Drops of Color/ Dwellings

Drops of Color

Side by side, by side.

Bricks, mortar.
Stones, clay rooftops,
windows, shutters,
porches, balconies.


One and many.
All comprising this community
growing out of the sea
connecting every living neighborhood.

Countless stories written here.
Some lives, well, the chapters
ended as we understand how
some paragraphs close unfinished.

Others are writing sonnets
without recognizing the patterns
—they’re living the pages.

Many have just arrived
—no dust has settled on their covers.’

Uniquely different,
each ‘being’

in this dwelling place.

Thoughts, beliefs,
some shared, others explore signs
off a map 
while itinerant wanderers step
where no human prints dared trod.

We, you and I
—sharers in the wider
dwelling place of Gaia.

Received by all—
She, ‘Mother Earth’
welcomes us.

May we care for our common
dwelling place
and allow each story
to write itself home.

Drops of Color/ It’s beginning to look a lot…

Drops of Color

It’s beginning to look  a lot like…

Two small people.
More than likely.

They’re comfortable
beside one another.

He is mesmerized by
her ability to
weave, create a loop
and wait!

She loves him at her
hip…like they are two 
peas sharing the same

A gift being given—
a blanket to be received.

It’s beginning to look
a lot like—
how simple love can be!

A lot like love IS!

Drops of Color/ Living the Seasons

Drops of Color

Living the Seasons

The Season sets
itself for the fading light.

Darkness, a beacon
—camps itself allowing the
glistening of stars to dip
into the black sea

—an endless, colorless matte.

Hidden, though the images be
—in restfulness appear ‘pictures,’
‘paintings’ once thought unseen.

In the splashes of shadows
—mysteries lie


The frozen landscape
—crystal snowflakes.
A white layered comforter
blankets the earth
—birthing beyond what the Spring Season
lets loose.

Within each of us, in this Season
of unknown

what is becoming inside us?

‘Wait’…be still long enough
to allow the darkness
‘its Season.’

We awaken and ripen
when we settle into
the flow of Living the Season.

