Fashioned

You, fashioned by the dawn…
a musical note flowed from
your windpipe.

Your feathers stretched themselves.

From left to right
instinctively, you spread yourself wide….

The song growing inside now heard as 
you began to fan your wings.

Carried by the sun,
rising to your tune,
a new day begun.

You laid down a 
feather,

a simple reminder

you only have to carry
so much
and never let go of
your song.

Itself

In opposite directions,
arms reach.

One end
digging deeper into the soil
grounding itself firmly.

The arms above spread out
in a manifestation of praise
extending an eternal reach
as if knowing
it is met and held.

Clinging to what is invisible,
its weight does not deter its
unwavering extension.

As seasons change,
as weathers re-shape
the wooden limbs,
the tree again becomes
‘itself’

lifted…

Risen in perpetual adoration.

Holy hands
united in creation

~~~the first story
begun without words.

Poetry is old…

like the soils tucked in between
the threads of my hiking boots.

I continue to trek through forests—
old manuscripts are printed in the bark
of the trees.

The sun casts its glow on the entirety
of the manuscript, but it is the moon
that drops the shadows

and, when I lay my white porcelain skin
on the brown flesh of earth,

I ask why, why am I, only now,
learning history long forgotten?
Or, history, that has been conveniently
erased, held in hid-den caves
by persons sharing the same color
as my painted flesh.

I want to roll in the mud—
covering my skin with old poems.

Human beings, not even considered persons,
were ‘hung’ like vines.
The wilderness wept seeing the bondage
—the ground shook as humans whose skin matched the color of mud
were chained, beaten, raped,
burned, hanged, sold.

Like the wind’s still soft voice,
their voices in the fields
became hymns.

Their souls rose more fervently
like evergreens spreading in a barren desert.

Together, they stood, and stand, like a poem—
old poems writing themselves new.

Juneteenth (July 19th) celebrated a first time.
It is so old, but it is new
to me.

I have removed my boots
and cannot wait for the dark earth
to paint my soles.

Weeping, my tears well from a spring unknown.
I know not its path.

I walk hand in hand with my brothers & sisters,
with earth & sky, ocean & desert,
forest and winged angels,
with city streets and four footed creatures
who ask for nothing except
that old poems be told,
be read aloud,
so that we all may peacefully breathe
the ‘spirit’ uniting us all—
forever, world without end…

Amen

(Written under the wise tutelage of June Gould, Ph. D.)

What did you see today?
(Excerpt from a Journal/Pilgrimage along the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, Wales/ 2019)

I saw drops of rain~~~
turned-on like a faucet on high.

I was drenched until the sun burst~~~

A soft wind carried a sail boat across
the sea and it hovered around me…

I moved~~~ the sail of my being
dry…not a single seam weighed down
by this morning’s baptism.

What did you hear today?
I heard the ‘Gospel’ —echoes of silence.

What did you touch today?
Delicate moss, a beautiful green blanket
stretching over the stately trees…
The moss touched me first holding on
long enough to rest…then the branches, the
limbs of the trees began to dance~~~
they held a pose.

What did you smell today?
The scent of flowers~~~wild, unfolding
anointing this Sojourner with their
priceless fragrance.

Who did you find THIS day?
I found my friend in living colors~~~
Many friends, countless mansions…
I sought a rainbow
to feel the depths of those
who have moved on…

On the sea’s shore…
red, yellow, pink, green, purple, orange
there THEY were…

I did not have to look up~~~
THEY have been in front of me all along~~~
it has simply taken me this long
to discover.

Web of Being

You held the sun
between glimmering threads.

You did not capture its flame.
Instead, you allowed the impregnating
light to reveal the essence of
spun creativity.

Passing-by, had I blinked,
I would have missed this divine manifestation.

This web of being invited me
to lay back and take in
the delicate, detailed tapestry
we are knitted ‘into.’

If tomorrow, anything should
remove this holy dwelling,
trust…it is a mere illusion.

This web of being is
spun again,
and then again.

The same sun makes
its way to shine on the plains.

The dangling strands
crafted
—spaces reveal
life living in the essence
of a web
spinning,
and we revolve
held by threads
spun by
