

In the doorway
pausing, listening,
a forest now visible
through the trees.

This man
not touching, but
allowing the space
between us to close in.

His story
a ballad…
A note of enslavement
followed by exile…
So many ‘grounds’ walked upon…
making his way
often alone
his family in his memory
mindful always holding gratitude.

Life…his teacher.
He sat in classrooms.
He knew the language of love
held within the beliefs of
his religion.

A family of his own…

He spoke of passing…
death’s pathway
the stars beyond.

He spoke of blindness,
humility, giving without

He led us to the path
where we would part…

Turning his face,
he ‘lifted’ the shades.
In his eyes the rays of
light filled the
space which held us…
his soul revealed.

We sat a long moment.
Our hands lay on the
indentation of where our hearts lie

No more words…
only the soft beating
of our hearts in union…
they echoed
each other.

I walked on.
The brown weathered tent
in the distance.

I donned my shades.
A tear fell
from behind the lens.

We all have a story
‘a pearl of great price’…


when we listen
to another’s sacred path,
we are never the same to be.

Sketch of Myself/ Open the Door…

Sketch of Myself/ Open the Door…

                                                                   Go “In.”

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day3

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 3

September 6th, 2018 (Vancouver B.C.)
                                                                  Spy Hop

The mountains lured
and the sun rose upon
the satiny surface of
the water’s black skin.

Oars caressed
‘her’ undisturbed silence
which seemed to be growing
with anticipation to reveal
all the comforts in this
home…THIS House—

One room—
no doors or windows
no locks or traps to
hold anyone or anything
at bay.

Her tempest—calm.
This morning,
as a seagull
devours a scrumptious
breakfast of juicy crab meat,
my eyes wandering—
I felt ‘some-thing’…
it moved closer and ‘still’

A face filled with the softest
whiskers, black pupils
like shiny marbles twirling
held my serene stare.
I ‘slide’ upon her soft, rubbery-like hide—
Her body not ‘in’ this house,
but at one in this place.

I sat in a pew—
she dipped down.

The boarding began.
The sun kissed my face
the soft breeze sent shivers
down my spine.

I would soon
begin to tingle as
‘presence’ revealed itself…

We arrived at their Table
Salmon rose from the sea
as suddenly
a majestic dorsal fin
split the surface
followed by another
and another.

We were in a circle
of the grandest communion.

I wished my eyes
would not blink…
How to capture the moment?

Was she thinking the same thing?
Her body lifting from the water,
HOLDING itself…
observing the congregation
…they call it a spy hop.

Did this really happen?

Again, she soared
this house, this cathedral
the seagulls—the choir.
The incense rose…
The very breath released
from the port hole of the Orca
each time it surfaced .

in this place
I have been broken
enough to taste
and receive
a Divine ‘Oneness’

leading me back
to shore
inviting me to live
this blessed sacrament.



Sketch of Myself/ Follow

Sketch of Myself
                                             …follow the LIGHT Home

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/Day 2

September 5th, 2018…Day 2 (Vancouver B. C.)

In This House…

There are many mansions.

Four walls
paper thin—cardboard thin.

Shiny black outside…
Inside…I barely make out the face—
Hands folded…
stained with wear and tear.

All day
this human being
carried earthly treasures
from place to place


settling before the tallest
mansion in the city,
gold, silver and luxury

persons come
and go…
do they even see
the cardboard mansion?
The prince or princess
who resides within?

No one says,
“Be gone with you!”
Perhaps, some leave a
few scraps for the
evening banquet.

No linens cover the
floor, no knives or spoons or forks

yet, hands folded
within this mansion.

Are we as ‘prepared’
as is this ‘soul’
for what is in store?

Sketch of Myself/Selection

Sketch of Myself
“What is your menu selection?”

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

I Just Called…

I Just Called…
                                                        to sing…I LOVE YOU

Sketch of Myself/I can HEAR the whistle ‘blowin’

Sketch of Myself/I can HEAR the whistle ‘blowin’…
                                                      …a hundred miles

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal Sailing Out of Vancouver B.C.

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal Sailing Out of Vancouver B.C.
                                                     The Guest House

This being human is a Guest House.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness
comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all
even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.



