In Our Hands
A painted ceiling 
began its formation.

In this year’s beginning,
here’s a simple reminder

Drops of Colors
splattered with ease…
Images ‘ran’—one into the
next…the ceiling draped
like a curtain.

Without notice, the curtain
became engulfed in flames—
yet, the ceiling’s images
were not consumed.

Instead,
the paint burned with
crisper colors.

How could color become
more vibrant than 
it already is?

Pools formed and I 
dipped my pen.

Faces, millions of faces…
Young, old and in between—
Furry faces, long beaks,
slender gills.

What was being painted?

In Our Hands…images.

Images of teachers coordinating
parades…children with parents—
a line of cars.  Neighbors
outside, keeping a social distance
holding signs,
“I LOVE YOU, ‘Ms. TEACHER’…
I MISS YOU, ‘Mr. TEACHER’…

Stuffed animals littered the dashboards
of vehicles.  Window sills
and doorways held hearts.

Simple words written, “Thank you.”

Ordinary classrooms linked via 
Zoom…extraordinary!

iPads were given to those without
proper tools.  Many
simply wanted to learn…(so many unable).

My paint dried for a moment
until another pool drenched me.
I witnessed truckers delivering food, grocery store
attendants ringing-up customers—
our Seniors first.

Our wise guides, needing
our care—they the most
susceptible/vulnerable to this
invisible predator.

What hovers knows nothing
of religion, race or creed…
gender, sexual orientation or
political affiliation.  It cares less about
borders, boundaries and 
surpasses the length of the sea.

A pandemic is what spread
and so, too, Drops of Color.

First responders…EMT’s,
Fire Fighters, Police
were out to Protect & Serve.

To Nursing Homes, Hospitals
 the CARE providers came…
gloved, masked,
 gowned. 

Doctors, Nurses, Mechanics, Dietary Aids
reported for shifts that never
seemed to end.

People were talking— others were
listening.

Stars were visible on clear nights
and animals walked the forests
where traffic once stood
bumper to bumper.

Again, my colors dried—
the number of persons
taken by this virus still grows.

Tears became a pool—
A lament painting itself.

From a distance, ‘WE’ touch
—a love-making in motion
—an intimacy
     unfolding, yet far from revealed.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you
for ‘looking’ at THIS ceiling…

it is far from over
in fact, it has just begun.

What will lay itself out,
I cannot begin to know.

The Source I call upon,
the Divine essence
that guides ‘this’ hand,

does not say much at all.

INSTEAD,

An Invitation…
‘It is in Your Hands’
 to go into the World to
Love, Serve, Create,
Hope, Inspire,
Shed a tear,
Laugh until your heart breaks.

Let nothing divide.
Let communion be shared with ALL.

May we SEE in each other
The Sun
and realize we are all One.

                                   —The Painter of Ceilings

Drops of Color
The Night of Christmas

Twas’ the night of Christmas
and I lay covered in bed.
Thoughts of this day
wrapped the gift it had been.

It began beneath
stars made manifest
in the dark and the chill
of winter’s wonders
glistened upon branches
and homes
dressed in lights.

I walked into a 7-Eleven
to purchase the news of
this day and I was
greeted by a gentleman.
“Merry Christmas” and I wished
that were the headline for the day.  
Before I reached
what I’d come for, I looked
at this man…
I asked him what tradition
was his on this day.
He quickly responded, “I’m Buddhist.”
I bowed as I spoke “Namaste”
and we hugged in the aisle.

Off in my sleigh,
I took off in the night
to a Starbuck’s for tea.
Again, to my joy-filled 
surprise…a choir of angels
shouted with glee, “Merry Christmas”
and I ordered my hot cup of
Earl Grey.

Then at the window,
a young man stood.
His name was Muhammed
and morning greetings ensued.

I asked if he celebrated this day.
He told me he was Muslim and will
celebrate come Spring.
I thanked him and said, “We share
the same sky…” he gazed out the 
window, looking up at the stars.
He spoke, “That’s beautiful” and 
again my sleigh pressed on.

I held the hot liquid
close to my lips.
Before I could drink,
I had to swallow my tears.

