A pilgrim walks with a 
deliberate intention
listening to the messages of
the interior landscape while
finding one’s footing in the 
exterior terrain!

nature’s path dwells
inside & out in wedded bliss!

The pilgrim walks on…

“Personal Transformation is the greatest offering we can make to the world,
for each awakening ignites humanity’s collective consciousness.
Because consciousness is one, change yourself and you change the world.”
                                                                                                           ~~~John C. Robinson

Drops of Color/ A Gate

Drops of Color
A Gate

In an open field,
a narrow gate.

Standing before its entrance, 
I noticed
it was fashionably designed.

The latch—
proving entrance for all.

You could see through it
well beyond the escaping 
horizon’s line
—no walls built
on either side.

Just what was this gate?

Was it a narrow entryway
skewing the reality
of access on both sides?

Is there a doorway
in our mind
telling us…who can,
who cannot enter?

The beating of
a Soul
could be heard

—and the ‘only’
narrow place
lost forever.

Two Flowers

Two Flowers

Two intricate colors
birthed on the same

~~~joined at the root

~~~knee deep in the soil.

They ask for nothing.

They seek wonder.

They give glory to the
unspoken creator
dancing at their ‘b-ing.’



When the time is ripe,
its arrival wakens the Soul.

Bathing in the vast oceans of dreamscapes,
sleep crust laces eyelids
—tender the moments.

Ripening is like an ending.
A start 
from where the Soul first began.

A wave rising, coming to shore.

“At a certain point you say to the
woods, to the sea, to the mountains,
the world,
Now I am ready.”
                                ~Annie Dillard

Drops of Color/ Purposeful Knots

Drops of Color
Purposeful Knots

My vessel of a being
mooring itself to a shore.

The sea offered countless
and, for a while,
I needed to rest.

Strands of rope
~~~woven chords
aided in holding
the vessel.

Secure knots looped once,
tucked in, and under


The waves splashed alongside
the stern, some leaped
into the hull.

The ropes,
fashioned in creative knots
artistic designs
allowing the vessel to rock in place.

The gulls call—
it is almost
time to loosen
the tightened strands.

The waves call~~~


Setting Sail for another shore!
Trusting a wave to carry me…

Back when the tide returns…

I look…

I look…

I looked up
and viewed the waves of clouds
like prompts set upon a stage.

An on-going performance,
the blue waters
sparkling in morning’s dew.

I looked out.
Endless…the miles could not be
yet, eternity was in sight.

I looked within,
pausing as I have done
each day.

between each breath that
I am the cloud.
The cloud is me,
splashing in a deep, deep
blue sea.

…that simple

…that simple

Pass beneath the trellis
—step gently on each stone

—walk into the unknown




Can you hear the vines
spreading themselves
upon your arrival?

Can you taste the salty
air waving in from the water?

In the distance,
the gulls cry out.

‘You’re here, yes, you’re here,
you’ve arrived.’

Close your eyes, bow your head,
offer thanks.

It is that simple.

It Happened

It Happened

A match struck,
‘timelessly’ for the wick— a mere heart beat away.

Ashes drizzle upon a Soul.

It happened…
unplanned, ‘unknown’ 
—the flame.

Engulfing the ‘chamber’
—that inner dwelling 
unaware of the absence.

Who chose the time?
No more hours spent on the Who?
What? or Where?

A gentle voice ‘breached’
my lips…

‘You can no longer burden my heart,’
AND now, my heart understands
and loves you all the more.

an unexpected crack
brought the LIGHT into
the cathedral
of this Being.
“Enlightenment must come little by little,
otherwise it would overwhelm.”
                                                        ~~~Indries Shah(Sufi Author)

Drops of Color/ Daybreak

Drops of Color

The braided forest
parts its branches.

Making a way
through the mist
knit within
his woven sea of fur
—a blanket of waves
cresting over and over.

Lifting his nose,
nostrils breathe in
the vast solemn liturgy.
Breathing out,
the emptiness carries
a silent refrain.

Each ‘hoof’ touching
the dampened ground
—a ‘note.’

Listening to the song,
he steps into the pond
—the mist dips in.

The night packed its
tool box,
stars turned down their radiance,
and the Milky Way
handed the baton to Daybreak.

Bathing himself,
the cool waters
—baptize him.

He rises,
uttering a soft refrain
—his melody echoes
into a timeless landscape.

along a pathway
carrying no cross
—freely the breaking of day
illuminates his presence.

He steps back into
the forest from which
he came.

His Gospel
a welcome
to daybreak.

Highland Boundary Fault

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
~~~ Mary Oliver
“Sometimes” (excerpt), Red Bird
Highland Boundary Fault

