Drops of Color

Scapegoat

Atop a lofty crag
—you skipped
—you trounced
—you grazed.

Out of nowhere, they came.

In their eyes, you saw
an irrational intent,
but, it was too late.

They held you, they bound
you, no matter which way
you moved attempting to 
flee, tighter and 
tighter became their restraint.

You let out a shallow
cry, and then another.

They ‘weighted’ you down
all the more thinking they
would pile all their burdens
upon you setting themselves
free.

You watched your kin from
a distance, the smoke of
the fire waffled in the 
air.

Sacrificed—and, now you
let go.

After being scourged,
they set you out in a wasteland—
your very being laid down.

They celebrated back in 
their villages—lifting their voices
in song.

They were feeling the
release of their sins, placing
on you all their
demons.

They missed the sound of 
your lasting breath,
“Forgive them, they know
not what they do.’

 

A New Year upon us…
Let us pick up our back packs and not saddle its contents upon another.
Let us carry who we are consciously giving thanks for our created self,
holding all the realties that make us who we are, yes our joys and our sorrows.
Let us OPEN our eyes seeing life anew and step forward into a collective Oneness with all creation.

 

 

 

Drops of Color

Let it be done…

You cannot
see
but,  there is a 
small child
behind this instrument.

The ensemble kept calling to her.
She was told, “NO,
you’re a girl.”

She took out
‘all’ the pots & pans.
Grabbed hold of spatulas
and wooden spoons.

Oh, she played the drums.
Yes, she did,
 even more so because
she was a girl.

Two sticks in her hands
were like branches on a tree.

The first ‘tap’— a leaf blossomed.
The second ‘tap’— the tree magically
draped itself in a green coat of notes.
The third and forth ‘tap’— burst
through the forest.

The beating of the sticks
loosened the ground
calling the animals to come out of
their dens.

They, creation’s creatures, thumped
the ground joining the beat.

The sun flickered
and clouds beat
together creating a 
rain shower soaking
the dance floor.

The child
came out from
behind the set.

She looked out
at all that was
before her—
The stage enveloped her.

She heard creation
‘groaning,’
laboring for another song,

and because 
she was a girl,

She said,
“Let it be done
through me!”

Season’s Greetings
“We” Celebrate in ‘many’ ways
AND
“We” are infinitely One.
Blessings of Holy Wonder

 

Drops of Color

Star of Wonder…

Beyond frozen, ice formations
decorate a chilled window.

Oh, holy night.

Neatly splattered across glass,
a million faces
—each snowflake an image
of a creator.

Those gazing into
the faces,
a reflection of themselves
made visible.

Yes, in each speckle,
in every frosty bite,
artistic mortality
revealed without a pen,
or paint, or brush, no strands
of yarn or colored beads.

Stars unite with cold
linking to the warmth of the Soul
touching the glass from the inside
and reuniting with itself.

‘Star of Wonder
Star of Light
Star with royal
beauty bright.’

Overhead, you shine.
Overhead, you press the image of
yourself on this window.
Looking out from this pane,
Oh, star of wonder,
You have found
the One you reside within.

‘Guide us to this perfect light.’

 

 

Drops of Color
Another…

I struggle to place the
word on paper.

Another __________

I do NOT wish to speak it aloud!

Something ‘within’ breaks
like a dam unclogged from a river
—it flows.

Another SHOOTING
Another Shoot-ing
another shooting

For too long, in my seemingly short life,
I have listened.  Sometimes, I haphazardly tuned out
individuals who spoke out about laws that focused 
on weaponry.

NOW, I hear the arguments, the jokes
unfurled…please, this is NO
laughing matter.

I hoped, prayed when the VOICES
of children rose like a phoenix rising from the ashes
addressing their concerns~~~
 their cries would be heard.

The voices of children, the children,
OUR children

their future!

Instead, BIG business prevailed.

Is there an answer?
What is the correct question?

They are ‘in’ us—each of them…

MADISYN BALDWIN

TATE MYRE

HANA ST JULIANA

JUSTIN SHILLING

We must respond for them!

Is this sad for you to read?
It is breaking  open my heart
to pen these thoughts.

BUT— Love
                   Love
                        Love
brings us again and again to a cave…
no room in any inn
—a child born to ignite the World.

We are here to LIGHT the world…
Called to do even greater things.

Can we drop to our knees?

Are we able to create a lasting story
where another life is saved
because we ‘release’ all 
that would hold us victimized
and rise to leave a future
where our children our mindful?

Let us consciously 
choose love 
so that our children 
are able to live on.

Drops of Color
Leap Frog

Remember the days of
hide-and-seek,
kick the can,
red light green light?

Do you recall
tag-you’re-it,
hop-scotch,
and running through the sprinklers?