The Incarnation
of this day
is NOT only THIS day
it’s each and EVERY day…

The birthing mystery
broken open
IS for all.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah,
Blessed Kwanza, Happy Holidays

and to each and everyone

A Good Night.

Drops of Color
Glory & Wonder

In a lowly valley,
stood a towering pine.

Lofty needles
formed its lengthy arms
lifting toward the sky’s ceiling.

A whisper from the tree
rose like the sound
of a hand sweeping across
a harp’s strings.

“Oh, glorious stars,
you illuminate this silent night.
To you, I raise my branches
in endless waves of gratitude.”

A pregnant pause
was heard.
The stars seemed to 
‘glow’ in splendor.

Like a host of angels,
they gathered their sparkles of wonder.
 One star hovered softly
floating effortlessly
adorning the top of the pine.

In harmony, a voice,
its face blinded by the brilliance of light made manifest…
Beckoned.

“To you beautiful tree…
WE give thanks.
Together, let us reveal
the Glory & Wonder
of Creation.”

Drops of Color

The Stockings were Hung…

with affection and care

in hope that this year
would invite us to prayer.

Yes, the stockings were hung
with so much love and ‘wear’

—miles walked in so much unknown
—persons held in place…isolated
—faces guarded by masks
—the virus spread
—still, hosts of angels went in
…it was about LIFE
   and ministering in death.

I believe incarnation slipped in
between cracks.
Yes, suffering happened and still LOVE
was the thread.

These stockings were
hung with affection & care—
the greatest gift found

—in the Love
     of a world broken,
    yet, for a first time—FOUND!

Drops of Color
Lived

The tables are set—
the silverware placed.

The chairs are set
for countless persons,
yet an emptiness remains.

A hush hovers—
it feels like a bell in
a cathedral whose
clapper has been removed.

The sounds of silence
hardly convey
what is not taking place.

The chefs are home
and so, too, the host
and waiting staff.

Those responsible for setting-up,
taking-down, cleaning
are home, too.

Some places may never open
again, others will create
new venues—that’s who
we are.  We are people
who rise no matter how
difficult the odds.

Many have endured  
the tremendous loss of
family members—
and they could 
not be laid to rest in
the ‘way’ we’ve been accustomed.

New ideas charted
and memories now strained
tucked like a garden in
a soul’s dwelling place.

What will bloom remains to be seen.

One day these tables
will hold feasts,
elegant spreads.

Communion will be broken and shared
—this act never ceased
—food being distributed
     because persons are hungry.

We’re all hungry, especially to gather,
and we will once again.
When ‘everyone’ is invited to the table
to eat, to drink…

when our prayers are
lived out by our actions…

yes, even social distancing.

When we SEE each person as ‘neighbor’
and love one another as we love
ourselves…we BECOME

a humane community…

a Gospel no longer
simply read

but

LIVED.

Drops of Color
“Happy Thanksgiving”
(Belated Thanksgiving greetings to my friends in Canada)

Many Utensils

In this kitchen,
there are many utensils…

Today, I’m handling
the spatula of gratitude.
Stirring again and again
awaiting its gentle boil.

I add touches of spices.
Each added ‘pinch’ descends
into the enormous pot and
an aroma ascends.

This day I prepare
what IS with ‘thanks.’

This soufflé of words
breaks open—

for all who read
it is your ‘giving’ heart
that reaches mine
reminding me of the eternal banquet
from which I daily taste.

Abundant Blessings.

Always Gratitude.

Drops of Color
Masks

I placed one mask
over the naked essence
of my expression
—it fit.

I took it off
and tried the other
—it fit.

Who was I
if both fit?
Either one so simple
to wear.

I have worked
a long time
to hide this me.
Perhaps, from no one more
than myself.

So, who am I?
Who are You?

The masks are me
and they are not me.
They are simple to keep on.
Complicated to take off.

They are a part
of me and
they are nowhere
near close to
whom I’m discovering
myself to be.

My life—
Your life…

Take the stage.
Live your part.

Be the side alive
—living life to the fullest
—bowing when the lights
shine solely upon you

AND

Be the person that
—can weep
—can utter a cry when
the way is lost and forlorn.