450 million years ago
a fault line formed
running geologically from
Scotland & Arran in the west,
Stonehaven in the sun’s rising east,
and traversing the Southern edge
of the Cateran Ecomuseum.

This, The Great Divide,
separates the Highlands & Lowlands
of Scotland.

Atop Conic Hill, 
overlooking the wonders of this 
‘creation,’…baffled by beauty.
Nothing does it need from me
yet, it seems to ask,

‘Don’t stop looking.

Please…ask for the discontinuance
of weaponry bombarding the 
landscapes & waterways, the skies.

That the land be soaked—
only flowers rise and children
tumble down our hills at play
trusting their parents watchful eyes
very near.

Avoid the pesticides, wrappers,
plastics that do not fit the terrain.’

Highlands & Lowlands ‘divide.’
They take on an entirely different

There IS no separation.

Drops of Color/ Hallowed Abbey

Drops of Color
Hallowed Abbey

In the meadow,
a hallowed abbey.

Steeples adorned the
drizzled with a million flakes
of snow fall.

The ceilings, a painting as if by

Is that him?!

The clouds, an image of the Artist
lying on his 
Each stroke of the brush changing
the patterns overhead.
Sitting in a pew,
nibbling on morsels of sweet communion

the only sound
‘her breath, her chomp, her breath, her chomp’

—silence tucked between blades of

Each viable shoot
a candle
holding a dewdrop
sparkling with the reflection
of the sun’s light.

She could not be moved from
this abbey…
she sat alongside its maker.

She understands
the mystery of Presence.

Taking another bite…
She’s One
with all that is

…here in this hallowed abbey.

Take ‘her’ lead…

Take ‘her’ lead…

A sandy beach.

Close to shore.

When the tide washes over her,
she pauses.

Years have shaped her
stately posture.
Persons come from near and far to
LOOK upon her simple elegance.

Endless photos ‘clicked.’

The ‘lens’ cannot consume her.

Many pass her by
missing her completely.

The waters weep.

Her depths reachable.
She stands.
One day the ebb & flow will carry
her out
as her roots let-go.

I stand.
The waters wash away
the sands.



The sound of a machine.
Around me, shelves miles high.
Boxes piled, ten stories high.
Dangling from the carboard containers,
a rip cord.

Is this a dream?

Inside this place,
I am ‘inside.’
Is it a fridge?
It is so cold!

What is this?
Why am I here?

Wait, the volume is swirling outside
—Propellers, that is it—they are slowing down.
We are going down, down, down.

A door is opening from within.
A handle sliding itself.
I cannot see.

A voice yells, “PULL, PULL, PULL.”

Air rushes in sucking the breath
from my Soul.
I reach, but there is nothing to hold.


The boxes, they are shaking, rattling.
Below, I see the Sea.
Vast waves wash towards a shore.

I look.
From here, I bear witness to an absurd sight:
A colony of ants swarming
the sandy beach.

They are NOT insects…they are PEOPLE!
There are hands reaching toward the sky.
Some are throwing themselves into the waves.

A voice, ‘Toss the boxes, and yank the cord.’

Food, food, food—inside the boxes.
I toss each item held in this refrigerator-plane.
I pull the cord like I am starting an old fashioned 
lawn mower.

A parachute jets itself open and the 
banquet-boxes make their way with
no order
no process
no arrangements
no iron bound walls.

BUT, they are hungry
—starving human beings
seeking sustenance.

I am launching boxes and they spill
into the water.
They are lapped up upon the shore.

