Tiny creatures are wondrous and plentiful

Tiny creatures are wondrous and plentiful

Often unseen

‘Some’ give persons the ‘creeps.’

Is that where the expression
creepy crawlers comes from?

There are those who would blot them out
 given the chance
—certainly not thinking
of their use, purpose or splendor.

On a summer’s night,
go out into the woods…

Give yourself time to pause
and listen…

Listen to the 
hid-den orchestra, the joyous choir
rubbing wings creating sounds
that cannot be duplicated.

There are no written sheets of music
they cling to
—they sing, they play what is
from them simply because
it IS from within them.

Simple, eloquent and yes, indeed beautiful.

The colors of some creatures ‘uncanny.’
Delicate spots, revealing stripes
and, when they gather together, they
can be the equivalent of the crowds
that gather in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

They consume fields, gardens and they desire
the sweetest essence of
the ripest fruits.

Tiny creatures—
they are wondrous

yes, plentiful
designed as

a part of the 
we call

The Universe.

There’s a poem in this place—

There’s a poem in this place—

I      cannot      find it!

Please, help me discover where it has gone!
It has vanished
like a magician running a wand
over this empty page.

How did I lose the words?
How did they slip from this paper
waiting, waiting, waiting
to be filled?

The ink drained from this writing
—empty, it falls cascading into an
endless abyss.

I attempt to capture a word, only one word
—my mind, my thoughts erased.

I’m plunging into another world…

Why now?
Why have you left me in this
no-man’s land?

I reach, both my arms extended…
help me Fly!

“NO”—deeper & deeper
I’m falling
like Alice in Wonderland
twirling down a rabbit hole…

It is so dark I cannot see.
My ears are absent to the sounds
all around me.
I touch the page, but feel nothing—
this space ‘hollow.’

Where are you, poem?

How can I write you without?
How can I write you without?

Without what?

Maybe this is a prayer?
The absence of words
trying to make sense of what no
longer rhymes?  I do not need a reason
to write.

I write for the very reason
that leaves me in utter silence.
Can I hold, can I breathe life
into a poetic space
that right NOW remains—Absent?

be still.

There’s a poem in this place.
Be quiet—
Be quiet—
the night is approaching.

For NOW—maybe, BE, the poem that
envelopes this place—

the poem, I have discovered in
each of You.


Drops of Color/ …to Love

Drops of Color

…to Love

like a drawbridge,
a lever releases a chain.
Each timely guarded notch
pulls to lift the mighty arms
of its structure

A lowly vessel below
begins to make its way.
The flow of the waters

A door,
like a bridge—‘opens.’
Hinges allow a sway
like the magic of butterfly

Listening, the sound
of a heart beats.
The pumping, artistic pulse
of muscle sustains

Love remains open.

At night I hunt the sea for you…

At night I hunt the sea for you…

Quietly, I creep down to the shoreline—
my footsteps meeting the incoming tide.

On the dock, my vessel, ready to set sail—
the water is a black sheet of glass.

I paddle out, caressing the waters…
my oars, like lips, softly kissing
the sea.

Do you hear me coming for you?
I know you wait.

The stars overhead shine like beacons—
they, too, in search of you.

They wish you would come back, stay
in your place,
but they know you are lying in wait for me!

You were never one to stay in one
place—the apple does not fall far
from the tree.

You know I need you to bring me out
into these depths.
I have no fears, for I know you are
with me.

Still, you ask me to search, to find you.
How long, how long have I been rowing?

It matters not…I pull in the oars.

Closing my eyes, the little boat begins
to rock.

There is no wind—

It’s you.

I cast a line,
I need no bait.

You reach for the hook,
you tug and tug again.

I reel in, you pull back.
I reel in again, you pull back.

I hear laughing.
It’s you, you never simply allowed
me to make the catch.

The dance went on—
further and further you pulled me out.

The line broke.

I put the oars back into the water,
A bright star beamed
over the shoreline.

I’m on my way, papa.


Drops of Color/ The Center

Drops of Color
The Center





from this post
holding this center,
each celebration
moving within
its own

The gift
—when we all
back to 
the center,
we are ALL

Blessed Holidays

A Litany of Survival

A Litany of Survival

For those of us, each of us…
In your ‘image’—we designed.
Fashioned from clay,
You the Potter…turn the wheel
—“we,” the work of your hands.

Look upon what you
have made.
If we break, gather the pieces
—make us new again & again.
“We,” the work of your hands.

Set a table,
prepare a feast,
invite the homeless one
in whom, you dwell,
the one passed by
—“we,” all, the work of your hands.