It’s easy to wear a 
mask.

It’s even easier to take it off
and be you.

Drops of Color

Inside…

darkness ‘holds’ a space
as it did in ‘The Beginning.’

The cusp of windows
invites light into
hid-den chambers.

Listening ‘in’ silence…
voices~~~many!

They seem to be saying,
“This is Good, this is Good…”

All is quiet.

The blending of two entities
eliciting shadows
and bringing colors to life.

Behold the Oneness.

Drops of Color

 

Scraps

Each word, she recalled,
as if it were spoken directly to her,
“Even the dogs get the scraps that fall
from their master’s table.”

Many years have passed,
and she can ‘taste’ each syllable
as she has spent her lifetime
‘gathering’ scraps…each a fragment of her faith.

Her prayer beads dangle between
her disjointed fingers, fine instruments,
her hands—still soft, a tad wrinkled,
yet they remain open for the scraps
she shares freely.

Her faith has made her well
and, even as the glowing candle’s wax
of her being melts down,
a faint glimmer remains visible.

It is her faith that takes her into the darkness.
She does not fear…in her unknowing, she
trusts the ‘scraps’ of those who have made their way. 
They leave, for her, soft hues
of penetrating light, places where her
footsteps can tread…a NEW path.
Death is not an end.

I can still see her shadow
as much as I long to ‘cling’ to her hand.
Her cane begins to fall…I have to let it drop.

I only pray to share the scraps of my 
faith as well.

Drops of ColorSteps…

There’s no specific
way.

Exactly where you
place your foot
and then the other
is where you are meant to be.

Be present—
the place upon which you stand…
centuries old.

The patterns, the colors…
circles, lines—
they flow.

You are 
on a path.

Take a step,
then take another.
Pause awhile—
rest.

You might even
re-peat steps
a second time,
a third time…

things may seem familiar
but each step never
the same as the last.

Now, close your eyes.

The floor you
stand on
awaits your steps.

Drops of Color

Details

It all began with an idea
—a vision.

Then, there was a layout
—a blue print.

Numbers of persons
responded from everywhere.

An enormous ‘spattering’
of specialties assembled
—to create.

Everything brought together
—orchestrated.

The finest details
—each a solitary note
—each playing its tune
     on the scale
—a harmonic assembly
     steel, hammer, nuts & bolts,
     rails, beams and human
     ingenuity…innovation
—every’one’ an instrument
     in the design
     ready to play their exact
     rhythm, measure, when
     beckoned by the conductor.

The performance
—gaps creating bridges
—the ability to cross over
    and back to where
    it all first began.

An idea
—a vision.

All the details laid
on parchment
—a scroll
    handed down through time.

Together, we have built
and accomplished
so very much.

Hard working hands
toiled to have a part,
to be a part of the dream.

Every being
wanting a place in the details
so that the dream could be
lived out in all.

Let’s work to make it
happen…
Opportunities for all
down to the last detail.

Only when each note
heard, respected,
given a part in the details,
can we hear
the song as it’s 
meant to be played.

Together,
let our IMAGINATIONS
bring to life the 
REALITY

—‘together we stand
divided we fall…’

It’s really that simple
when we see
in one another
—our unity
—our oneness.

We are the bridges for our children’s
lasting tomorrows.

Let’s get busy on the details.

Drops of Color

Jonathan Price

This is not ANOTHER sketch of a Black Man.

This is not a statistic of ANOTHER life
taken by the pull of a trigger…
the discharge made by a 
law enforcer, Peace Officer.

This IS an ‘IMAGE’ of a human being—
Created in the likeness of the One
who breathed life into this Universe…
The One who breathed life into the dust
of the brown soils of ‘Mother Earth.’

This is an attempt to ‘bring’ life
back to a life GONE too soon.

Every drop of ink—splashes a prayer
for Jonathan Price, his family, his 
friends, the one who took his life,
and for those who ONLY now have
come to know him because of this
‘senseless’ act.

This is a drawing of
a man whose life MATTERED…
especially because he was black.

You MATTER Jonathan Price.

May we not ‘rest’ until there is
Peace, Equality and Justice for
everyone whose skin
is a beautiful brown.