“To go in the dark with a light is to
know the light.
To know the dark, go dark.  Go
without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms
and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark

~~~Wendell Berry


Blessed Winter Solstice



St. Somewhere

St. Somewhere
(Inspired by Poet Amy Gerstler, Poem for Bernard)

Down here in the basement…

A thousand times
I have glimpsed your face,
but there is not a single word
listed in Webster
that defines you.

What I have feared the 
most…well, it has never been you.
Rather, I feared the ones who believe
to have known you
—who set limits, raise bars, pass rules
AND when they look themselves in the
—they fail to SEE the hatred
of themselves they so eloquently
point out in others.

I have found you
when I lost you…St. Somewhere
—on the way into an uncharted forest
I never wished to leave.

I stumbled back.
I restrained my lips,
but the words, like a leak in a faucet
dripped, and dripped and dripped.

I’ve been standing in heaven.
I’m actually swimming.
The water’s risen—
it is here you have birthed me.

Your face splashes my pupils
and, I see another image,
and another, and another.

You are gone.
I come up for air.

My breath—a prayer.

A feather floats closely
until it caresses my cheek.

I do not touch it or remove it.
You leave me with
wings to fly.

We’ll meet at another shore
—in time, St. Somewhere.

Make Straight

Make Straight

How does ‘one’ make straight a path?

Year after year entering this Season
—a season where the dark holds
its way longer than the light.

Candle lit, a narrow flame
ignites the space.

Is the path of light, the flame
flickering in a black sea…
is it straight?

The warm rays extend in all directions
—so, are each of us
to discover that straight path
for ourselves?

Do our eyes finally open
when we realize
ALL paths led us to the
all pervading Light of Love?
The Light of Divine presence
pervades in each ‘one’ who
wears a belt of faithfulness
around the waist…and offers
food to the hungry and shelters
the homeless—
who offers kindness to creatures
and rejoices in the bird’s songs.

Oh, that our breath, slipping from our
lips, would wipe away all that
would distort the glory
shining in the darkness of this time.

Make straight our hearts
to find our way to Love.

Drops of Color/ Over the Bridge

Drops of Color
Over the Bridge

Life sets before us
encounters with bridges.

We choose, decide
if we shall cross
or remain on a side
we believe the grasses
to be greener.

There comes a point:
a bridge before us
NO choice
—we shall cross.

On the other side,
we have all heard
different accounts, stories
of heavens beyond
the twinkling of our sparkling eyes.

Alas, when the lids cover our pupils,
we will SEE
as if a first time

What IS…

Over the bridge,

every step taken
worth THIS journey.

Drops of Color/ What have we done with God?

Drops of Color
What have we done with God?

I keep picking up
one after another


why?  Why am I seeking bushels?

where there is despair
let me fill bushels of Hope
and carry them
no matter how heavy
to those in need.

Where there is darkness
let me fill the bushels with Light
and pour its abundance
until ‘we’ all SEE.

Where there is death
let me use the bushels to
bury sacred remains
in Mother Earth’s holy womb

so that as the dying
we know they are not lost


then we will rediscover the God who
lives in EVERYTHING.


“The Great Religions are the 
Poets the life
Every sane person I know has jumped
That is good for business
Isn’t it

Drops of Color/ Many Shelves

Drops of Color
Many Shelves…

a few items
delicately placed.

In this house,
there are ‘many’
extraordinary shelves.

‘If it were not so,’
this sketch, these words,
would not have been
created or written.

What lies on these shelves
—meant to set a 
table, a dining room
ready for a feast,
and all are welcome.

Everyone who eats
is no longer hungry.

Everyone who is hungry
is welcome & fed.

These shelves,
even when empty
are FULL.

“One thing is becoming increasingly clear to me:
that You cannot help us, that we must help You  
to help ourselves.  And that is all we can manage
these days and also all that really matters: that we
safeguard that little piece of You, God, in ourselves.
And perhaps in others as well.”

                                                         ~~~Etty Hillesum




What secret 
disturbing visitor
has arrived unleashing its
countless furies
upon the shoreline?

The flow, the rhythm,
cannot be marked in time.
Wave upon wave
crash into rocks
lifted from the sea
—formations like humpback whales
rising to feed.

Another break
—the waters crashing in upon

Blankets of white foam
scatter over the 
deep graying depths.

Gulls lift their wings
and effortlessly
they move with the
rhythm fashioning
a stormy tale.

I gaze
—eyes filling with the
salt of the storm’s debris.

I taste its offering
and I silently bow
in a posture of praise.

I understand,
or I respectfully acknowledge,
the surging force of

nature’s ways.

I meet her at the shore,
and I know
where to stop.

As naked as the sea,
am I.
I gather the ‘roar,’
the churning tides
inside the sea
that live in me.

The visitor I asked
about in the beginning of
this voyage,
is the Captain of the Seas
who keeps watch
over the vessel I am.

Always, this messenger
‘Sails up,
Sails down,
Time to harbor,
SET Sail…’

Now, I am still
grains of sand
finding shelter between my toes.

It is well—
all is well
with my Soul.


Drops of Color/ 4 Elements

Drops of Color
4 Elements

Earth, Wind, Water and Fire.

In the center of these elements…Love.

A swirling Universal tapestry
begun before any eye ever bore witness.

Fire…unleashed itself in a cosmos
—timeless, always changing,
following a pattern designed,
revolving through seasons, changing the tide

It ripples
winds lift the lofty steeple
—the grandest cathedral not designed
by humankind.

baptism—the serenity of ocean depths,
flowing rivers, fluid streams and
ponds evaporating under a Sun
—dazzling a planet.

Earth…surrounded by a cascading
starry array
—a painted milky way
—black holes whose depths
cannot be filled
and have never been explored.

Four elements, and at the center
a heart~~~Beating.