Hour after hour of fun
from sun up to sun down…

No electronic devices found,
batteries were not included…or even needed.

The only ‘mouse’ discovered—
the one scurrying into the bushes because
of the sounds of little feet
seeking the perfect place to hide away.

We played leap frog…
Now, the memory at play
—one got so low to the ground,
the other ‘leaped’ over
and released a gigantic,
R-I-B-B-I-T,   R-I-B-B-I-T…

Places were traded, more boys and girls
rushed into the grassy pond.

Before we all realized,
the street lights turned on.
We hopped home.
We were asleep before our heads
touched the pillow.

Sweet dreams 
ensued
leaping over stars
until tomorrow

when we all
become ‘frogs’

once again

leaping into our imaginations.

 

***This poem is dedicated to ALL our children***

Drops of Color

Lean In…

The table set
— a lasting Supper…

that IS what Thanksgiving has come
to be—for me.

Is this a poem?  Lean In…

I often pause, held in the image of the 
Beloved Disciple, Apostle of Apostles,
leaning in to the One about to break bread,
share from the same cup, a sip of wine,
and then pausing, pausing long enough
to ‘still’ the table and each gatherer.

Room made to wash the feet
of every person in the space…leaning in.

I lean in…in Thanksgiving
to each of you reading these words,
who sometimes scroll down to see
the photo first, or take in the art work.

I lean in…like the one in Michelangelo’s Last Supper
listening to the lasting heart beat.

She held his silent actions,
breathed in his every word.

Wait?  Do you think I made a typo
by referencing the One beside
Jesus as she?
She, it is, I exclaim, leaned in.

Why?  Because it is what I hold
and lean ‘in’to.

An institution painted her to be
an adulterous woman yet, it was she who
remained at the foot of the cross,
it was she who announced,
“He” is Risen—it is she who leaned In
trusting as I do these words.

Today, as you sit at table,
I’m leaning in, held in gratitude
and Thanksgiving.

Each of us serves what we have been
called to create.

Take and offer your abundance.

Lean in to the life you have been given.

Share the fruits of plenty dangling
from the vine of your Divine Soul.

Together, let us create more space
welcoming everyone to dine.

Yes, even scraps are plentiful.

Today is a Feast, a feast of Thanks.

Lean In…
there’s room at the table.

 

 

Drops of Color

Empty Cupboard Shelves

Each item on the shelf
waiting to be received.

This cupboard full
—the anticipation of food supplies
    flying off these shelves
    to feed others.

Empty, empty, empty
the cupboards.

We can fill them again
and again and again
in hopes that one day
we can proclaim,

“No one shall be hungry…all are full.”

The cupboard shelves bare,
waiting to re-stock
from the surplus
right outside the door.

Pure manna from heaven.

Drops of Color

Home…again!

Your garment
changed in color
as the Season swept in.

You let-go.
The branch from which you dangled,
breathed a heavy sigh.

Landing upon wooden boards,
although you were not attached,
you felt yourself at home.

The connection—immediate.

The veins in your paper-like flesh
sought sustenance,
yet it was no longer needed as before.

You lie there beside others.
 A driving wind enveloped
whisking each of you away.

Carried off in every direction,
your destination—uncertain, unknown.

Still, you knew you were
making your way

Home—again! 

Drops of Color
Notes

Sheets set ablaze.
Scores of ballads ignited,
yet not consumed.

Every note a live ember
rising.

A perfect pitch
lights the rafters overhead
with music.

An inferno of sounds
cradles the room.

A blanket of crescendos
wraps around the listener.

Spellbound, the piece stoked
—a brief rest
—a crisp pop
—a sudden crackle
—sparks of vibrations
    extend coloring the pages.

Beyond the enclosure of the
concert hall,
a tiny bird flutters its
feathers.

When it sings,
the song inside itself falls like ashes
from heaven’s canopy.

Bravo, Bravo, Bravo.

Wings of flames
carry the sparks.

The sun calls it home,
setting into the western sky.

On the other side,
a fire being set
waits for wings to 
drop the flames.

The notes await
the conductor’s cue.

Chariots of fire
singe the sheets.

The song plays on
engulfed in cinder
holding a tune.

 

 

Drops of Color
A Patch

The land
—it was fertile.

In early spring
beneath the sun,
the guides,
they tilled and toiled.

The aroma of the upturned soils
mixed with manure
—spread.

Planted, were seeds set
apart row after row.

Great care given to
this patch of land…

An unspoken prayer
delivered by hands.

The guides worked from dawn to dusk.

Rains would fall as if a switch
clicked and then
delicate veins burst from
the womb, earth.
From her hid-den darkness,
she broke open
the fruit of her being.