To the ones who do not
who ‘take’ the wheel from your hands,
You do not resist…clay crumbles.
You let-go…weeping—
“we,” the work of your hands.

Fashion, for those of us, each and every One
—our arms, so they reach for the lost
—lengthen our stride so we might dance
and be glad
—open our lips so we might sing
this song
“we, the work of your hands.”

Soften our hearts
so that, who we are in You,
always changing, never the same
“we, the work of your hands.”

Oh, Gentle Potter,
promise you will stay, even beyond the 
survival of our lives.

Make, for our children, and their children’s 
a Promised Land
“we, the work of your hands.”

Drops of Color/ Painting Faces

Drops of Color
Painting Faces

How is it we choose
the colors we do?

Perhaps, the colors choose us?

When I dab 
a drop of blue,
I become the sky
—eternal my reach, like wings
spread east to west.

An array of red hues
becomes cardinals
—their song gliding
with each stroke of the brush.

Soft shades of brown
—I am earth
breathed out of soil.
Suddenly, ‘green’ sprouts all
—bushes, trees
bloom like a kaleidoscope
twirling themselves—
changing, becoming always NEW.

Yellow bursts of daffodils,
I become.

Purple violets paint a scene
within, a face
orange—a flame,
yet unconsumed
rising from its center.

All the colors painting faces.

Black, the splendor
which all things began

—a void,
and the dark made room to
fulfill a spectrum
of colors—LIGHT.

I see faces
in every color.

Most of all
I see You
—the designer
—who places in my hand
the instrument to create
the You
who dwells
in me


in every puddle of 
whose circle widens
with one single drop.



IS this prayer?

IS this prayer?

made flesh

Alive on this
page…prayer forming
like sweet incense
the vowels
leaving only 
lips parting.


A phrase
speckles of ink
splashing like
drops of rain
drenching my hair.
I shiver not
because I’m cold.

pour Yourself
from the well of my being.

There is an

Drop a stone—
you will not
hear the sound.
Might this,
IS this prayer?

In the hid-den depths,
You dwell.
You reside
here, in this House
with no walls.

The door always 
open.  You slip in
and out like a match lit
then blown out.

Finding a way,
this pilgrim
in love with the darkness of You.

A glimmer of light from celestial stars
paints the shadows of a soul
wide awake
upon a path uncharted.

The markers—
Trees speaking to me
the seasons…
branches pointing in every direction
like a compass
a magnetic pull
guiding me
to wander

believing nothing FALSE
except the steps
not taken.

The song birds prepare
a chant,
a litany
welcoming the rising,
the birthing of
a new day dawning.

The Ocean’s ebb & flow
meets the sand.
The waves roll
over and over
like lovers who
cannot withhold their
one from the other
curling under,
coming up for air,
kissing again

—praying the moments never end

made flesh—



Drops of color/ If…I only had a heart

Drops of Color
“If…I only had a heart

I would lift the window
inviting you into the ‘room’

where its soft essence
rhythmically drums.

I’d ask, gently of course,
for you to ‘Please, lift the latch,
crack open the pane
of your treasure chest’—

I’d whisper
a prayer.
‘Please accept this invitation’
so we might combine the song
—the sound of our hearts
beating together holding each measure…
not a single note off beat!’

If I only had a heart, I
could stop searching and be at

‘If…I only had a brain’

I could unload a treasure trove
of words.  I would write love letters
signed with x’s and o’s.
You would know them, they were
from me, because,
well, because I did not seal
the envelope
—so much love enclosed
—a seal could not, would not hold.

If I only had a brain,
I’d write eternally—YOURS.

‘If only I had courage…’

I’d descend into the abyss of
clouded thoughts
where NO light dares to shine.

I would light a match—
the flickering flame would set
off sparks setting aglow
caverns of Souls believed
themselves ‘unworthy.’

To each i would hand a candle,
eyes would OPEN.

We all would recognize the light
each of us is in one another.

Courage, yes, we all would rise
—darkness would fold itself back.
Our shadows would be like stars.

If only I had courage,
I would whisper aloud,
‘SEE, the reign of heaven


Woven in place
and, when the time
be ‘ripe,’
they will unravel
setting sail
into the unknown.

Drops of Color/ Tight Rope

Drops of Color
Tight Rope

Slender pole
in hand.

A sliver of a thread
called a rope
holding feet.

Movement, S L O W—

Wind burst
pushing the walker.

Slanting into the wind,
not looking down
nor up.

The elongated toothpick
gripped by fingers
—knuckles white holding life.


This is NOT an ACT.