What do I hear NOW?
This refrigerator is empty.
The propellers amplify.
I do not understand ‘starvation.’
I do not know what it means to go without.

I am awake.
This is not a dream.
I walk to my kitchen,
open the doors to the fridge.


I am searching for the rip cord.

May everyone be fed.

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

…would surely go

…would surely go

When I was a child,
I heard a nursery rhyme
about a little lamb.

Its fleece,
well, it was white as the snow.

The adventurous feminine seedling
—her name, Mary,
and this little lamb followed her
wherever she fashioned to go.

I decided to follow them both
from a distance.
Granted, I am an adult now…
and a faint voice whispered between my silent steps,

“listen to the thing you fear”

Did I fear Mary? this Little lamb?

Truth is…
as I gazed more closely into the Nursery Rhyme,
I recognized Mary could barely see!
She was led to believe the lamb was white!


She, Mary, was the one who followed the lamb.

In a dark room,
her ‘lens’ holds images before
her eye sight vanished
—spools of memories
tragically set ablaze.

—traces of a collage
of brutalities revealing
a history’s past and present.

The lamb
sits beside Mary.
She no longer believes
in its fleece
of white snow.

Instead, she feels
its countless
stripes—where fur once lay.

One lash
Two lashes
and MORE followed.

The lamb remained at Mary’s side…
it would not abandon her
and stayed until it died.

Mary could not see the 
road ahead
she rose, Again.

She knew every where
she went,
the lamb
would surely go.
Written under the wise tutelage of June S. Gould, Ph.D.

No Matter

Drops of Color
No Matter

It was early.

The sun phantoms beneath the horizon’s line.

A penetrating canvas
knitted the night.
Galaxies of starlight
illuminated the dome overhead.

In a tiny wooden house,
the sounds of scratching heard.
Small steps made atop scattered straw.

Then a noise
~~~a crowing,
“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Moments of silence~~~gripped in wonder,
“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Soft clucking heard
in between 
the bellow of the Trumpeter,

“Cock~a doodle~do.”

Tears, one after another,
liquid vapors washing my face.
My eyes~~~pools
filled to the rim
dripping over the sides.


These tears were not because of any betrayal,
any failed remembrance~~~while hearing the cocks crow.

The moist mist
revealing my breath
in the crisp air
was the realization:

No matter the past

No matter the cares, worries, wounds,
the endless thoughts of what needs to
be completed, losses never to be found…endings.

I am reminded, by a feathered friend,
before the light even close to 
announcing a NEW day


The rooster ‘sings’

the LIGHT will soon be here.

Sing…what IS your song!

Sing, “Cock~a doodle~do”



This is not a march.

This is a dance…
the cadence between seconds

The trees, like ballerinas
rooted in divine pirouettes
~~~limbs swaying
~~~trunks fashioned and reshaped
through Seasons of ballets.

Ewes in pastures
birth lambs
~~~playfully squealing
they run to mama’s side
for a splash of milk.

Highland cows,
gentle Giants,
display their lengthy horns,
flowing red locks,
BIG eyelashes.

The cadence is ALIVE…

Time to sway.

The Tenderer

The ‘Tenderer’

The world blossoms with wonder
in the
care of the invisible ‘Tenderer’
who lovingly
circles the universe
after year, season after season,
moment by moment,

transforming life ‘into’ its
FULLEST manifestations.