So many have been ‘knocking’ at the door of my ‘self’…
I have finally ‘opened’ a space wide enough to allow each guest in…”WELCOME”

September 4th, 2018 (Day 1)
Another Journey Begins

I had a dream…
I was cradled in the bend of a tree, its roots burst from the soils ‘holding’ me…not tightly, but not letting-go!

An enormous leaf, like the hand of God, towered above my head—its canopy, a palm. like an umbrella.  I began listening to drops of rain…pink, pink, pink

I attempted to clap my hands.  I tried to tap my feet to the performing rhythms.  I was held as if I were in a womb—invited to listen.  Fading in a moment, I felt like Gulliver  From an unknown place, creatures came… a doe and her fawn, a few frolicking rabbits, a lanky turtle slowly bowing its head, a howling coyote and owls screeched.

I lay still.  Was this a dream?  This…the longing in my heart…to listen.

A Divine disturbance has been my dance.  I cannot state its exact time, I know not the hours, but I’m mindful of so much of life around me as the journey begins.

I have left ‘everything’ behind.  I hear an echo a ‘first’ time…a drum beats loudly, deafening my being’s ‘in-scape.’

It has rattled my core…Every drop tapping the
landscape has become like the music of a guitar—the strings plucked softly and their vibrations the flow filling so much unknown.

These words I write I believe them written before—
differently and the same.  In the haunting unconscious, the shadows of who it is I am step forward—

Who are you?
Is this who I am?
And you, God
What are you becoming now that I’m learning to SEE you ‘in’ all things? And ‘no-things.’

Sketch Of Myself/ Crossing Over

Sketch of Myself
                                                           “Crossing Over”

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Heavenly Tears

Heavenly Tears

A clanging bell is
held upon a swaying bed
of blue.

Rocking, wavering,
then chiming a soft melody
as the winds begin to stir.

A soft shower

the cascade of water—
a heightened deluge.

Tender tapping
turns to a draping of
beats…pounding, pounding, pounding.

The tempest
grows with fury
unleashing waves
engulfing the

and, as it resurfaces,
the song ‘still’ plays on.

Another whirling band
of water strikes.

Unleashed—the clouds
like a faucet lifted high.

Heavenly rains—
How can they be called

It is at these moments
a new song rises…

Giving voice
as tears
stream on.

Sketch of Myself/ Ask the Cattle

Sketch of Myself/ Ask the Cattle
“If you would learn more, ask the cattle, seek information from the birds of the air.  The creeping things of earth will give you lessons.  And the fishes of the sea will tell you all.  There is not a single creature that does not know that everything is of God’s making.

God holds in power the soul of every living thing, AND the breath of every human body.”

  Book Of Job  12:7-10

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”



Step after step—
At times a path clear
visible, well marked.

there are roads—
unlike paved roads
where there is no distinct way.

No signs
expressing bear right or left—
merge or stop!

I suppose these have
become the more comfortable
paths for me—those that
are unmarked…yielding an
array of wonder.

The trails of life
that seemed to guide me for so long
“No longer feel fit for travel.”

I have lightened my
load and there is
more of which to rid myself.

Sometimes—I hold on
just for the sake of it.

All the items in the pack
I carry—the appropriate books,
notes from all the ‘right’
lectures, conferences,

Well, let us say they are
‘dissolving’ as an
unknown guide
reveals to my heart
that which I cannot explain.

I am no longer certain I
even desire to share
THIS way I am discovering?
(Yet—I am writing this to YOU the reader)

I do not wish my words to become a ‘product’—
a means for material gain or
personal recognition.

I am walking and
while this may not be making much sense
to you…
Be assured
it is not completely clear to me…

AND yet, it is!

It is no longer about
‘believing’ in some-THING

in this unknowing,
my steps are KNOWN by
“One” paving the landscapes.

My ‘soles’ touch the earth
and those footprints left
behind unfold the story

writing itself.

Inside of my being
there is a beacon…

an invitation
NOT to arrive.

No longer is it necessary
to ‘SEE’ the course.

Each day I
simply LIVE
even when
a disturbance in the
path ceases
travel as usual.

The pauses, the ‘breaks,’
the disruptions…the landslides

they are
the ‘shapers’ of
THIS soul…

I AM following—
at least trying

the design
etched for me.

For now, I walk on.