Life is walking a tight rope.
Falling, oh, yes slipping from the rope
IS a reality.

holding, reaching out for
the resources in hand


getting up again and again

trusting an Unknown presence

holding the narrowed line at 
both ends

—offering, guiding
and leading you

—to step
and walk the path

—designed for your soles
to discover and live out

one solitary step at a time.

In Thanksgiving

In Thanksgiving
It was a banquet
—the plastic table cloth
festive with colors.

Underneath, painted boards
—a ‘dining’ room table.

Dirt floors
steadied the plastic chairs.

The walls painted in gold
—the window nailed shut to
hold back the cold.

The meal served
—hot from a brick outdoor oven
—the food set on the table
before us
—food that would offer 

a month’s worth of sustenance.

They shared it
offering thanks
after every bite taken.

A lasting Supper.

Drops of Color/ What’s Next

Drops of Color
What’s next?

What, what about Rascals?


Oh, the Little Rascals:
Spanky, Buckwheat, Alfalfa, Darla,

The ‘He man Women-Haters Club.’

Memories…how a gang of kids
brought ‘out’ life’s moments.

Spanky…Leader, coordinator: he was trusted.

Buckwheat…always welcomed.  Although
inflicted with a slight speech impediment,
he was able to get his
point across.

Alfalfa…dashing romantic.  He sang (off-key)
but, he was destined for 
Broadway as long as…

Darla…the ‘girl’ outside the club,
never ceased to be a part.
She had her own talent and
she filled Alfalfa with inspiration.

Froggy…well, if you recall his voice,
there’s no further explanation.

Butch…why, well…there’s always a 
Bully.  Butch unsettled the group,
came between the boy and his
favorite girl. YET, he caused the 
gang to recognize how they
were significant
—one to another.


the pup with a circle
naturally woven around one
of his eyes.
The all seeing ‘eye’ that
stayed ‘in’ the gang.
Wagging his tail, pulling
at pant legs, hoisting ‘goodies’

Maybe, this is not a poem
—a bit too Rascally.

Then again,
a glance back
beside a sketch of characters

What’s next?

Maybe recalling
some GOOD ole’ days.



You really are
the reflection
of yourself
staring back
from the MIRROR

Drops of Color/ The Amusement Park

Drops of Color

The Amusement Park


then suddenly STOPS…

Hovering above the magical ‘landscape’
—a scene.

Held in place,
beholden to countless ACTS,
performers, attendees…
like a stage packed with whirling
in harmony
—life enjoying the dance
—the merriment.

Could it be this way
for all? Glancing in this moment of pause,
silent meditation…in an Amusement Park.


‘Each’ of us given a ‘ticket’
to enter this LIFE…

No price tag for entry.
No conditions placed based on
race, color, creed, gender, religion etc.
No passport
—Citizenship: Heaven.

Alive, within the Reign of Heaven,
We all EXIST.

It is how we choose to LIVE it out!

How we dwell in this
amusement-park together…

A light flashes…three, two, one.

Hands raised in the air—

Trust the ride.

Live it to the fullest!


Running out of room…

Running out of room…

alas, I tumbled off the page.

I found myself splashing
rather delightfully
until I arrived at a shore.

Wiping my eyes,
liquid pools of droplets
dangled from each lash.

I beheld a woodland.
The most astonishing trees
were woven into place
—they reached skyward
inviting me to do the same.

From a hidden perch
swooping down upon me,
shadowing my small self,
I reached, grabbing hold of
its talons.  The bird allowed
me to find a soft place in its
feathers and suddenly we were 
gliding to the Sun.

“Would we reach the ends of the world?”
I thought.
“Would this ‘place’ I was in
run out of room?”

The moon swirled into this
landscape of timeless pages,
and I wrote
trusting there is no end.

Drops of Color/ That’s why

Drops of Color
That’s why

Walking across a bridge
back and forth,
then back AGAIN!


History, painted in boards,
stain after stain
after bloodied stains!

Why write about the past?
Why speak out?
Why invoke the memories?

So that they no longer repeat
themselves…that’s why!

Seems we have to cross bridges
AGAIN and again and again.

Together, let us keep crossing
the bridges until we realize
everyone is free to cross.

No matter your race.
No matter your religion.
No matter your gender.

What matters is:  YOU are!
                                We are…One.

Cross the bridge—
help the ones who cannot
get across!

Let us carry one another.

No One is too heavy.

We are all Sisters & Brothers.
We are all welcome
to dwell in 
‘A Promised Land.’

It’s time.

We cannot give up trying.


let’s cross

until no one is left

The Growing of a Soul

The Growing of a Soul
I have walked this path
a thousand times.

The Seasons have changed their
face as well  as mine.

I have labored here as 
I placed one foot in front
of the other.

