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.

Abracadabra—
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
instrument
—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?

Hush—
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.

 

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.

 

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
‘want,’
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 
children,
a Promised Land
“we, the work of your hands.”

IS this prayer?

Word
made flesh

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

THEN

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

You
pour Yourself
from the well of my being.

There is an
unfathomable
bottom.

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
walking 
wide awake
upon a path uncharted.

The markers—
Trees speaking to me
the seasons…
branches pointing in every direction
like a compass
recognizing
TRUE NORTH…
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
pleasure
one from the other
touching,
curling under,
coming up for air,
kissing again

wondering,
—praying the moments never end

Word
made flesh—

Amen

 

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

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.

Mirror

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

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.

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
within.

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
Season.

Painting a fence post…

why it is quite
natural

—no planning
required

—only the ability to 
wait and behold
the ordinary

in all its

extraordinariness.

Moving On…
is there really 
anything more
to say?

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

Rings
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.

 

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.

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
aloud…
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!

Unseen

It matters not
what unseen path
lies ahead.

What matters
is the courage
to know when to
press on

or

remain still
for as long as it
takes the journey to 
unfold.

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.

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.”

Vivid Recollections

DAWN (0-20yrs)
Crawling,
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.

Spiritually,
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
mid-day.

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

DARK 
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
follow.

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.”

 

 

When we are still…

and gaze out
upon wonder,

why, even the clouds
appear as if mountains

OR

perhaps the mountains
have transformed into
bursts of clouds.

Totem

This totem
leads to here
and NOW…

Look no further than
this place you stand…

It is exactly where you
are meant to be.

   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. 

 

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!