“We have to consciously study how to
be ‘tender’ with each other
until it becomes a habit.”
~~~Audre Lorde



Leaving a feather
—the tiny winged
creature flew into
the dense forest.

I left a lock of
hair and trekked into
the brush.

Days later
—I returned.

The lock of hair taken
—the feather still there.

I picked it up placing it in my cap.

It was then I heard the bird’s
song…I joined in.

Drops of Color/ Birds and Feathers…

Drops of Color
Birds and Feathers

fly instinctively.

Inviting others,
they soar in patterns

Wide is their berth
—carried by winds
—refreshed by waters
—the ground, a feeding place.

Trees, a haven.

New beginnings blossom
igniting fall leaves.

Numerous, the varied sounds

—they call, these ‘musings’
and believe in their silence.

hid~den Angels
draped in wings.

Perched in the monastery of life
they lead the refrain.

Lifting the sun,
their feathers
layered like candles
burning the sky with waxy
hues of light.

Do they stick together,
birds and feathers?
Or do they call us
to find the sun
and spread ourselves
touching the sky.

Paint Can

Paint Can

Into a can of paint,
I leapt.

The colors—a museum of Monet, Angelo, Chagall


I was standing dripping with delight.

“More, more, more”
I bellowed.

A paint brush, invisible,
delicately swiped itself across the sky.

A fountain of colors
changed before my eyes.
I stood 

holding the ground.

‘No,’ it was the ground holding me
so I would not lose sight of

The Artist’s Splendor…

dripping, dripping, dripping. 

Drops of Color/ A Lion’s Cry

Drops of Color
A Lion’s cry

What happens when a Lion cries?

What is it like when the beast’s
roar is a lasting, enduring whimper?

What does it mean when the sharp
claws used for thrashing
remain curled within its massive paws?

What if its teeth, distinct razors,
do not bite or shred or grind?

What…when the Lion
lays itself down
refusing to shed blood
no matter how many times
it be inflicted?

The Lion weeps—
The Lion cries—
its long flowing mane now carpets
the ground.

“Forgive us…we know not what
we do.”

To have left a place better than one found it…

To have left a place better than one found it…
(Inspired by the book
In Kiltumper: A Year in an Irish Garden)

Arriving, everything appeared so new.
Taking in all the wonders…
Were my eyes like a camera’s lens
snapshots, one after another
—no order, sequence, structure?

Who was before me, holding me?
What did anything mean? Did it

Somewhere along the way,
a book forming.
The pages left unnumbered.
Words splashed on a page and then
like a barren desert, they
disappeared like a mirage.

What was this place?
Who am I or what is it I’m becoming?
I’ve discovered buried treasures.
The jewels, the gem stones, the 
hidden diamonds in the rough.

I left them
so that another passerby would find
them and walk on richer for having
found the pearl of great price.

Now, my pockets are empty of all
that I thought, hoped, dreamed I 

Everything realized in 
the absolute of nothingness.

Belongings left for the next sojourner
to embrace the ground of being, the
soils millions of years old laced in 

What I have found…
May I have planted a new garden
of blessed abundance for what lies
beyond…when my footsteps rejoin
the landscape into which  I was breathed.

Green Dresses

Green Dresses

Perhaps, a Spring sale?
Shades of Green
—some ‘greens’ soft, translucent
others vivid, striking, blossoming.

Every ‘rack’
more and more green dresses.
No brand names here.
No ‘designer’ holds ownership.
Yes…each dress altered,
shaped, fitted.

Gathered eloquently at the neck lines,
the greens drape down
—the sleeves allow the defining
brown skin to enhance the 
elegance created
and being re-born.

The dresses touch the floor
stitching into the ground.
No price tags attached.
These garments not for sale.

These green dresses ask only
that we tend to them
—that we look upon their loveliness
—that we stop needless cuttings
so the green dresses
may LIVE into
lasting tomorrows.

Drops of Color/ Horse

Drops of Color
(Inspired by Geraldine Brooks book: Horse)


A book
came galloping into
the meadow of my being.

Swiftly, attempting to keep pace,
I turned page after page after page.

Trotting through paragraphs,
black letters took on new meaning.

I dropped the reins on the white

I heard a soft whinny.
My eyes filling with tears
blinded me until
I saw the book for what
it was…

A message,
historical grains of truth.

The race is never over
until we all have
moved beyond the finish

leaving no one behind.

Nothing shall I want…

Nothing shall I want…

A tap heard on the window—

Pulling off covers,
tiny dust particles
cascade down the glass.