You can hear the Divine
breathing in all.

Listen…each breath lives in you!

Left Over

Left Over

When we each bring our
gifts to the table,
not asking a price,

MIRACLES happen—

All are fed
there are loaves and fishes
left over.

Drops of Color/ Table for Two

Drops of Color
Table for Two

Reservations made…

The guests were moments away
adorned in ‘garments’ for
the occasion.

Napkins, silverware laced the table tops,
glasses longing for sweet juices
to swirl along their edges.

Chairs held the cobble stones in place.
Standing their ground, expectant
—longing to ‘hold’ the partakers
of the Feast.

The aroma of fresh breads seeped
beneath opened windows.
Drizzled through the streets
—the scents of savory meats
garnished in spices.

Platters of cheeses, multi-colored
vegetables, crisp crackers
—lingered just within the door’s entrance.

They arrived, but unbeknownst…
they’d been followed.
They were spotted because of their dress.
Those who saw, took notice, and ran to
their homes to put on ‘their’ garments.

Was this the time?  Had it arrived?
Would they be welcomed?

The couple arrived…they did not
take their seats.
He rang a bell and did not stop
…the sweet sound of its chime, a song
—all came.

Two lowly Souls, one without a shirt,
the other, no shoes on her feet
—stood at a distance.

The bell stopped…everyone paused.

The couple stepped out…she removed
her shoes
—it was a perfect fit for the woman.

The man removed his jacket
calling out,
‘put your right arm through this hole
—now the same with the left arm.’

They brought the couple to 
a table
—more chairs were brought out
—there was room ‘enough’
for everyone.

The food was lasting
but, no one took a bite,
until after the couple.

New shoes on her feet,
and a jacket that fit him
—they bowed their heads.

Everyone said,

The time…is now
and forever more.



Listen to the stones…

Oh, they speak.

Just ask the leaves
who have let-go
and gather beside
the pulsing rocks.

What do they say?

Let-go so you
might hear.

Drops of Color/ The Night

Drops of Color
The Night

The night is over~~~

the colors have dimmed.

Shadows are dawning~~~
the sun soon shall appear.

Please, trust me when I say,
‘There is no need to fear
the darkness.
If you dare to dwell in
the unseen what appears invisible
begins to reveal itself anew.

Black & white become like
spectrums of color
piercing the unfamiliar
and creating things new.

Whoever has told you to fear
the night, perhaps you
might ask them what
exactly is it that causes them
to hide?

Blow out the candles,
click the light switch

and wait…

Your eyes~~~
they are beginning to see
what you thought was unclear.’

Oh, wondrous night.
You move like a river, your white caps,
are stars,
rolling across a galaxy
studded with darkness
—satin drops
pooling until day
finds its way.

Meeting God

Meeting God

I went to the sea to meet God
The waves were fierce, casting lots when I arrived.
I steadied myself upon the sand, it tickled my toes.
A rip-tide wove in, curling around me.
There was no longer dry land.

The waves were fierce, casting lots when I arrived.
I reached for the sky, pleading, ‘pull me out—raise me up God!’
A rip-tide wove in, curling around me
there was no longer dry land.
I calmed myself, hearing my breath and let-go.

I reached for the sky, pleading, ‘pull me out—raise me up God!’
Seagulls hovered and screeched their voices.
I calmed myself, hearing my breath and let-go.
Their song became my wings, I flew above the tempest.

Seagulls hovered and screeched their voices.
I went to the sea to meet God.
Their song became my wings, I flew above the tempest.
I steadied myself upon the sand, it tickled my toes.
Written under the wise tutelage of June S. Gould, Ph.D.



Finished, this day.

All its cares
—swept away.

The thoughts that no longer matter.
The feelings that keep turning
themselves over & over


Dust clouds will come again
and a simple whisk of
a brush


If not, find the rhythm of the silent
broom swaying left then right,
and again.

Hook the broom
at day’s end.

Finished…well done.

Drops of Color/ A Million Feathers

Drops of Color
A Million Feathers

like strands of pearls
beside the shore.

Strung on rocks, dainty legs
balancing upon the water.

A million feathers
adorned by sea birds.

Casting bills
into the surf,
engulfing fresh morsels,
invisible delicacies,
snapped up in a blink of an eye.

The softness of feathers
spread wide
embracing the salt air.
Feathers, so dapper
so intricately woven
—offer warmth
—propel flight
—bring solace
as young sleep
beneath a wing’s cover.

A brood of chicks
knows the comfort of Home.

A million feathers
prepare to set off
for a not so distant place.

some will.
Others will migrate to lasting places.

Feathers left behind.
Traces of loved ones
never truly gone
fly with millions of feathers
not so far away.

No Ordinary Costume

No Ordinary Costume

Hold still.
Gaze at your reflection.

No, you’re not sporting a costume.

You are a unique design.

Don’t hide the beauty
which is naturally You!

The sand silent

The sand silent

The expansive body of the ocean.
Waves, symphonies of timeless ballads
wash ashore.  The sand silent.

The stars staggered,
littered by the debris of shrapnel.
The blue water turns red.
The expansive body of the ocean.

The ocean not on fire,
and the sand not a buffer.
Tears became prayer. The salt of
the sea stung.  The waves
wash ashore.  The sand silent.

Hearts drowning out the sound of
explosives, beating to remain alive.
Waves form, wash ashore.
The expansive body of the ocean.

Bombs propelled.  Every direction
reaching, extending peace instead of blame.
Waves break, wash ashore.
The sand silent.

The salt, the stars, the tears, the waves,
the ocean.
The swirling ‘being’ distorted, alive.
The expansive body of the ocean
washes ashore.
The sand silent.


Inspired by Alicia Rebecca Myers poem “The Bush”
Every time I thought of anger, or fear or revenge, I breathed it out.  I tried to think of what I
was grateful for—the bush that hid me so well that even birds landed on it, the birds that
were still singing, the sky that was so blue.
~~~Maya Alper, survivor of Hamas’ attack on the Tribe of Nova music festival


