Balance

Balance

Sails unfurled—
Like over-sized blankets,
they dangled from an invisible line.

Moving in the direction
of the wind’s speed,
a vessel ‘held’
before
enormous beams
strewn north and south…

a single line was painted
east and west.

The bridge
carried over the sea.

From the right,
the gaze was infinite.

From the left,
an utterly distinct view.

Both angles revealed
something clearly ‘different.’

Both ends spoke a ‘truth’
from a ‘fixed’ point.

Differing views held this 
structure’s balance.

SomeHOW…
meeting in the middle
set the balance.

One side
did not speak to the other
reciting, “You’re NOT seeing correctly.”
No demeaning remarks hurled.

The bridge stood
encompassed from
polar, opposite ends

—STANDING—

So others could make
their way in both directions.

The sails caught
a gust
and, speaking for
the wind,

it whispered,
“LET’S sail under.”

So many ways to travel

Can we find the 
balance to bridge
the divining gaps?

Drops of Color/ She Ran

Drops of Color

She Ran

She ran…
then she picked up her pace.
The sounds of bloodhounds in the distance
—in pursuit.
She quickened her strides
—they were after her.

There was no path—
briers covered her garments
branches slashed her ankles.
At night, mosquitoes would draw
her blood
still~~~She ran.

In the evening,
the North star pointed the way.
By day, she covered the banks
along side the river.

She fell to her knees
when her captors drew near…
“Show me God”…”You brought me this far.”
She walked into the water…
She never swam a stroke in her life.

The waters rose
—to her knees
—to her hips
—to her shoulders.

She trusted
and she crossed.

The visions she had—
Were they from the blows to her head
She ‘saw’ what was yet to come—
She was haunted by the memories of her
family being carried off, sold…
Why?  Because of the color of their
skin?

She ran…
making her way to freedom.
BUT, she was shackled within
knowing her people were enslaved.

Back she went…
When she was told she should NOT
because it was too dangerous,
she refused to listen.

She listened to the voice speaking to her…
Her God said, “Go, FREE my people.”

She fled ‘back’ into
a villainous landscape
where persons used/misused the Scriptures
to ‘possess’ lives.
Her God would not hold ‘kin’ to that~~~
THAT way would NOT lead ALL to the 
Promised Land.

Her God led all people, all things,
all seasons to lands flowing
with Milk & Honey.

Yet, history has a way of
repeating itself.

We are all One…
MANY believe this true.

Yet,
there are still systems at work
religions intertwined
‘laying’ down the voice of
the gods they see themselves to be.

The same voices that passed
(Fugitive Slave Act, 1850)
the law allowing slave owners to return
and reclaim their run-away property.

Again—she ran.
Others ran beside her.
She went back for the sake of OTHERS…
For the freedom of others…
this was her ONLY reason…
her greatest gain.

Segregated still—
she gathered her people like a 
mother hen.

She led them into battle,
to fight for freedom.

Violence was NOT her nature—
The scars of slavery, like roots,
thread through her people’s skin.
She would NOT allow tomorrow’s
children and their children
to carry those stripes.

Harriet—
in which direction do we run
today?

Spirit calling Harriet—
lead the way
Woman, daughter, sister of God.

No Name

No name

A soft hush—
the wind pulling itself
through strands of hair.

Enveloped in a sea of darkness—
the permission of light
still had access.
A battery of stars
needing no charge
except what already is given them.

Longing stretched its way
along the path.
A longing NOT to be filled…
this time ONLY to follow…

YOU.

You a silent voice
inside my temple’s-tent.
Residing and always 
waiting.

I love your surprised
expressions when you
say, “Good, you are here again.”

I used to ‘hear’ that expression
as if you were saying,
“Is she ever going to understand?”

Now, I realize
or I’m seeing a pattern…
A circular flow?
I’m spinning, spiraling.

I am in your Orbit
revolving through seasons—
I AM a part of ALL

THIS…

I think I hear you laughing

You who no longer
needs a Name.