creation’s delicate
dance.

Another Version of Psalm 23

How can I be glad
   when I hear you weeping?
You, who have been my Shepherd,
   I want to dry your tears.
How I wish to allow you to lie down
   instead of wondering if another shot will be fired.
I live in green pastures,
   and I want to bring you to still waters.
You cry out, ‘I cannot breathe.’
   Your lifeless body pulled from a vehicle after countless bullet wounds.
How do I help restore your Soul?
   When can I go back to the path leading to you?
How can your name be heard without
   a war breaking out?

Do I fear your death,
   again, by those who say you are only
here to save those who would strike down
   another in your Holy name?

I’ll set a table for you
   in the company of those who would laugh at my words.
I hold your cup
   and fill it until it overflows.
Goodness, kindness I give back to you.
   You can return to your house
and open your door.

Then, and only then,
can I be glad.
Written under the wise tutelage of June Gould Ph.D.

Words keep getting in the way…
(A Journal Entry walking the Camino St Francis/September 2019)

What do you say
when words keep getting in the way
to describe You?

You are more than a feeling—
You are beyond all thought—
You are NO-thing—
You are EVERYTHING…

Along a path,
a tiny flower grows
from a crevice in a rock
split from dipping dew.

A hawk above my head—
its wings stretched from east to west
soars beneath the clouds
and it, too, calls for You.

A gentle breeze ensues
while the sun remains to shine
yet, there in the distance a storm
approaching.

Even though it has not yet arrived,
I am soaked in wonder
and laugh at all these words
and hold a pause.

Suddenly, I am dancing~~~my arms,
my legs
turn into paint brushes.
I begin to sway, then slowly dip.
I dab an easel filled with
colors and waltz across a canvas—
a picture painting itself before
my eyes.

It is You…
You are in EVERYTHING
and I am a part of all
Your beauty.

Before I move on from here,
I look back at the page
and, I glance at endless persons
going by.

You are there—
You are in EVERY~ONE.

All these words—
Oh, they keep getting in the way
attempting to create You…
and so, for NOW,
I slip from the page
and You catch me,
I close my eyes
wishing THIS moment never dies
and then I rise.
I rise.

‘We’ go on
back to the familiar.
Yet, no-thing is ever the same.
EVERY-thing continues
Becoming YOU
while these words of mine
keep getting in the way.

A Place

There is a place I go to be
alone.

It is sturdy, and it has been
here well beyond the years
I know of its actual existence.

I pray it will be here
long after I have passed,
and another might
seek its solace,
its comfort, and its wonder.

This place knows when to let
the light in.

Its entrance always open.

Darkness is a welcomed guest
—the stars rest here
     for moments to give the 
      shadows time to play.

This place I go
needs no windows
because you would not wish
 a sheet of glass
to separate you
from this haven
—this place I come
     to be alone
—and where I am
    met again and again
    by the One who
    lowers the ladder.

Clouds

Did you ever wonder
how a cloud moves?

Floating particles gather
in an array of forms.

Sometimes, I imagine
I see a family of porpoises
gliding in the sea of blue.

Other times,
the clouds are a marching band.
Stringed instruments roll on by
while a series of drums and
buglers float on.

Today, I watched
as a small winged bird
entered the film.
It was, in fact, a tiny swallow,
gathering the clouds in its beak
pulling it through the sky,
inviting the others of its kind
to bring on the next display.

Was I actually seeing this take place
or had I fallen 
asleep dreaming
of clouds, and birds,
and musical instruments,
and an ocean of 
porpoises?

Take some time to
gaze at the clouds…
if you see a set of
wings pulling them,
you tell me.

Was it just a dream?

Tulips

You cannot 
look at a tulip
and walk on by…

Can you?

Look, look at its
vestments…the finest
tailor could not replicate.

Soft pinks, glamorous yellows,
striking reds and passionate purples
dazzle us in this season of Spring.

Short-lived
yet, each year we
welcome their arrival.

The tulip bursting from
earth’s womb…

Littering life with loveliness.

Awe, if the tulips were the only trash
we needed to collect
to care for this garden
from which we, too, burst forth.

Buoys

Plunging into a sea
~~~green feathered stalks stood
swaying in the ebb and flow of
a balmy breeze.