 

Life asked death, “Why do people
love me but hate you?”
Death responded, “Because you
are a beautiful lie and I am a pain-
ful truth.”
                                    Unknown

Drops of Color
Only a Dream

It was a dream.

Really, only a dream.

In the center of
a lush garden
stood a majestic tree.

The tree reached itself
beyond the sky.

Its leaves
oh, yes, 
countless leaves were a splendor
of cascading colors

AND

the leaves were the shape of hearts.

The wind picked up,
and I thought I heard ‘beating’
—one soft beat
followed by another and another.

Was it the leaves?
But how?

I rushed to the tree—
My heart awakening to the
strumming pattern. 
It, too, was listening.

I wanted to pull down a leaf
—just one.

But, then, right before my eyes,
the tree began to sway—
it moved left
then right.

I was beholden to a dance—
a sort of waltz.
Then, a soft blue leaf
let-go.

It crooned, hovered a while
until it settled itself
in the very palm of my
outstretched hand.

From the distinct time
the leaf ‘touched’ itself
upon me, something inside me changed.

How can I put it into words?

I was so ‘light’…
like the weight of a feather.
Yet, I was full
like a bucket of water
brimming over the edge,
spilling itself without end.

I wanted to pick a few leaves so
that I might send them to

WHY…EVERYONE.

Yet, as I reached,
I was held back.

The tree, THIS season
it seemed to say,
“This is ours to do.”

With that, a gust
swirled like a whip of a tail.

Several leaves let-go
floating on to their destination—
wherever that may be.

The time, the season ahead,
was a time for rest
as well as a time
of renewal.

A transformation of new colors
would be born again
come Spring.

I let-go of the blue leaf in my hand.
It was not a possession
or a keep-sake…
it was a companion, a guide.

I woke from my dream.
I was draped in a brilliant blue.

Wait, am I still dreaming?

No, I was wide awake.
I could hear ‘beating’
—a soft melody.

From my heart to yours.

Grow Brightly
and let-go.

Drops of Color
(A Pilgrimage Journal Entry/Camino St. Francis September 2019)

The Poor Man~~~
the beggar man from Assisi—
is that you?

The winds whispered through the trees—
the leaves clapped their hands.
“ALL Praise and Glory” sang through
a tiny pink flower on the side of
the trail~~~

Yes, now I know it is You.

A painted blue sky…a picturesque sea
washing itself above my head—
while the sun holds it center and
I feel myself revolving with you
Brother Francis, poor man,
beggar man~~~Lover of Creation.

Walking toward Assisi
the dust rises like incense with my
every step.
Small stones, large stones, lie in the
valley…an uncharted path giving way
to mountains dipped in soft clouds.

You’re near poor man, beggar man~~~
the Lord’s Troubadour.
You sang creation’s love song
and Praised creation’s Lord.

Your story Blessed Francis
lives on.
Sister Death came for you~~~
You welcomed her.

You’re here poor man,
beggar man from Assisi.

The Christ in You
is the Moon’s Fullness…
the Light, the Darkness—
Your friends.

How powerful ‘we’ SEE more clearly
in the dark solitude of 
our beings
when we view only a small speck of
our shadow—that IS the True Self.
“No? Yes?”
Does the False self come out in the Light?
Is it the illusion we pretend to be?
Wish to be?  Hope to be?

Poor man…
Beggar man…
You lived the journey simply—
it was yours.

I live mine
through your words.
“Who am I?  Who are you, Lord?”
Some days, I feel further from the discovery
of the answer to these questions
AND my being “Rejoices.”

In some ways, my prayer so small—
Pray, “I NEVER know.”
So like you
Poor man
beggar man from Assisi…
I walk on like you till
Sister Death takes my hand.

Francis, One day I’ll walk beside
you in the stars…

For now…I’ll simply bow
in Holy Wonder.

Feast Of Francis —October 4th

Drops of Color

Ruth Bader Ginsburg
March 15, 1933 —September 18, 2020

May the rays
which extend
through her shadow’s passing,
ignite within us a passion
—to bring truth to light,
—to forge peace,
—to live justly,
and to humbly walk with
the ‘Source’ of life
seen in ‘countless’ faces,
cast from a host of traditions
stretching beyond horizons unseen
trusting that LIBERTY 
is meant for ALL.