Drops of Color/ …the sound of the bell

Drops of Color
…the sound of the bell

…the sound of the bell.

Wait, the sound of Bells.

The night sky fading—
a sliver of stars
returning to their quiver.

A purple blue softness magnifies
the horizon in the West
and subtle pinks and oranges
—a field of marigolds in the sky
—intermingle and prepare for
the Liturgy already begun.

We have made our way, one by one,
side by side from our straw mangers.

Now, we graze, we chomp and chew,
and stomp toward verdant pastures
—we ring bells.

Bells draped around our necks
—we herald a song
—raising antiphons and psalms.

Lyrics are written by passers-by
who stop, who listen, who genuflect 
at the Glory of Creation.

The sound of the bell
—the service never ends.

Listen…let us go ‘together’ in peace.


(Inspired by the works of Maya Angelo)

Slipping through the bars
—WAIT, I cannot get through.
Yet, my arms,
solid…built to last
—‘pull back’ the cage.

No matter how often this cage door sealed,
I sing from a perch.
The song is soft
—sometimes passionate
like a flame ignited by a 
simple whisper~~~’FLY.’

I set out.
I am a ballad which allows the
tears inside to become notes
playing tenderly,
The latch lifts.

I move effortlessly, arms raised.
A silent flutter,
 I have discovered the edge.

I leap,
The very essence of my Soul
in flight…soaring.

No destination, no settled place
to land.

I am out of the cage.
I live the melody strumming the
soft feathers carrying me
to heaven’s door-less entry.

You, Oh God,
created who it is I am.

I hear you singing back.
‘I am an image
trying to find its way.
I am made in your likeness.’

How can a caged bird not sing?