At times, I backtracked.
Something, someone catching
my eye.

I lingered, reflecting on
the past…days held in the sun
and, yes, even the storms
that taught my ‘limbs’ to move
about in wondrous ways.

Yes, I have walked this path,
times too numerous to number,
and the most profound change,
although unseen, is the change

I talk with stones, with trees
and forest creatures.

Most of the time I refrain from
speech and listen to the stars,
the first rays of sunshine
and the fullness of the moon
on a chilled haunting night.

This path has grown my Soul.
Each day I arrive,
I begin again.

I circle while dawn
rises and a purple
western sky fades into blackness.

The shadows hold tender
places until the light
finds a way to transform
itself welcoming 
and letting-go.

No matter how many 
moments that have
brought me here, now…
I continue to ask, ‘who am I,
and who are you, Lord?’

I hold a leaf in my
hands that the wind
has pulled from a branch.
A hawk screeches over head…
such an extraordinary song,
and I walk on.

The sound of my soles
touch this earth,
and I hear my breath
while my heart beats inside

—a Soul birthing another

Drops of Color/ Here Again…asking the same Question

Drops of Color
Here Again…asking the same Question

Chewy, rich, gooey

savory, chocolaty
seeping with delight.

One wrapper removed
—ingesting the tiny piece of candy.

Treats…no tricks.

Ahhh, unwrapping another
—it only gets better.

The gourd seems to smile
filled with pleasures.

Is this season really here…AGAIN?

Seems only yesterday I wondered,

“What shall I be?”

Did I pack away the costume?

Funny, each year
I ask the same question
—deep down really asking,

“Who am I
after removing
all the wrappers?”

Painting a fence post…

Painting a fence post…

why it is quite

—no planning

—only the ability to 
wait and behold
the ordinary

in all its


Drops of Color/ Jump In

Drops of Color

That’s right!

Take a few steps back.
Catch your breath.
On your mark, get set…Go!

Before you…
a pile lifting to the sky.
Red, yellow, orange fading leaves
 wait for You.

Leap from the ground,
dive in
‘crunch, crack, crunch.’
A smattering of leaves fills the 
air, and you
lay upon a leafy bed.

Autumn’s golden moments.

Jump in before
the winds arrive
carrying the world
into another wonder.

Moving On…

Moving On…
is there really 
anything more
to say?

Drops of Color/ The Bridge

Drops of Color

The Bridge

A long trail
through the woods…

Hours passed, the color
became ever more vibrant
as the sun reached its zenith.

An opening drew back the trees,
and a bridge suddenly
visible…it appeared as
an opened hand
reaching out,
“Come, Come and Cross.’

I stepped before realizing
my feet already in motion.

Wooden boards, giant oaks, formed a cover.
In the bridge’s center,
‘all’ the light—out.

In the darkness, I held my place,
for how long—unknown.

The darkness revealed messages
—unwritten realities expressing
the beginning of all things.
The black shadows hid-den
within this bridge held the void.

The ‘hand’ nudging me through—to another side.

The deep shades made way for
the pastel paintings of life— good.
It is all GOOD.

I walked, glancing back
—the bridge held the full moon
in its hand.


I am moving in the
direction of
becoming the miracle
I already am.

Drops of Color/ This Glass

Drops of Color

This Glass

It was a small glass making
its way around the room.

A smattering of ‘lip’ gloss appeared
along its edge.

Yes, a sip was had
by one, then another
and another.

the succulent juice
did not run dry.
Instead, it ran over

pouring itself

on those who
chose to 
drink from its contents.

The lives of those who drank

They could not stop serving.


As the seasons spin
like the wheels of a cycle,

As planets revolve
around the sun,

This writer pens
familiar words

like rings forming ‘inside’
the towering oak.

Yes, the seasons
reshape its form.

Yes, the sun touches its bark
warming its core against all
pervading elements.

New rings circle around & around,
the writer
ever the same and expanding.

A Story Book…

Drops of Color
A Story Book…

with only two pages,
soft, translucent.

Across the ocean, its ‘binding’
secure, while the weightless orange
sheets fan precisely

and hold

hovering long enough to glide with
the sea’s breeze.

The story book takes on several
days of travel.
When land in sight, a
soft clover begins a new paragraph.

The last sentence…
the pages take flight
seeking a place where
the story will begin again!

Listen to the story—
its power turns
the tides.


Grief and Gratitude


Grief & Gratitude

One wing is
the finest feathers of gratitude.

The other wing,
a meticulous pattern.
The same feathers
lying side by side
of grief.

One side is NOT divided
from the other.

Gratitude and Grief,
when drawn together,
give One the grace
to fly.