Thanks offered, not with words.
The ritual of nurturing the soils
pressed on.

The plants drank the juice of
sunshine, unfolding leaves 
and gourds taking form.

Deep green shaped ovals
shaded beneath green leaves.
When night came,
a visitor, a welcomed guest,
entered the patch with
what appeared to be orange
paints.

One after another,
row by row,
the brush glided over
pumpkins.

Harvest 
picked with perfection.
Countless shapes
each one unique unto itself.

Inside seeds, countless seeds,
born in a single patch
with great care…

Thank you Great Pumpkin

 

 

 

The Art of Unfolding

Waiting
    wait—ing.

Slowly, without any need
to push, prod, arch or
bend,
a change uncovers itself before
the eye can see.

A reality perceived—
a lifetime of endless attempts,
one pursuit after another.

Then, sitting quietly,
waiting,
the ripened unfolding made
manifest.

There was no need to do
anything.

Blossoming happens—the art
form everlasting.

 

Drops of Color

Sets of Wings

They wait.

A soft breeze
rises through the marsh
—the wings ‘jostle.’

A storm making its way
—the wings begin to dance.
    THIS, the moments they live for.

Gliding, whirling faster and faster
—a song breaks into the clamor
     of the monstrous roar
—they meet.

Wind and Wings
—creating a sound.

The Pilgrim
steadied in the turbulence
—cannot help but remain calm

while being deluged
and lulled
by the flapping of wind
and the wings
of the windmill.

 

 

Drops of Color

Gather at the River

Remember the song?
The hymn?

Do you recall the reasons
for the voices rising
in harmony?

Was there a reason?

I am of the ‘ilk’ that all things do NOT
happen for a reason.

I gently hold we attempt to make ‘meaning’
of all things ‘flowing’—

How do we SEE what is in front of us,
around us, beside us, beyond us,
‘within us?’

Even the most dire of situations
—the circumstances that ‘break our hearts,’
—that drive us to our knees, that invite us
to join hands in prayer and collectively
groan with a Universe in labor
desiring to birth LOVE…
Can we birth love? 

I do not know how to ‘join’ humanity.
 I am trying to write,
sketch for those who literally cannot.
I Am walking a path with persons
seeking the same dreams,
‘to BE the change we hope to SEE
in this World…‘

“Shall we gather at the River…
Yes, we’ll gather at the river
The beautiful, the beautiful river
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the [grace] of God.”

Please…sing along—
lift your voice
—remaining silent stops the current
—carry your tune amidst the rapids.

Amen.

Drops of Color
We Arrived Before You…

The forests fashioned.
The jungles let down
their brawny vines.

Mountains wore caps
of dazzling white
tipping elegantly
—igniting a widening avalanche.

The sea opened.
Separate streams pouring
into an endless pool
that seemed to hoist
a fierce, fiery ball
at dawn’s arrival.

Deserts baked
—an oven exposing cracks
—looking closely, life loomed.

Yes, before humankind,
we were.  We arrived before you.

The land was vast.

Roaming freely
—there was the hunter
     and the hunted
—ONLY, to sustain life.

Our existence
dependent upon
a simple task:

Living our fullness.

We multiplied
—caring, nurturing
     our young.

   Some let their young
   go, others remained
with a pack.

A butterfly freed
itself from its
cocoon to flutter
into the day’s
fullness and then
it passed.

Fullness of life
—each knowing
    instinctively its path.

Then, you arrived.

The story changed.

We did not tell you
how to be.
Nor did we tell you
where your accommodations
would be.
We did not tell you what to eat,
how to eat.

We did not speak…well, not in
a language clear to you.

We had no idea that you were
to have dominion over everything
and that you were to look after
all things created.

We were here before you.

Please, let us live our fulness
that we once had.

We all can go on from here—
can’t we?

 

 

Drops of Color
A Change

There is a change in the air.

The season has revealed
its timeless face
—Sun rising early
—Reflections of the sea
     in the blue skies overhead
—The gulls cry
     as the surf crashes into a shore
     laboring for the sea’s salt
     seeping into sands.

I have stood here
a myriad of times.
Yet, when I look out,
I see within a growing change.

What is it?
What are these words writing themselves?

They are waves
having passed this way before,
but now its movement different.

Like reading the same book twice
or listening to the Scriptures
—the same verse
—a hundred times
     yet, on the one hundred and first time
     there is a change.

How is it I never heard it
until now?

What opens the ear?

Silently, the sounds of the season
carry the vessel a last time
before the winter months
lift the sails.

Riding on the sea, side saddle,
the waves buck the bow.

Holding the rein,
the season speaks.
“I shall return
and so, too, you
—changed.”