Drops of Color/Shining like the sun…

Drops of Color
Shining like the Sun

“It is a glorious destiny to be a 
member of the human race, though
it is a race dedicated to many
absurdities and one which makes
many terrible mistakes; yet, with all
that, [God] gloried in
becoming a member of the human race!
To think that such a commonplace
realization should suddenly seem
like news that one holds the winning
ticket in a cosmic sweepstake.
I have the immense joy of being a
member of a race in which
[God] became incarnate. As if 
the sorrows and stupidities of the
human condition could overwhelm
me, now I realize what we all are.
And if only everybody could realize
this!  But it cannot be explained.
There is no way of telling people that
they are all walking around shining
like the sun.”

~~~Thomas Merton

Each day

Each day

This day,
I rose in the darkness

—drops of rain pelted my window.

Pausing…yes, here I invite
you to be still upon rising…even NOW.

Let your eyes take in the hid-den
splendor…it is there in the darkness.

A storm surging outside the glass pane
…is there a storm brewing
restlessly inside me?  Inside you?

Let it reside
—don’t be quick to push it away
—there is beauty in everything!

In the not so distant distance
—a light house, a beacon
—a SILENT guide
(imagine it, hold it in your mind’s eye)

A messenger
—invite that unspoken presence to be with you.

Now breathe—
Breathe in —the waves rolling natural rhythms.
Breathe out—the crashing waves
pulling you to leave this undisturbed place.

Breathe in—the clarity of this moment.
Breathe out—all the tasks that need
to be met.

Welcome the Stillness
—No matter the turbulence
—the grief
—all the sentences that are incomplete.

Begin, in the darkness.
The Sun will rise
recognize EACH day.

You are the Sun.
Everyone of us shines
what lives inside.

Illuminate your very essence.
Be transformed by living wonder.

If we ‘all’ witnessed in each other
the gift we are…
we would never stop bowing offering thanks.

Drops of Color/ Another Harvest

Drops of Color
Another H

Here it is,
the ripened red fruit

Falling into the hands
—picked with ease
—plucked from leafy branches
waving fare-well.

The laborers are plenty.
An abundance of bushels

The succulence of juicy, delicious
apples waiting to be consumed.

By whom, you ask?

Trucks pull in,
other transport vehicles arrive.
Boats, planes, trains, bicycles,
walkers, runners.

Into the highways and byways they go,
carrying the delicate delights
into small cities, rural neighborhoods,
desert places, enormous bustling cities,
deep into the heart of the bush,
into mansions—tables of plenty,
tables without
—awaiting a ‘core’ of edible arrangements


all are fed.

This harvest,
‘imagine’ the field.

Endless persons serve as 
all are fed.

Left overs fill the baskets..

Reach Out

Reach Out

Your wings

are as wide
as the ocean…

Reach out~~~

the winds will carry you beyond
the tides.

Drops of Color/ Inside the Edge

Drops of Color

(Sketch re-created from an Unknown Artist’s Original)

Inside the Edge

One by one they came,
no sequential order.

Four corners of the Universe
unfolding like stars.

From in between spaces,
unknown, yet collectively,
they were People
walking with a Promise.

Straw once used for bricks
was braided into baskets.

Young, old, leaving their pasts
behind in Search of a Home.

They had little but their worth was
not measured in possessions.

Freedom, an uncharted path
—fruits gathered for the day
trusting tomorrow would take
care of itself.

From an ‘edge’ inside, i view…
from a privileged place i bend on both knees.

i carry, yes, even now, a weighted pack
of my own making.

Still, ‘we,’ One people,
both/AND weaving straw
into baskets
~~~gathering to share
~~~to break bread in as many
pieces as possible
~~~so all can Taste and be fed.

Each distinct color made welcome
~~~a rainbow ignites the sky.

All religions, plunged into a Sea
~~~salt erasing the formality of rules
inviting the ‘vessels’ we are
to sail beside one another.

The wind does not
decide who is or is
not worthy.







Some pieces 
of art work

—have no signature

—no title

they simply wash ashore.

The beach
—a museum
—free of charge


Drops of Color/ The Artist

Drops of Color
The Artist

The artist began.

A gentle brush stroke.

A dab of water.

Dipping into pools of color…
each a sacrament
—a portrayal
—a sign.

Slowly, the image
becoming clear.

Lifting from the matte,
breathed into life
a living human being.

Trees clapped their branches.

The sky sank, for a moment
beneath the sun,
bowing in reverence.

Birds anointed the easel
with their savory swipe of feathers.

The human looked upon
the Artist

and simply  said,

‘One day, I hope to be like You!’

Hands through time

Hands through time

An acorn
lets go of the long
arm that has cradled and nurtured
the seed—until NOW.

Around and around
this cycle spins, twirls, revolves,
a wheel of time
creating, sustaining, lingering,
and discovering life—AGAIN!

Glancing upon scene after scene,
the picture, the same in its frame,
yet, it is different, changed
and grows off the edges.