Drops of Color/ This Garden

Drops of Color
This Garden

I am
dwelling in a garden
from which no one is banned
except in fairy tales.

Tasting of its fruit daily,
I am invited to bite into
the succulence of life.
Revealed is the essence
of goodness filling
and satisfying the Soul
—no one blamed for
having eaten.
A still small voice
‘share, offer and let
everyone consume and be filled.’

Open the eyes of the heart
and see
—find a way back
‘into’ a garden never really having left
—no more ‘mea culpa’
—no more beating the breast
of unworthiness.

Take in a land flowing
with milk and honey.

Let us care for this Garden.
She’ll take care of herself
if we falter to see all her
original blessings.

All invited to the table
in this Garden of Abundance.

About this morning…

About this morning…
Beneath a sea of bubbling
black licorice,
my ‘soles’ have walked.
Majestic stars, like diamonds,
splashed in the seamless ocean
flow above my head.

What was different about
this morning?
Twenty four hours earlier,
my body lay still on a table.
Overhead, it certainly was 
not the Milky Way.

I was in a galaxy of wondrous
beings who brought ‘balm’
to my eye.

The first phase of healing—
a picture taken.
The second phase, I beheld the 
crushing pieces of matter that
would no longer obscure my vision.
The third, and final phase,
the placement of a lens
delicately woven in by
the Physician’s Hands…
and a tender unknowing hand took mine.
I trusted all was well!

When I woke,
a sense of wonder ‘held’ me.
An unknowing fanned over
me, and a calmness pursued
as I lifted my eye’s lid—LOOKING!

What I sought as I 
gazed was uncertain.
When I stepped into
the visible sunlight remaining in the day…
something changed!

Just what…no words could form
the anticipation brewing within.

I slept well,
and as always, the moon beamed through my
window luring me to rise.
I took my first
step and held my place.

Pausing, I lifted my head, tipping itself
like a pitcher pouring itself from 
the opposite direction…Upward!

My eye bore witness to the stars
like SEEING them
a first time.
One by one they sparkled.
I began to count them, to name them
so many, too many to add!

I wished to hold this encounter forever…
Mindful of many who have
moved on from this world
as I know it.

So often
I feel them keeping watch over me.
Lit candles
ignited in the sky.

Now, about this morning…
I am SEEING more clearly.

Are the stars more numerous than our descendants?

I have read somewhere this is so…

Perhaps, each one visible
and invisible to my watchful OPENED eye.
A Sacred Ancestor
invites me now to slowly
bow my head with thanks!

About this morning…I SEE!

Drops of Color/ Fiery Furnace

Drops of Color
Fiery Furnace

As the night slowly
begins to lift its shade
and stars melt into
a pool shining back upon themselves,

there is a moment, the sun,
a fiery furnace,
flips its switch ‘on’ throughout
the forest.

In that brilliant 
flicker, the trees reveal their
true colors, and then
go back instantaneously
to their grand splendor
of browns.



It matters not
what unseen path
lies ahead.

What matters
is the courage
to know when to
press on


remain still
for as long as it
takes the journey to 

Drops of Color/ Strings

Drops of Color

Six strings
running parallel.

Its body
a hollowed tree trunk.

A branch
shooting through
the center
becomes a lengthy neck.

Six leaves
attached to the strings
—metaphoric vines.
Each leaf alters the
tune of the fitted

A hand reached for
a pic and plucks
E, A, D
then G, B and E.

A vibrational energy
staggers within the space between
the strings.

The free hand
stretches fingers between frets
—chords played.

Strumming rolls on
like the tide moving
in to meet the shore.

The sun rises
and a tune plays

Shadows streak across
the landscape.

A flock of geese becomes
notes flying through clouds
—their wings flapping,
writing a symphony.

As the day begins to set
—the stars become white
notes on a black page.

The music finds 
another way to 
express itself

—splashing into the Milky Way.


FlutteringCrossing the ocean
—her wings changed
the winds.

Broken in places
—she found the strength
to arrive.

Lightly landing on flowers
—scenting the traveler
with sweet perfumes
preparing its
‘fluttering’ life
for its eternal departure.

Drops of Color/ A Pot of Gold

Drops of Color
A Pot of Gold

At the end of the pier,
‘a pot of gold.’

Metaphorically speaking,
a rainbow of floating

Then, the sea,
the sojourner,
and a single oar


rhythmically, harmonically,
channeling the wind,
the waves and the vast
expanse of a voyage
leading to a pot of gold
that cannot be brought back,
traded in or possessed.

The treasure LIVES within—
the sojourner never the same.