Slowly treading water
around me
in every direction,
yellow buoys broke the surface.
They appeared like a million
faces lit by the sun…

Overhead, the skyscape
~~~a blue canopy
holds patches of seabirds,
their wings casting endless expressions.

This body ‘alive’
~~~the hues
being born again unto themselves.

It’s Time

Clearly, it’s time.

Perhaps, I knew
a long time ago…it was clear then,
but I was not ready to say, ‘Good-bye.’

I learned a lot from you.
I’m grateful
even to this day.

Yet, my path is different
so I’ll ask you to excuse me.
If you cannot, that’s o.k.
‘Cause it’s time to say, ‘Good-bye.’

Please don’t use that book of
yours and preach
the verses you’ve memorized.
Go ahead, hold it up.
Bless you for the truth you hold.

I’m not judging you
so I ask you, ‘Just remember me.’

Good-bye…you left things in my hands.
Important things—
I’ve done my best.
You have your photos, ‘images’
—illusions of the truth.

I’m going now.
I wish you well.

Truth is
I’ll never stop 
loving you.

Good-bye—
it’s finally time.

Fly

I am learning 
in all things
to spread my wings and fly.

Even if my wings are clipped, broken,
I know the 
essence of flight.

The season, the times,
my guides.
These, I have come to trust.

The wind calls—
it is this moment

NOW

I rise flying in what appears
the opposite direction.

I am strong enough to carry myself
into the raging headwind.

Even if pushed back,

even if I fall to my ending,

I will be true to the path
that has been unknown
yet, driven by love’s
desire to nest in your bosom.

He said, ‘Follow me.’

And, so I have.
I try each day.

He always seemed to say,
‘Be not afraid.’

I believe he learned these words from
his mother who bore him
and, I have spent my 
lifetime following this man.

He went about
walking parched paths.
He spoke to anyone, everyone
who would listen.

He changed people’s lives
and reminded them,
‘Don’t tell anyone.’

He broke open stories—parables.
The person who dug a hole
when given a talent
is one of my favorites.

That person chose NOT to
be part of the system.
He knew the one handing out
the talents, a person who gathered
where he did not sow, and reaped
what he had not planted.

How little attention paid this man.
After giving out certain percentages of talents,
 he set off to conquer lands

AND

he was sent back empty for he
was corrupt.

This message was overlooked because of the focus
on ‘profits made,’
and hearing the words,
‘well done servant.’

The one who buried the treasure
belittled, made fun of, bullied,
cast out…like the one
sharing the parable.

Did he know his destiny?
I think he knew the love he
proclaimed would change
hearts, would open minds and
it would threaten the 
dominant systems.

He was true to what was
planted in his soul
and, at times, it caused him
to weep.

He would never lay a hand to
strike.  His message was
nonviolence.  He told his
friend, ‘put your sword back
in its sheath.’

When he hung upon 
the cross, he spoke
‘forgiveness.’

He never rallied troops
to fight.
He gathered food to feed people.
Everyone ate, no one went away hungry—
there was bread and
fish left over in baskets.
A nameless little boy
turned over his fish.

This is who I choose
to follow.

He said, ‘Heaven is within’—
God’s Reign would 
one day come—be ready
—be vigilant, watchful
—be kind, respectful
—show mercy, lend a hand.

He blessed the poor in spirit.
He blessed those who mourned.
He blessed those persecuted
for trying to live rightly.
He blessed those in search for mercy.

He blessed
the fullness of life
and the abundances it offers.

He did not set out to create
a new religion.
Instead, he attempted
to clear a path of ALL religions.

Everyone came to hear him—
no one ever sent away.

A woman at a well was told
‘Go, call your community—
Invite them to hear a message
from the One who came to bring
about a new spirit.’