Drops of Color

A Treasured Map

I have sought a treasure—
a hid-den gem
unseen and, yet, visible
—so I’m told.

I’ve spanned countless miles on foot…
Endless terrain.

I’ve followed endless maps.
I’ve utilized devices
pointing the way.

Did I find the treasure
you ask?

Well…
Here is what I can tell you~~~

When I have set out
and stepped ‘off’ the map,

I have found
the pearl of great price.

I did not bring it back with me.
Others are searching for it.
I know them when I see them
(The Ones who’ve discovered the pearl)
and they know me.

Yes, once you find it—
it’s within.

Keep it there—
‘stay’ off the map.

Trust the direction guiding you

—it’s your course to journey.

 

Drops of Color

In Memory of Daniel Prude, 41
Died March 30, 2020

Please, Please, Please…

This poem can 
barely      write        words
 to          breathe.

I pray the image
holds a ‘human being’
without a bag over 
his head.

Please, please, please
let us come together
in the Oneness we
already are.

Amen

Drops of Color

Stuffed Bear

I remember a time
you were the one
who was always there
—always near.

I held you ever so closely.
As the years passed,
your stuffing started
coming out.

You never said anything.
Your eyes looked into
mine and the two of us cuddled closer.

There were those long nights
when I didn’t feel so ‘good.’
You didn’t correct my grammar—
You just soaked in my tears.

When I was up and running,
you stayed right in that
‘spot’ awaiting my return.
I knew you needed a hug
after a long day of my
being away.

Who was I kidding?
I needed to feel
your matted down fur.

You heard every story I 
shared with you—
those written and those 
I simply lived…

and You stayed beside me.

I’m sitting here writing
about you as if—
well, now that I’m older,
I no longer need my
furry ole’ friend.

Truth is,
sometimes I need you
more than ever

to help remind me
there’s that child inside
that needs that
‘make’ believe friend.

The one that sits quietly—
paws wide open.
Still filled with enough fluff
to squeeze tightly when a tear falls

or when I start laughing
for no reason at all.

This poem is about
a little girl
and her stuffed bear—

A bear who listened
to every prayer the little girl
whispered

Believing some One
was listening

and still IS.

Drops of Color

What Matters

The earth rolled itself—
a small marble
gliding in infinite space.

From my perch,
the sun began to greet
a new dawn.

I held the rays spanning
beyond directions until
the inferno of flame
ignited the sky.

Staring into the sun,
my pupils engulfed in wonder—

I closed my eyes.
Inwardly, the flames
set fire to my soul.

Then, some-thing
EXPLODED

Bang        BANG       Bang
       BANG
Bang       Bang
       BANG

I fell to the brown earth.

I held Jacob Blake’s body—
I held his three small children.
Their memories will always hear
the sound of the explosion
as their father fell.

The ‘sun’ within Jacob
still rises.

His father’s prayer,
a sung lament.

His mother’s voice,
a hymn calling for 
unity…A United Nation!

Broken brown people
calling people to peace—
praying for those whose
‘shots’ created this scene.

We do not have ‘all’
the words to fill in this story.

How can we begin
writing a new story
—what will fill the blank pages?

New suns are out there
beyond our sites
extending the depths
that cannot be measured.

Let us leap from the ships
of certainty we have
been riding.

Let us swim in a sea
and discover how
we can all stay afloat.

What profit if we gain the world
and my brother goes hungry?
My sister has no clothes?
Children have no place to call home?
We build more walls—
and a virus spreads inside
what we attempt to contain?
We shoot and then raise the Bible
and fail to see the blood
spilling from within that book,
that Holy Book.
Its final pages reveal a man
denouncing violence
who chose death
instead of lifting a sword!

I cannot stop staring into
the sun.
It has blinded my ability to see
these words I write
yet, ink splashes upon the page.

Black words…

From the sun’s flames
exploding within my heart,

All I can see:

BLACK LIVES MATTER

Drops of Color

Lady in Blue

I never knew you,
yet you showed yourself
to me on the street…in a far off land.