Drops of Color/ The Window

Drops of Color

The Window

Standing on the sidewalk…

I SEE the window.
I know what is ‘inside.’
Metaphorically, I was
born between the pews.

At a young age,
I was always drawn to
the window—
the light from ‘outside’
stained the glass
in colors
not a single word
could convey.

I cannot give you
a day, an hour
when it happened
but, somehow
the glass shattered
and I climbed out
from ‘inside.’

I let go of everything
except what I carried
within—beating aloud.

Now, now that I am out
I see someone has
repaired the window…
better yet, it has been
replaced.

Wouldn’t want anyone
sayin,’ “Another Gone.”

So, here I am
on this sidewalk—

So many beside me.

Maybe ‘we’ are the 
broken pieces the
light shines through

because from out here
we are ‘in’ the 
dwelling place
where not a 
‘single’ One
left out or
restrained.

I have found heaven…
it has been here all
along.

Arms of a Crater

Arms of a Crater

Held…

in the arms of a crater.

The silence
pounding like a drum—
beat with a delicate feather.

The hush in this
void like a favorite nursery rhyme
I never tire of hearing—

***Once Upon A Time***

Lying awake,
gentle speckles of light
grip hands with
night’s mask.

Both have a face
and recognize
their reflection in one another.

I look on
from a nestled crook
in this crater.

Closing my eyes
wishing to wake
to a fullness

eclipsed by the 
shadow 
of 
You.

Drops of Color/ The Bell-Tower

Drops of Color
The Bell-Tower

The outline of the bell-tower
held in shadow.

As the first chime
begins to clang~~~
the coloring of the dawn
‘high-lights’ the sound.

A sweet caress of a 
face born anew.

 

Stone Edifice

Stone Edifice

A display of masterful
sculpting—

The precision in the edge
of the blade—

The chisel
positioned with a reluctant swipe.

A chip, one at a time,
falls…

what revealed?

The elegance of ‘nothingness’…
nudity—its strength,
its vibrancy, its search—

No shame.

There is no need to hide
any bit of the stone’s
essence.

The stone edifice…David
Michelangelo’s work
magnificently stands.

Even if this stone masterpiece
were ever to crumble,

I believe the voice
in each stone ‘piece’
would sing the creator’s
chiseled song.
Truly, the voice of
God be heard.

Drops of Color/ Sometimes

Drops of Color
Sometimes

Sometimes I can
sit for hours
and the only words
that caress the paper—
the point of
a pen…
the rest
‘paint’ a picture…

You, There

You, There

You, chalking the pavement.

You, unknown creator
casting images of grace,
splendor, excellence.

You, ‘covered’ in chalk dust.
Before you, your ‘matte’
the mere street…

You swipe a shade of blue
then yellow…
eyes appear…widening in
wonder.

You do not display your
name.

You reveal beauty beyond yourself.

You know the rain
eventually will come.

You know it will erase
your work of long hours.

You know you’ll continue
creating because it is what you’ve
been ordained to do, to be…

AND

you do not need to leave
your signature.

AMEN

 

 

Drops of Color/Puffin

Drops of Color/ Puffin

erfect

      U nexpected

       F  athomless

ierce

      I   ntimate

N  oble

 

You STAYED

You STAYED

The Season past.

You have held your color.

But why, what has led you
to hold on?

Maybe you do not know.

Are you ripening?

You have tasted the warmth
of summer.

Here you are in winter’s chill.

There is an elegance
that graces your frozen petals.

What will become of you?
One of your petals
NOW has let go…
drifting upward
yes, a wisp of cold
air lofting a red velvet blanket

from your bud.

Is this the pattern?
Will another and another
be gone, taken
leaving the simple
skeleton of your stem?

Some One
holds your soft fragrance.
Pierced by your thorns, they could
never turn away.

You have shared
yourself—simply by being.

Even after this season gone,
the beauty that is you

LIVES On.