This woman did not say, ‘but, I am a 
woman and you are asking me?’  No, she 
heard his call and ran to
call all the others.

He told a little man up in a tree
‘Come down, I am eating at
your house.’

He created paradoxes—
welcoming the poor, the leper,
the outcast, the adulterous.

He tore down barriers
that privileged persons set up
showing them
how to rebuild by
washing the feet of those
who would carry on his Hope.

He never asked for monies
to carry on his message—
he paid what the 
system required.

He turned over tables
when a house of prayer was
used for material gain.

My steps, I pray,
more and more
like his—

Walking a way
—that is not mapped out
—that I am not always
     certain is the direction I should be going
—that allows silent
     ‘moments’ when I 
     simply hear the wind blow
—that follows
     a man who loved
     God so intimately
     that he could not
     not love everyone
     he met.

Want to follow?

The only burden—
if you say, ‘No.’

Will these people…

This moment 
a mist eerily moves 
like a milky shadow
enmeshed in a sky
painted in the sweetest essence
of black licorice.

Tasting this day,
this hour,
the moon in her fullness
dangles unperturbed
moving willfully in the 
pattern entrusted
and designed
by the One who seeks
no name.

How we have tried, attempted
to define, explain this 
mystery.

How we have abused the wonder
defining limits on
the color of skin,
the role of each gender,
 to yield power 
to ones who carry heavy 
purses taking the spare
change from the widow
who feels obliged by
a hierarchy holding out
a collection basket.

This night the stones
cry out…
their arms raised out to
the side.

The goddess of the Universe
weeps.. the moon at her side.

Her words are few…
Her arms set ONLY
to embrace.

So many already
taken too soon.

She does not look
out as if there are
two sides.

She sees through a 
heart of Love
—the mist is the droplets
    of her tears
    quenching an earth
    wondering,

“Will these people ever
understand.”

I had a sketch pad…

I had a sketch pad.

I had a sketch pad filled with empty pages.

White empty pages began to fill with colors.

Like Autumn’s leaves, the sketch pad
burst with hues—reds, yellows, oranges.

I had a sketch pad filled with faces
—Faces of passers-by.

I had a sketch pad that began to tell stories.

I had a sketch pad
—it was a wise guide.

I took my sketch pad to the one
whose approval I sought.

He held my sketch pad
and glanced at the pages.
He tossed it aside
—told me, “return it.”

He said if that is what I fill the sketch pad
with, it is a waste of fine paper.

I had a sketch pad.
I kept the sketch pad
and, for a long time, the colors died.

I had a sketch pad
with countless etchings
all in black and white.

I had a sketch pad
and chose to never ‘share’ the images
creating me.

I had a sketch pad
and the seed painted
in the black and white pages
burst through the cover.

I had a sketch pad
now filled with the sun.
Stars lit the matte
as green valleys washed
over the pages.
The wind became a song
singing from within the sketch pad.

The man who once told me to
return ‘me’
looked at the sketches.

He wept.

I had a sketch pad
and now I have many
(including a portfolio of creative images).

He has blessed every page 
with his tears.

From heaven’s canopy,

I hear his voice while I am sketching,

“Fill the pages, fill the pages—

well done.”
Inspired by Joy Harjo’s poem, “she had some horses”

 

Way

There is not
a single moment
nor an hour
that ‘creates’ a Way.

More, like a path
formed, wild flowers
stretch alongside
the carved walkway.

Springing to life,
a solitary word…
sometimes the letters
allow that single word
to take root.
It grows through the 
summer spreading
itself in an open window.

Without notice,
the word senses the time
of ripening.

A harvest ready
—the word plucked.

It is laid on a blanket
of white—expanding.

One word
filling a season
only to begin again.

A new path made…
In the same meadow,
no longer the same.
A Way reveals the 
essence of a spiraling motion.

Circling a Way
on the path of life
timelessly ‘reborn.’

The word
parts my lips
spreading on this page

writing the Way.

Heaven’s Corner

I stood on a corner
searching for a stone—
a corner stone
that revealed Heaven.