The acorn,
like the wheel
circling the seasons,
plants itself through changing
—it grows, slowly.

The acorn’s becoming
forms roots
digging downward into the darkness
while its stem bursts the soil
—discovers light and rises!

The necessity of the descent,
the ascent
—the rhythmic pattern
—the rings
unseen forming inside the Oak.

An acorn
lets go
—the wheel winds
itself like hands through time.

In the blink of an eye,
we ripen

planted in the Season.



Drops of Color

The earth ‘shaking.’

At the top of a ridge,
a magnanimous display.

Millions of droplets thrust
from an edge.

The direction—
No time to waste
‘casting lots.’

Speckles of moisture
spew every which way.

Fierce, elegant,
Powerful, grace in full motion.
Tantalizing, soothing,
Life altering, washed away
hidden pools—
tiny creatures bathe.

The sound
—spill a box of pins,
you will not hear a single

rapid, swift, breathtaking.

A force, always changing,
wondrous to behold—
earth shattering, if you attempt
to defy its way.

Beauty, wonder
witnessed from a distance.

Shoes off—
standing upon ‘holy’ ground…

Drenched by ‘I Am.’

Humbly stepping on…

trusting life’s flow.

Play me…

Play me…

Pretend I’m an old
tin can.

Bring your ear close
that’s it!

Touch a key

Touch another
—play me.

Before you go
—tap the old tin can


whenever you need
a song

—lift the cap

Play me.

Drops of Color/ A Genuine Gaze

Drops of Color
A Genuine Gaze

No words necessary.
Countless couples.
My eyes privileged to behold.

I cherish the moments
—like framed photos.

Love unfolded in
a nod of a head
—flesh touching
—a gentle swipe
—skin to skin
—a glance
—a soft whinny.

—love revealing itself
in the ordinary
and most extraordinary

How genuine…Love is.

…close to ‘home’


…close to ‘home’

There are moments i feel
so close to ‘home’
i nearly touch the 
stars and then there
are ‘gaps’ where i feel
i’m millions of miles 


Note: Look closely! A plane is flying near the center of the Moon!
Behold the enormity of Wonder we are blessed to dwell within.
Let us make it last now & Forever!!!


Drops of Color/ Sky’s Landscape

Drops of Color
Sky’s Landscape

The sky,
a ‘land’scape,

splashing its image upon a body
of water.

Clouds weave into the scenery
magnifying the mirrored
scene overhead.

The sky began to laugh,
or was it the wind?
A strong gust rippled the waters
sending onto the shore
a million drops.
The landscape,
carried in tiny beaded pools.

Pausing, I realized
I was soaked.
A thousand drops
dripped from my brow,
my shirt, trousers

My boots drenched,
immersed in the sky’scape.’
I began to laugh,
the sky ‘tucked’ within me.

Hovering…each cloud
reflected back
an endless view.

The sky’s landscape.



Treasures from the Sea
That is just what

they are…treasures!

Not possessions…

Pearls of wisdom
meant to plunge
back into hid-den depths.

They remind us of our
own holiness
—hidden treasures of

Not possessions.

We are gift given
—receiving freely
—offering back

Drops of Color/ Questions

Drops of Color

Is there a rainbow
stitched into a waterfall?

Is it a waterfall
illuminated in the cusp
of a rainbow?

How do we live the questions?

Maybe, in the moments
that expand our vision
—we become
the rainbow
—we encompass every drop
of the waterfall.

We understand the questions
need no answers.

Living the questions is
the ‘breath of life’
transforming us

making all things NEW.
‘Seek the wisdom that will untie your knot.
Seek the path that demands your whole being.’

All the hairs


All the hairs


The exact number known
while a chirping 
sparrow sits upon my horns.

The sparrow’s worth
not measured here,
nor the strands
of my furrowing drapery.

Our significance,
well, I’ll not be
the judge.

It appears our place in 
this time, this space,
IS our purpose.

Why spend time ‘pulling’

It’s easy to know the sum,
even if you subtract.

And, even if you could
add a few more strands
to the weighted mass 
above your brow,

does MORE really mean
you’re ahead?