Three Bees

Three Bees

Three bees landed upon a 
golden Sunflower.

The first Bee gently let out a 
soft buzz,
“This padding beneath my slender 
limbs is so lush and soft.”

The second Bee chimed in
releasing an extra buzzzzzzz
and questioned,
“How do you think this flower
creates such a wonderous
bed from which to nibble such luster?”

The third Bee…remained silent
for sometime!  The two Bees
stared, holding their gaze
before their companion
buzzed ever so subtly,

“The flower provides us this
gift by B-ing.”

Drops of Color/ Keyboard

Drops of Color

Some one
turned it around.

Ebony, ivory
—they have taken opposite forms.

Ivory has become keys of
soft brown wood, brown delicate pitch.

Ebony keys, now the color
of snow, hang on the
keyboard’s branches.

Closing one’s eyes,
fingers dance.
A familiar waltz flutters
across a long
board walk.

The song heard in each note
is that of the ocean
tumbling over itself
when one dares to ‘jump in.’

The tide in—
the harmony echoes
and, as it rises to make its 
way out,

the pianist pauses
long enough to allow
each note to carry on
and on.

Eyes open—
the colors of the keys
have turned to blue
and, pulled down by
the undertow,
the urchins begin to sway.


Vivid Recollections

Vivid Recollections

DAWN (0-20yrs)
an open doorway
—hands grip the edge of wood.
Lifting, now standing on two
wobbly limbs
—hands let-go
then, The Fall.

Attempting again and again
fall after fall…

Years pass
—now, running through fields
gliding as if on waves
—swinging from branches.

Peace here,
but returning home
—the glass ceiling is broken.

Solace found in an empty church.
NO words.
Staring up at an altar
—seeing a suffering man
Love swaddled me.
I fall and then
—lifted by unseen arms.

School days, childhood friends.
I played hard, studied little.
On the field, I could release 
all that was pent up inside.
I excelled cracking the bat
at the ball, striking the racquet
hitting a winner over the net,
serving and volleying to lead
the team to victory.

So proud, on the sidelines
the family—an illusion.
I continued to play.

Countless persons stepped in,
unknown at the time,
—they nurtured me.

One man, a father figure, impacted my life.
He left the world too soon.
His final words written to me,
“How I wish I were your father
so I could have had you forever.”

Church, that quiet haven,
no longer had answers.

The introduction to substances
provided little/if any comfort to me,
especially when I had to care
for persons whose addictions
tore the bandages covering
the scars that never
could heal.

DAY (20-40yrs)
Wandering  away—
I put down ‘the games.’
I picked up books and a 
new family bound me in their
loving pages.

New writings.
Upon completion of my studies,
out I stepped
—working with neglected and 
abused children.
Next, I worked with 
incarcerated juvenile girls.

The work was natural,
easy to empathize.

Then, a call.

My grandma suffered a massive stroke.

I bargained with the One I
called God.  One moment I asked,
“Please, end her suffering,” then I’d ask
for a little more time.

I flung the Holy Book across
the room and wept.

I sat beside her.  She, unable to speak,
barely moved any
of her limbs.

I looked into her eyes.
She looked back and folded
her hands in prayer.
My Wise Ole’ Grandma.

Death came for her.
I chose to embrace the hand of
 Death’s path.
I walked beside others as 
a Chaplain as they faced
life’s transition
from here to eternity.

All are equal here.
 I recognized immediately that it
doesn’t matter if one is rich or poor,
black or white, male or female,
no matter what faith one practices
or does not practice.

In life’s turning of the page,
The End becomes New to 
the one passing.

The living hold
the memories.

DUSK (40-60yrs)
Another path revealed itself when I embraced the
role of a Peace Officer.
An only woman in a field of Blue.
I was surrounded by brothers.
A small few would have liked
me removed (and baited their traps),
instead, an injury took me out
of a hid-den prison.

No longer a hostage,
no longer able to walk, 
I wondered, if I ever would stand.

An old lover found me once
again.  Pencil in hand,
I began sketching images
of persons.
Ordinary people from
The Hebrew Testament and The New Testament.

Before I realized what was it happening,
the sketches took the stage.
I was breathing life
into old stories.

As many times as i broke open
the Word, I knew the journey would
be different.

What unfolded is
the story of my own words in
photographs and colored artistry.

I have walked a path unknown.
Glancing back, I’ve 
watched a mosaic forming

many blank ‘areas’ held open
for life still being lived.

Changes began unfolding
for individuals who were
pillars in my life.

It was easy to be in a Chaplain
Role, but to these persons
I was more than Chaplain.