I had dreams of heaven.
So many stories told.
I wanted to see it—
I wanted to know it for myself.
So I stood on a corner
in search of a stone—
Heaven’s cornerstone.

I stood for a while
on this corner…
“You can come anytime now Heaven,” I spoke aloud.
My mind set itself adrift
when there was a sudden tug on the tail 
of my jacket.

“Excuse me please.”   I could barely see
the face of the stranger before me.
“I’ve nothing to eat, might you have a
few coins to spare?”  I dug into my
pockets…
Here, I was on this corner
waiting for Heaven.
Here you go, get something warm to drink, too!
“Oh, thank you.”

The day lingered.
A cool wind stirred.  The sun blinded
my vision, but the swirling breeze
ushered tears cascading down my cheeks
splashing upon the ground.

Before my eyes, a person’s shadow jumped in the pool,
drenching my shoes.
“I’m so cold,” the voice from the 
shadow spoke.  “Might you have an
extra layer beneath that coat?”
Her brown skin cracked, broken from
the elements.  I took off my jacket
and, I helped her put one arm in,
then the other.  A perfect fit.
She touched my cheek with her hand,
then blessed it with a kiss.
I stood on this corner.
Was Heaven getting nearer?

Dusk was now covering the canopy
of dawn.  This corner had
a lamp post.  I decided to sit
down.  A man walked toward me,
but he stumbled first, then fell.
I quickly rose from my seated place,
ran to his side, lifted his head
on my lap…”Sir, are you alright?”
He said, “I’ve no place to go
except Heaven.”

Wait, you know where Heaven is?
The man closed his eyes…
I had to get him to some place warm—
some place he could rest—
somewhere like heaven,
but I didn’t want to leave—-

With all the strength I could muster,
I draped the man over my shoulders
carrying him to an Inn.

I paid for a room,
and a little extra for the care
of this nameless soul.
I found a store and purchased clothes,
and took them to the Inn.
The Keeper of the Inn was most gracious.
I said I’d be back.
If there was a balance due, I’d handle
it come morning.

I said I had to go because I was planning
to arrive in…Heaven almost slipped from
my lips, but I stopped myself.  The Keeper
would probably laugh if I told him
about the corner.

I ran as fast as I could, back to the
corner.  What if Heaven came and went
while I was gone?

I stood at the corner.
Something, someone knocked out the light.
I was suddenly held in a beam
of perpetual colors, and I was warmed
within.

A note was taped to the lamp post:

“You’re HERE
THIS is Heaven
It IS within You!”

I stood at a corner

AND

I was in Heaven.

 

Exposed again

Beneath a blue
drenched winter sky,
a cloud floats on by
like sifted flour.

I peer out,
as if perched below
a table, gathering each breath
so as not to reveal myself.

Looking, searching
—scanning the clock of the
day’s minutes ticking by,
I am mindful of harvest.

Harvest is so far away
yet, only yesterday,
I recall its savory abundance.

Just now,
the lofty branches rustle
—the wind lifts their stately limbs.

Do they, the steadfast trees,
recall the season?

Their leaves, once a designer’s 
jacket, the artist left
no name…
the garment whisked away.

Exposed, the nakedness of
this ‘time’ understands no shame.

Beneath a blue 
winter sky,
white flour, flakes of snow,
land on a table.
I crawl out from beneath.

A banquet preparing itself…
and I, blessed to be a 
welcomed guest.

Thank You

The ground 
had spoken.

At first, a reluctance
to believe actual words were heard.

Was someone speaking
—someone unseen, unnoticed
lurking behind trees?

Painted shadows marked the ground.
Was it a person disguised
filling my ears with 
the illusion of sound?

Again, the ground quaked—
it was a rumble of sorts
and, now as I glanced at my boots,
a soft drape of brown earth
colored the moistened leather of my soles’ cover.

H-e-l-l-o-o-o, I stammered
ever so softly.
I heard something, but I could
not make out the words.

I sat silently unaware of the
growing hours passing by.