Yes, all these hairs
are counted for.



—these words
broken, fragmented,
endless run-ons!

Wild Fires
A     lo     ha
~~~the island shivering
in ash.

Praise, praise the 
natural world
wreaking havoc on the
learned, ignoring the signs.

The stock exchange
adds their numbers,

while DNA samples
—the only means
identifying the dead.

Plucking a chord on my guitar
—a vibration
fans the room
finding a way to an open window.

The music
finds its way to the devastation,
the destruction

—voices rise like incense.

Praise the mutilation
of the world,
dance in the funeral’s ballad.

Nothing is truly missing
—life has a way of passing on,

returning new in a mutilated world.

Would you try to sing a hymn of Praise?

Inspired by the Poem: Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski
Translated by Clare Cavanagh

You…in the Margins

You…in the Margins

You wanted to write a lie—
to be understood?

to fit in?
to be heard?

My powdery snow covered skin
pleads, “STOP.”

For too long, my people live at the top
of the mountain crested in packed white linen
—we have kept many persons at base camp
—countless tribes at the foot of the towering peaks.

An avalanche brought me down
—tumbling, rolling over & over.

I could share my wounds
—beyond physical

but, I do not have to
—for you bandaged
my brokenness with the balm
of your soft brown skin
rubbing itself against mine.

Looking into your eyes,
I see the sun radiating its warmth
through your dark glass pupils.

Your hymns sing to my Soul
in perfect pitch…
—raindrops joining a river adding to the flow
—dew drops draping green leaves.

The door of my heart unlocks.

Your hand in mine…my MIND silent.

I feel your breath
—the warmth of your lips
kiss my brow.

There is no longer room for lies.


Inspired by Kiese Laymon’s Novel Long Division

Drops of Color/ So Simple

Drops of Color
So Simple

For a moment,
the view, as if

held, entwined
in a frame.

Sheer and utter elegance,
mere words lack the luster
in describing you.

You are an entranceway
—a door of sorts into
a valley
fashioned like the walls of a uterus
inviting the traveler to enter.

Many seeds planted here
—by birds of the air
—animals excrement
—wind and storms.

Nothing is trimmed or hedged,
cut or tilled.

In fact, in this subtle garden,
it is so simple to dwell.



where the heart lies
—a mattress of soft soil
—crumbled leaves adding
to the ambience of 
the green canopy overhead
rooted stately branches

—lean into each other.

Really, there is 
no place like home.

Drops of Color/ Promised Lands

Drops of Color

Promised Lands

One rolled in
upon another.

Straw, the mortar
as an Exodus begun.
The Exile,
a bridge,
exposing a gap
that no longer
would give way to division.

Stone upon stone upon stone,
not a single one ‘thrown.’

Each rock, boulder, pebble
set in place,
like a dinner table prepared
to serve countless guests.

And, so, this bridge
a path
laced in stone.
Both directions.

Promised Lands—
beginning with the One 
stone first
rolling in

~~~A Corner Stone

An invisible space…

An invisible space
There is an invisible 
space between the 
moment the vessel leaves
the soft grasses
and plunges into
the body of water—


It is that moment
every prayer ever 
spoken is heard
passing, as if,
through the eye of a 

Drops of Color/ ‘body of creativity’

Drops of Color
‘body of creativity’

A broken branch
—the whittler began to carve.

A variety of paints
—the artist fashioned faces
—expressions of love.

A pattern of material
—the seamstress stitched

Extraordinary characters
put in the hands of
those with ‘no-thing’
and, for a first time, they
had a make believe friend
but, was it really make-believe?

In a Quantum Universe,
these creators joined in the collective
‘body of creativity.’

The success story
it took a community
to make a difference.

Not one, not two, but many
are there—YOU are in the midst.

Prayer sometimes disguises itself
in the simplest treasures
a child always remembers.



there is an island—
a place surrounded
by a deep blue sea.

a soft wind
comes in on the wings
of waves.

Sitting along
the water’s edge,
feet dipping in
and out
—the rise and fall
of every breath.

Speckles of sand
swirl round and round.

Schools of fish leap
from their recesses
—they, too,
longing for a cup of air
before delving beneath
the surface of sea foam.