You were painted in chalk.
Your eyes sparkled—captivating me.
Still…I had NO idea
just Who was gazing into me.

I sketched an image of you
to place within these words of mine

AND

a wise Soul
wrote back, “The Lady in Blue.”
I paused, I held my breath.
There was something about
THIS Lady—

Her story…
her story it is told
—she never left her homeland
of Spain.

Yet, she appeared…

Appeared in far off lands.
Her DREAM—to Preach Good News.

The Lady in Blue appeared to
indigenous people,

AND

I cannot put into
words how she
revealed herself to me
at THIS time.

Woman

Lady in Blue
it is my heart in your hands.

Drops of Color
A City on A Hill

There is a city
at rest upon a hill.

Persons come from
all directions to visit
this place.

When they look out,
they can SEE a vastness
beyond words.

Many purposely come to 
visit the two Basilicas
dwelling in this city.

One Basilica enhances
the Sacred Masculine—
the Other, the beauty of
the Divine Feminine.

The two individuals 
for whom these Basilicas
were named
would NEVER had wished
these ‘glorious’ artifacts of
artistry to be in
their names.

What they would have desired,
is that when One visits this
lowly city upon this
glorious hill,

they would LOOK
outward and behold
inward the manifestation

of the Source of all
LIFE
residing everywhere.

Yes…even upon this
City on A Hill.

 

Drops of Color

I See

Legs dipping under
then quickly—reach up, and outward.

Higher and higher
the wind attempting to catch-up.

I breathe~~~ ‘in.’

My feet caress the soft grass
as I cascade above its
feathery green blades.

I breathe~~~ ‘out’
closing my eyes.

In between breaths,
the silent gap.

My eyes
wide open…
NOW

I SEE.

Drops of Color

Who Are You?

Interesting,
you gaze at yourself
through a shattered piece of glass.

Now, that’s telling!

But what is being ‘acted?’

Are you putting on colors
or whipping them off?

Who did you make yourself
out to be?
Certainly, the world loves a clown.

Underneath,
there is still you.

I think you love the you that
the crowd does not know.
Who are you once the mask,
the make-up removed?

You conveniently mingle through
the crowd and no one shouts,
“Hey, that’s the clown who had us
rolling in the aisles—”
the one who gently touched the child
on chemo and the little one smiled…

The parents cried—
it was an expression of Joy.

Then with arms spread wide you
embraced a senior citizen
all alone in a nursing home.
She raised her hand touching your face…
her first movement in God knows how
long—you could hear a pin drop.

I read about a person
who ‘touched’ the crowds
and would say, “Don’t tell
anyone what I’ve done…

go show yourself to the
priests…that will suffice.”

No one listened.
They broadcast the 
acts from town to town.

There was hardly a 
place the person
could go—

‘Unrecognized.’

Hey, Who Are You?

Are you that
same person?

Your show lives on…

I still see the
world smiling.

Your nose still has
red paint on it.

Drops of Color

Kneeling

Kneeling earnestly in silence
beside a bed.

Listening…
No words flow.

Something seems to have lifted
a latch to a gate
and a gentle stream rushes through.

I hear the roar of a river
gripping the rapids.
White caps drench me
as I hold ‘in’ stillness.

A calm ensues
glazing the water’s surface.
I move and still my being
hovers as if held by wings.

Again…
No phrases break from
my lips.

My ears pick up the sound
of One beside me.

Audible sentences
I do not take in.

Yet, a knowing
‘echoes’
all around me.

Reaching into the 
intimate chambers of
my beating heart,
my knees long
to remain
alongside this bed.

Only a little longer—please.

And, then…the day Begins—

although it already began
along side You.

Drops of Color

Finding a Balance

The sun held
the blue ceiling
laced in rays.

The soft green
strands of hair
rooted in earth
stood as if their
performance was
on-going.

Center stage
a pink feathered
actor
dipped, tucked,
and stood eloquently
balanced on one leg.

The sun
began its bow
westward
illuminating
the light
long enough
for the artist
to see the curtain closed,

and then flying silently
to the standing
ovation—creation.

An encore
written
yet, not in words.

Wings unfurled.