I must have nodded off in this haven
of solace…the sun inching its way
toward the west.

I rose realizing I was covered in
mud…the ground spoke clearly now,
“Here is from where you came.
A single breath, and you were
formed and fashioned.  Protect me,
watch over us, this vast crust of skin
veiled over earth,  Care for us so
humankind can grow, multiply and 
serve what it has been gifted to tend.”

Before I could utter a word,
the ground’s last words to my
listening ears, “Thank you.”

My eyes filled with a river of tears
now bathing the surface at my feet.

I stepped differently now, turning back 
wondering if this was ‘just’ a dream.

A garden of flowers blossomed
where I had sat.

Plucked from this garden,
I whispered, “Thank YOU.”

 

A Path

An uncharted path
hid-den beneath
pristine white snow
—a blanket spread
—a quilt of dazzling snowflakes
     knitted without a needle or thread.

Many paths that we walk in life
we never intentionally
set out to traverse.

Many paths
were invitations
we may not have accepted
YET—the way we had to find and discover
while knee deep in the path’s center.

Stepping with a silent anticipation
—the snow rises above the ankle
—the next step sinks in
     and powder gathers to the hips.

The wind howls
releasing speckles of frosty drops
clinging to eye lashes.
Branches click then clack together
seeming to laugh aloud 
at the site.

Proceeding, more slowly 
every day steps taken for granted
—now gliding, slipping, stumbling
across this path
a satiny sheet of white.

Glazing forward
—a visible pattern
    etched between tree trunks.

Was this 
unmarked
path chosen?

Does it matter?

The beauty of the landscape
even with its 
unspoken perils
invites the walker
to press onward.

The snow 
begins to fall
and once again
the path unseen.

Yet,  for the walker
—an invitation
to begin

AGAIN

 

Unknown Hour

The branch
holding you for so long
knew it was ‘time.’

The ring inside this tree’s sturdy trunk
forms another circle like each tick
on a clock.

Letting go, you waffled left, then right.
For a few moments, you hovered
in the air like a ballerina
completing a pirouette.

You fell landing in a tranquil pond.
When you touched the water,
     it was a soft kiss.

A gentle ripple spread itself.
You held each other.

The unknown hour came.
You were pulled under
by what, by whom…no longer relevant.

Gone, yet there lies a trace.
Your veins stretch across your 
    leaf’s face.

I see a part of its pattern in me.

Right now, the pond holds the reflection.

I turn aside, moving on—
the branch let another leaf fall.

 

Sweet

Sweet

A morsel of honey
dripped from heaven’s comb
dabbing the soft palate of 
my being
filling my words with
a savory hymn.

I placed my pen down
and listened.

The salt from my tears
added to the rich flow
of golden sustenance.

A bee, coming from an
unknown place,
lands on my shoulder.

Together, we listen
as another drop
splashes upon us.

Bathed are we in the
sweet expressions of
life’s ‘sticky’ orchestras
always being played.

…become the Wave

I dive.

Leaping no longer an option.

A force pulls me into the open sea.

I am not adrift.

Almost immediately, I am fashioned
into the swirling drops within which I am
now gathered.

A natural flow
—a rhythm undefined
—a sacred dance formed
     is now playing itself out.

In a solitary sweeping motion,
I am part of a wave…no, I have
become the wave.

Effortlessly, the substance of each
enmeshed drop follows a pattern
—one not designed, yet one
    seemingly written on unspoken pages.

Rising to a crest
—an unexplainable high
delving into a curl
—a hallow tunnel absent of any drop,
     yet held by each ‘strand’ of water.

The curl rolls over into its Oneness
—into the sea from which it has come
     and again, the creation of the wave
—the repeated pattern
     discovering itself for a first time
     until suddenly it discovers the shore.

For a moment, reunited with the sands of time
—like two lovers they embrace
     knowing they must depart…
     holding one another
—never forever.

And, the unknowing realization
they are never parted.

Their hearts linked to the vast
ocean of life carry them beyond.

Submerged in wonder
—in hidden depths.

Only now, am I learning to breathe
‘under’ water.