Sketch of Myself/Colors are ALIVE

Sketch of Myself

                                     Hid-den beneath the depths, colors are ALIVE

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

She Changed the World in Word

She Changed the World in Word
                                               In Memory of Mary Oliver
                                    September 10, 1935 — January 17, 2019


Every day
I see or hear
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for—
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world—
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful
the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these—
the untrimmable light

of the world
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

Mary Oliver

The Page

The Page


It has been a while…

I have heard you…

Each of your words
a string of pearls.

I am held in your ‘gaps’…

The pauses you have
discovered are far from ‘breaks’
in the middle of your sentences.

Your paragraphs ‘hold’ mysteries
one can only digest.

The pages upon which you are writing—
how I chuckle when they turn
themselves when
you turn away

—to gaze at a flower
—to listen to the water
drape over a bed of rocks
—to reach for a cloud’s puffy tail…
for long moments you are whisked away
holding this dragon’s tail
launching you into wonderlands.

I watch you soaring over treetops,
mountain ranges draped in the
purest snows…

you let-go sliding upon angels’ wings—
Aha, AND I thought
them simple snow mounds.

A school of fish leaps from the
water—naturally, you dive
right in!

Drenched in such delight, you

Once again, the tail dangled in
time—you reached as it launched
you into a sky of blue satin…

Ahead, a hawk extends her
feathered arms…
you took hold and I saw you flying…

In your eyes I saw,
I beheld your WONDER.

I knew it would be time
before ‘ink’ met me, on this page.

Your story
yes, your story—
Even when the ink dries,
will go on…

Look…I see the ‘tail’
coming.  You are reaching
already—this chapter
far from over!

How long will you be gone THIS time?

Matters not—

Sketch of Myself/UNFOLD

Sketch of Myself
                                    “No matter your ‘position’~~~UNFOLD”



Standing on a wall
or in the present
to hold ‘upon’ this rock.

I glance one way
recalling how I
once served—
My call…to protect,
keep safe
those who dwell ‘in’
this side.

I turned focusing my
gaze in the opposite direction…
Here I have been
as well—
walking, discovering
AND received with warm welcome.

From where I now stand,
there is no
longer this side
or the other side.

I’m discerning,
am presently realizing
I have
been a wall.

NOW…there has
been a landslide.

I am standing in
rubble..a threshold of sorts—
a wounded time.

I do not have a need to
rebuild ‘the wall’ I was.

I do not want to
see in ‘divisions’
as difficult as that may be.

So easy,
would you not say
to acknowledge our

To cast others off—
remove them from
‘our’ tribe.

How can we come
to a table…

One set

with ’round’ dishes—
a feast set for ALL…

A banquet of
diversified spreads—

Might this be the
“Body’ of Christ…(Allah, Buddha…etc.)
(I hold this vision)

I hear…
“This is too difficult!”

Is it …really?

Do we sabotage
attempts because we are
too tired to try?
Because we are so busy

Oh, you are about God’s work…
no time?

Once upon ‘a time’
I sat in the church pew…
I prayed, I understood.

amongst these crumbled stones,
my prayer rises.
I am dirty,
a tad broken.

I no longer
what I once believed
to be true.

From here…
I have discovered
The Gospel of Life.

An innocent person
died for these ‘views’
nearly two thousand
years ago.

Love and MORE love,


Sketch of Myself/Hawk Eye

Sketch of Myself
                                                       “Hawk Eye”

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

Look closely…

Look closely…

There—looming in the
visible depths…

What!  You cannot see them?

Sit here…
sit beside me
while the sun at its
zenith lights the pages
written in the fathoms—
those hid-den depths.

Open ‘your’ eyes…

Line after line—
verses pour themselves
in with the tides
only to be washed out.

New paragraphs expand
held in the curl of
a wave.

Washed under the surface
‘there’ lies the story
told  again and again.

Each time it is read
it becomes NEW.

As night falls,
the stars lean into
the flow of celestial tranquility.

In this hour,
a visitor, one who
holds what cannot be seen,

sends an invitation,
“wait, be still…

A song bird
gliding upon the sea,
breaks the run-on sentences
of the hid-den night.

Morning beckons—chapters of blue ink
wash over the pages.

Look closely—
what words ‘rise’
to the surface
as you float
in the silence?


A New Year

A New Year                                                           Paints splashed
                                                         between shadows
                                                      What will come to Life?
                                          CREATE the passion burning inside you
                                                       if, for no other reason,
                                                              than because
                                                                 you can…