Drops of Color/Night~Fall

Drops of Color

Night-Fall

You have held the day
casting light
chasing away shadows.

You begin your descent
giving way to the
night.

The sounds of the ocean
loud and fierce—
I can no longer SEE the curl
of the wave into the shore.
Yet, I hear it crash.

Closing my eyes,
I am lulled to sleep
sweet dreams of light
comforted like a blanket

in night’s fall.

A Potter’s Wheel

A Potter’s Wheel

The moon drifting
into the depths of the western sky.
Deep blue shades laced with hints
of lavender.

An arm’s reach—
stretching across the ceiling overhead—
the eastern ‘print’ growing in 
hues…pink, orange and other splashes
unwritten by crayola.

Softly, my steps crunched the ground
frosted in winter’s bedroom…
The season invited me ‘in’
as did its roommates…

Before my eyes,
clinging to the ground,
—a Great Horned Owl.
Wings outstretched like a canopy…
in its talons a small bird
—its prey.

We shared a glance,
but the meal was his.

Lofting itself into the skeletal trees,
he carried the feathered creature…
—its weight did not encumber his 
take off.

Perched in the branches,
he looked first to his left
then he turned to the right.
Suddenly, like a potter’s wheel, his
head twirled effortlessly
scanning every which way.

I stood motionless—
He flew deeper into the woods.

I walked
glancing left
then right.

I twirled
beneath the sheets of
clouds just overhead.

Dizzy…
I tumbled to the frozen earth.

Was I prey?
or was I predator?
Was I both?

The silent echo of my breath
lifted to meet the frozen particles
joining the vapor spewed from
my being.

This bedroom I was held in
was both ‘comforter’
and a final place of rest.

Who’s There?

Who’s There?

Tiny ‘dimples’—
light beams
like a face filled with
freckles—
the dome above my head painted in stars.

The wind hollowed—
my steps not my own.
I was pulled in the direction
of a ‘breath’ guiding
each ‘sole’ planting itself.
I, a mere vessel.
The sail of my being
thrust in the current’s flow.

But, then
a sudden sound.
What was it?
It, too, held in the swirl
and it pushed drawing nearer 
to me.

I did not look back…
Instead, I picked up my pace,
yet, whatever was behind me
seemed to be doing the same thing.

‘Crackle,’ then ‘crunch’…
then, one long chord~~~
a musical note struck
skidding across
earth’s skin.

Before I had a
moment to turn,
the wind caught me
from behind. The pursuer
clung to my back.

A soft blow~~~
the equivalent of a gentle caress.

After its ‘strike,’
it delicately
hovered until it touched
the ground.

I began to laugh!
You, again…
You, show yourself
in a vast array of splendor.

Again, the wind gathered itself
carrying a ‘leaf’
and me
beneath the night’s sky.

Drops of Color…The Ceiling

 

The Ceiling

The scaffolding—
a wooden floor.

Splinters—soft,
hay-like as I lie on my back
nestled in.

Over my head—
a matte.

From a quilted tip
a simple line flows—
another follows.

In my memory—
traces of masterpieces a hundred years and
beyond filled a ceiling.

NOW—I AM ‘re-creating.’

A space between—
stories, divine revelations…
meaning, understanding, lasting
impressions.

All GOOD, even with dark shadows
casting sides un-frightened to be
exposed.

The artist long ago…
A Soul bleeding colors
unstoppable

so, too, I.

The ceiling—
the one above my being
rumbles then quakes…

I am being MOVED—
I slide across wooden floor boards.

Jabbed—my hands, my feet
my side

I am bleeding.

The ceiling ‘cracks’—

I cannot leave
the colors 
seeping from within me.

Drops of Color
Conscious
re-creations forming.

A tree holds 
the center—
Roots spread infinitely in an
expansive Universe.

For a moment…
I stand

I will be back—
simply going for
MORE colors.

The ceiling,
THIS matte,
a Dome of Transformation.