Recalling what was,
holding the helm
carried in the direction
of the orange flame
lifting from the pool,

this sailing boat
trusts it is home.

Drops of Color
Dazzling Kernels

The field was endless.

Stepping into one of the rows,
I softly made my way.

The stalks reached toward the clouds.

I crossed over into another row.

Time passed.
I lost any sense of direction
—the sun, my guiding post.

Here I was in 
a corn field.

I thought I heard
a crackle, then a pop.

Sitting in the middle
of this pleasant abundance,
I glanced noticing an ear.
Something , someone pulled it back.

Bright yellow dazzling kernels
layered like the rows I 
had been traversing.

I reached to pull it from
its coat of green leafy sheaves.

Suddenly, it was as if
my ‘reach’ held in time.

I heard, ‘Let me live long enough to die—
let my seeds fall, planting themselves…
let the birds carry them off, dropping a few
as they soar…’

See, see this pattern ‘in’ life…

Born from seed
—bursting from a sack.

Life, a harvest waiting
to be lived out.

Closure, returning to Earth—

Death

—it is not an end
    as we have been 
    led to believe

—it is a beginning
    into NEW tomorrows.

 

 

 

Drops of Color

Who Wins?

Victory will resound only
when, together, we
collectively ‘win.’

There is a time for 
everything as the writer of
Ecclesiastes pens.

We weep, we laugh.
We, mourn, we celebrate.
We sing, we sit in silence.

We pray ONLY to allow 
love to guide us.

 

 

Drops of Color

In This Town

Somewhere
in this town,
You are.

I am not certain
I will find you,
but I know
You see me.

You often
lead me
to places “I Think”
you could never
be found.

Then…

I find you
—on every corner
—in between alleys
—on each cobble stone  walk
—dangling from window panes,
spacious courtyards,
and coffee shops.

I find a place to rest
and sit on a park bench.
You are sitting on the opposite end
reading the newspaper.

You pause
placing the paper between us.

The headline reads:
“I Found You”

I, who was
in search of You.

 

 

 

Drops of Color

Cornerstones

These stones…

I continue creating
—archways
—windows
—bridges

These stones carry
stories as they were
—rolled into place
—hauled, lifted, chiseled.

Is there a cornerstone
holding them in place?

Is that what I am attempting
to find as I draw
yet another ‘stone’ edifice?

How is it these structures still
stand, no re-building
plans.

The hands that laid this work
—Unknown

Perhaps, in their own way
each a Cornerstone…

 

Drops of Color
Rosie…

rises on all fours.
Tiny paws already
revealing the size this pup
will one day be.

A tail swings back 
and forth like a metronome
especially when she hears her name
spoken aloud.

A soft step
followed by a playful tumble.
Now she rumbles into a pair
of limber legs.

Arms reach for her.
Rosie jumps with delight
attempting to wrap her
furry arms around a neck.

Her eyes glisten.
She always seems to adorn
a smile…
it’s that simple.

“…And they call it Puppy Love.”

Could it be so simple?

Just ask Rosie!

Drops of Color
Mansion

‘Inside’ this mansion,
the views ‘outside’
reveal the essence of
what IS The Mansion…
Yes, from ALL directions.

Drops of Color

Wedding Garment

The garment
—a natural design
—a fit needing no alterations
—feathers laid like a winnowing fan.

A blue painted sky
began the celebration.

The wedding feast
—an invitation to all.

The trees let loose—
The ground shook as sprigs of grass
stood tall like towering steeples.

Buttercups unraveled.

Why, even the wind stopped a moment
to honor the silence.
Silence…the opening hymn.

Wings spread themselves like open arms.
The sun lit the cathedral.

An open eye
scanned the vast assembly.

Everything had its place.

No words spoken—
No rings exchanged.

They took to the
sky and exchanged a 
wedded kiss.

The garment no longer two—
they flew as one.

Petals of white feathers
floated down
anointing the ground
blessing this
holy union.

Drops of Color

A soft Howl

In moments
of silent meditation,
a soft howl brews
inside of me.

Then, the howl expands
on an ordinary
piece of paper.

Drops of Color
Rainbow of Puddles

Slender bristles
separate, yet bound together,
dangling from a wooden rod.

Each strand
seeking ‘the color’ revealing
an essence of its individual self.

Only inches away
a palette lay…a rainbow of puddles,
pooled separately.

The rod, rocking
back and forth,
not of its own making,
but that of the 
collective gathering
in the form of a brush.

The anxious thrill
to bathe oneself
in one’s color

BUT…

a pause holds
—an empty canvas waiting.

One brush, many bristles
decide to use each color
not one left out or excluded.

A prism painted,
another canvas beckoned.

When ‘all’ the colors used and fashioned
—utilizing its purpose,

the designs

Eternal.