Loss, another loss,
cognitive changes,
decisions to move into a 
safer setting, taking the set
of car keys…

It was now time for me to walk.

First, down into the depths
of the canyon.
The Grand allowed me to descend.

Coming up,
I walked with others on
The Camino Mary Magdalene.

Alone, but not lonely,
I walked The Camino de Santiago.

My steps would travel to England’s
Coast to Coast, to Wales, The Pembrokeshire Coast Path and
to Italy’s, The Camino St Francis.

A Pandemic ‘struck’ the World…

I have walked a daily pilgrimage.

I suffered an injury that
shook my core.
Still, here I write, walk, sketch,
strum a guitar, provide pastoral care
and tend to the needs of loved ones.

I have lived the life of the sun’s
rising.  I have been to where 
the sun is at its highest point

I am at the place where the sun is
making its way to the west.

I am not here, yet,
BUT, I’m living beside the
persons in my life who are
leaning toward life’s settings.

When the sun goes down
on another life lived,
I fall.  I touch the ground
where they rest.

I weep watering the earth.

I rise in the early
morning hours trusting
the stars lighting the way for 
those who have passed.

Lasting flames
light a way through the 
darkness I shall one day

I trust the words…

the words of the suffering
man I stumbled upon
years ago,

“I am with you till the end
of the age.”



Drops of Color/ Above the Mantel

Drops of Color
Above the mantel

The warmth of the
fire contained.

a sea
and the sun setting.

harbored after a long
day of bringing in a catch.

In the distance,
you can hear laughter,
folks dining on
what the waters have provided.

Can you see it in the painting?

Perhaps, one
 story drifting into 

Can you hear the sound of the gulls?

What are you hearing
as you ponder so many possibilities?

Above the mantel,
a painting.

Contemplate what the tide
in your Soul is embracing.

When we are still…

When we are still…

and gaze out
upon wonder,

why, even the clouds
appear as if mountains


perhaps the mountains
have transformed into
bursts of clouds.

Drops of Color/ Windows

Drops of Color

Why do i go on sketching images
of windows…
leaving words on their ‘pane?’

I suppose it is the gazing ‘outward,’
and then I’m suddenly taken
back to lingering memories,
lasting moments.

I wipe the glass again
and clear the streaks.

Often, I leave the window wide open
letting in the rays of the giant flame
lighting the Universe.  I draw back
the curtains allowing the rain
to get ‘inside.’   I love the crystal
snowflakes, each one unique unto
itself, and my words slide down
the bank the drifts formed upon  
my sill.

When winds come, they rattle the
frame.  My words remain open,
the sketches illuminate a page,
and I find myself staring
into a future continuously
awakening, waiting

for each of us to open the
Windows of our Soul’s, realizing
we are all living what is in
front of us!

What’s your view?
What is the tapestry of life
opening through your spirit?

Break the glass if you are not
free to share.  Escape what tells 
you this is as far as you
can go!

Sit on the ledge of the window…
seek the wonder you are!

The greatest gain you’ll ever stumble
upon is becoming who you are…
not what the world expects!

Look out your window this day…

Can you see?



This totem
leads to here
and NOW…

Look no further than
this place you stand…

It is exactly where you
are meant to be.

Drops of Color/ …Take my Hand

Drops of Color
…Take my Hand

Oh, this night
 lures me.

I am like bait on a line
cast upon the black sea before me.

I walked dangled between starlight
and the night’s sky
where a light shines brighter than the sun.

Blinded am I,
as You  lunge
from the hidden depths
to snag me from the line.

I am held by You.
I am not afraid
that You will consume me.

I long to enter You
and You release me.

How do I express this love unfolding,

I cannot!

There are no words and, even if
I had them, WORDS cannot make sense.

Do I truly understand your intentions?

The love I seek is You.

I have known love through
endless encounters
—like the reading of the same
page over and over
until the words melt
into my Soul.

I wait for your love
that muses
in the night
like a song waiting for the melody.

There are no road
signs for this path.

No internet connections
link me to the outpouring
of your love.

You silently embrace me
and, when I believe 
You are gone, ‘lost forever’—
You set my heart like the moon
painted on a black sea.

Oh, the colors you allow me
to behold in these hours.

When the sun does shine,
your luminous presence
shines within me.

I wait
again and again
as you take my hand.


A quick note…
A gentle hand has taken mine.  A pilgrimage unfolds.  I’m off on a new path!
I will carry you in my backpack—until my return.
May the One holding your hand ‘always’ be with You!

Drops of Color/ Weights & Measures

Drops of Color
Weights & Measures

Balancing scales
—one side dipping down,
another side rising.

Who decides
the values placed
on the scale?