My hands 
form a cup.

Air filling itself
in my palm
—some slipping through the
breaks in between each finger.

I bring my hands
to my face,
but it is not my 
hands caressing
my soft flesh.

It is your hands.

I come to this island
—especially when
nothing seems to 
make any sense.

My words are barely
adequate to write
this moment.

On this island,
i am neither lost
nor found.

I know you are here
—for I am
a carving in the 
palm of 
your hand.



Drops of Color/ If only these walls could talk…

Drops of Color

If only these walls could talk…

An empty table…
Minutes ago, others stood around…
No chairs were necessary.
In a minute or so, MORE will 
come.  They will stand long enough to 

Stories, yes, that is what they shall
hear.  It is why they have arrived
here, at this table, before this

You can see the portraits of persons…
travelers.  They, being displaced,
withstood the test of time.

With courage, with hope, with faith,
they made their way.  Some would not
live, but their stories live—on…

They, the memories, told around this table
—bread broken, shared…
wine tasted and passed to another
to drink—from a simple cup.

They are coming, the next pilgrims,
to gather beside this table, this wall.

They will listen…long enough to understand
the message…”Go forth and serve.”

Yes, even the walls talk.

Drops of Color/ Come ‘play’ me

Drops of Color/ Come ‘play’ me
Come ‘play’ me…

the luring sound of the stringed
mandolin with a robust belly

—casting a spell
like a bee dipping into
the honey jar.

Sweetly, the vibration
of strings
—like melted sugar over
a red juicy apple.

One bite.
One succulent encounter.

Eyes closed—
the exquisite sounds.

Why even the sculpted statues
can be heard…

Come ‘play’ me.

Moments…in her rose garden

Moments…in her rose garden

Each year
in early Spring,
she would put on her old overalls
that rose high above her ankles.
She put on ‘his’ old night shirt…
she loved him and always longed
him to be near
even if it be his musty worn sweated scent.

She stepped outside.
The sun blurred her vison.
Still, she held her gaze.
No words spoken aloud, but the prayer
was alive.

Making her way into the garage,
she gathered all the tools necessary
for the labor already begun.

Singing an unknown tune,
she began delicately weaving herself
alongside each bush.  She tilled
the earth, raked tiny patterns
and, as the days passed,
the rose buds began to ripen.

She never stopped singing—
the roses unfolded…
sometimes she would clip a few,
place them in a vase and carry them
into the house.

He smiled, took the vase from her hand,
carried it to their room.  He, too, loved
the scent of her.  She was his rose,
a blossom he never tired gazing upon.

Is this a love poem…
the moments being written here?

I recall when she went into the garden,
and pierced herself on a thorn.
Again, she pierced herself drawing  blood.

Death came for her Lover,
and the sting was just like that thorn.

She wept,
sometimes all night long.
Soon her tears became petals—
her garden became fuller
because of the love that grew inside her.

His old shirt now draped off
her shoulders.
Death may have moved him from this world,
but love, the love she had grown and nurtured…

she would live it all over again
for this same ending.

Drops of Color/ Hid-den Saints

Drops of Color
Hid-den Saints…

they’re among us.


When the sun is at its zenith,
you attempt to stare
into its jetting rays,
but, cannot  for one moment,
capture a glance.

The Saints, they’re in the ‘unseen’ places.

In the deepest,
darkest depths of the sea,
where the reality of  ‘any’ light
appears skewed,
the Hid-den Saints

yet, present.

Their needs are simple,
and go beyond
any forms of success or 

These hid-den saints have a
single purpose:
To manifest Love in all things,
in all circumstances,
in every situation.

I hear one singing right now.
Painting by Artist: Sam Bates aka SMUG



dampened the page.

The words expanded
like a stone dropped
into a pond.

Swelling, each letter,
every consonant,
became something new
unto itself.

Unknown, these words
—a language
my Soul does not
understand. The hid-den
meaning writes itself.

You are what lies between
each ring carried upon
the surface of the pond.

So much more,
so much less
—the raindrops
magnify the meaning
until each phrase
sinks into the page.