If we lived
the lesson

—to share our surplus
with the least of 
our brothers and sisters

—to satisfy those
who hunger and thirst

—to comfort those
broken, filled with anguish
because of unsurmountable

Then…really no one would be
entitled to set the scale.

We would all love enough
to see that ONLY
Love is the balance.



…the music

…the music
The tide is in
‘imagine’ the music that
shall ensue when the waters
pull each vessel out
dancing on the sea
changing its motion.

In Gratitude of Hours

   In Gratitude of Hours

“My life is not this steep hour
through which you see me being swept.
I am a tree standing before my background,
of my many mouths I am but one—
the one, indeed, that’s always first to close.

 I am the space between two notes
which, if wed, ring crossly:

For the death note craves finality—

but in their dark interval the two meet,
embrace again, and tremble.

And  the
beautiful song goes on.”

                                                                          ~~~Rainer Maria Rilke

In Gratitude of Hours

How do you pen
the correct words of praise,
of gratitude?

 How is it they flow like a river
and, at times, like a salmon pushing against the current?

 When words no longer suffice,
pictures form…
sketches, paintings, portraits, landscapes—each giving gratitude to and
for You becoming new again
as in the beginning.

 Gratitude often unleashes itself
like a fountain from my Soul…
no words, simply a crescendo of
vibrational humming rising, falling, growing
louder, and then, silently filling in the
spaces before another note plays itself
from the chambers holding my lungs.

 For these hours, I give gratitude.
And yes, too, and for You…
and yes, to all sentient beings.

 Praising life even in chaos,
we evolve, becoming new.
These hours of gratitude are
no longer chains that bind…
instead, they are hands, held open,
reaching out, touching, and joining
with a soft paw, the firm bark of
an oak, the sea and its sand
coursing through my fingers.

For these hours of gratitude,
I pause…

 The soft silhouette of the fern
invites me to stay awhile.
And so, I do.

 Always gratitude in my being
that You join me here
…in these hours.


 “I am not what happened to me,
 I am what I choose to become.”

                                            ~~~Carl Jung


A note of thanks for the kind messages shared regarding The Book of Hours. Many of you have inquired how you might read The Hours again in their entirety.
Simply go to www.onesingledrop.com    Click on BLOG and scroll back to the ‘beginning’ of The Book of Hours.
The penned words and photos were birthed during the height of  the pandemic and found their way to my 2022 website and are now concluded. 



The very stone becomes
the reflection in
the water just as the
water becomes the 
stone lapping the shore.

Book of Hours/ Final Hour


 “We shall not cease from exploration,
and the end of all our exploring will be
to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

 ~~~ T.S. Eliot

Final Hour

Here we are…but where?
Weeks ago, at least it seems weeks, I sat before this
windowpane.  Outside, there you were…so, very far
away, yet, I felt if I simply lifted my hand,
my Soul and yours ‘touched.’ 
It was the messenger that
brought us here, joining us…
Spirit of Life, I did not
know you then, and yet, I did. 
Here I sit again, and
begin again this circular dance. 
I trust the steps
I have taken before, I am taking them for
a first time…NOW. 
Perhaps, the words penning
themselves on this paper make no sense.
Is it sense I seek? 
Heaven’s no…it is you I seek who is the
complete contradiction of any sense…
at least for me.
You are lasting…for even if I confuse myself
with ‘thought,’ You are a thread with no end.
You weave beginning a day.  Curling through the
eye of the needle, you swivel unseen through night,
stitching your way through dawn.  You ignite the sun.
The complexity of the day, a pattern you know…needing no
practice.   As dusk’s seam wedges into this exploration of life, the thread
unveils itself all the more releasing yet another strand
to make the journey again, and for a first time.

Pray with me…thank you!





…blessed Union

blessed Union
A small vessel 
—A vast crystal clear sea
—a blessed Union

Book of Hours/ 10:00 p.m.

BOOK OF HOURS/10:00p.m.

 “Preach the Gospel
at all times…
and if necessary
use words.”

 ~~~Francis of Assisi

10:00pm.         Hour

 The        pause      I         make
between     each        word
is       the      prayer    I   make      with

Silence         is    a       response    when
        the    heart       waits     for
  each            breath   and      trusts
              another        follows!

When      my      last     breath

               I         pray

the        hours         lead       me          back
          over         the      tranquil         paths
   I             have        wandered         and         allow
me          the      gift        of               knowing   I    am      in
                heaven     from        where   I   have
                           always     resided .

Pray with me in this hour…
11:00 p.m. will arrive next Monday—
Promise you will stay…invite another!
No worries if you pass.  I hold you in the hours remaining.