I gaze into the night sky,
a solitary star.
I crack open the window.
Star light pours ‘in.’
I watch as the planet makes its way into my

I hear song birds.
The stars turned to winged

More bird songs outside the window.
No-thing shall I want.

Let me be kindness—

Let me offer and seek goodness
here in the house of the Lord.

When I look within the Heart

When I look within the Heart

I listen for the sound
—there it is
beating softly.

I close my eyes
hearing the rhythmic melody
playing itself.

I am lured
like a fish drawn to bait.
I swim holding the moment
because it seeks not to be captured.

Eyes opened.
I see into the Heart
—it is a tree
with thousands of branches.

Invited into this Heart space
 gifted am I,
with vast encounters
widening the wonders
through Seasons.

I have seen the Heart barren
—its nakedness
raw, humble, allowing stretch marks,
creating more room for growth.

The Heart of the tree blossoms,
tiny intricate buds, delicate
decadent delights
waiting, waiting, waiting
to unfold.

Then, when the Sun holds
the sky in its fullness
like millions of ballerinas upon an 
invisible stage,
their footsteps,
as they dangle from stems.

Coming full circle,
the beating
Heart reaches its ending.

The tree’s leaves
turn into an ice-cream
parlor of plentiful flavors:
orange sherbet, rainbow red,
banana foster and mint green
chocolate chip.

Whisked away,
the wind
carries the melody—
the leaves
fall behind


the Heart
grows expanding love’s

beginning over once again.

Why I walk


Why I Walk

Two legs—

Wings lifting me.

Two legs have carried me across grasslands,
wet forests, snow covered mountains, gravel dirt paths,
over bridges, bustling roadways, baked dry sands,
puddled paths where drops of rain
soaked my Soul leaving me drenched with wonder.
Inviting me to step, to step again and again.

My breath—
a rhythm, a cadence, a meditation, a rosary with beads.

A sole touches ground—each decade need not be counted.

The ground…an altar.
Incense rising.
Song birds, the choir, how can they keep from singing?

It is why I walk.

How can I not step when the doorway



Drops of Color/ Pickin’ Cotton…

Drops of Color
Pickin’ Cotton

From the bowels
of wooden vessels
draping the ocean
carried against their will
taken from their native land
ripped from mothers’ arms

they sang

Their groans
were hymns rising above
the clanking shackles
chaining them, one to another
hid-den below deck

they sang

When they reached a new shore,
paraded they were
like livestock.
They were forced to learn
—NEW ways
—another language
—an understanding that 
they were being ‘offered’
a better way

they sang

In the fields,
 the sun blazing
the ‘felt’ strike of a whip
on their backs
—hungry, thirsty
they worked, served

they sang
while pickin’ cotton…

Beneath the starlight,
they gazed upon
heaven’s dome trusting
the eyes of loved ones
past and present 
looking upon them
(I am because you are)

they sang

their song echoing 
through pages
of recorded history
and sung
note, after note,
after note

they sang.


Celebrating Black History Month




The clouds packed the sky like
drops in a cereal bowl
blocking, holding back whatever intrepid
visitor might attempt to dip a spoon
and taste its substance.

Music is happening…
I don’t know the song—
the minor octave heard.

breaking through the clouds
the sun, a fiery dragon,
lights the sky.

Climbing the Tower of Babylon…
 not in search.
A silent voice, “Go up, Reach up, You’re already there.
You LIGHT this world as I do!’

Did I hear that?
Was I speaking in tongues
with no one present to interpret?

No-thing needs to be offered.
The Divine descent begun.

“What you seek is seeking You”

Three Chairs

Drops of Color
Three Chairs

‘Hold still,’ the first chair to the right
said to the middle chair.

But, my leg, one of them ‘any One’ seems
stuck in a crack and I’m   ___________

Before finishing the statement, the chair
to the left said,

‘If you can lean toward me, together
perhaps we can set you upright.’

So, they tried.  Even the chair
to the left, tried to push its seat to
offer aide.

Finally, the kneeler spoke:

“Each of you is just right
for whoever finds themselves
seated in your ‘place’


I hope they’ll see me a moment
bend on knees
long enough to offer thanks.”

Here Again

by Leonard Cohen

“The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what has passed away
Or what is yet to be

Ah, the wars they will be fought again
The holy dove, she will be caught again
Bought and sold, and bought again
The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

We asked for signs
The signs were sent
The birthed betrayed
The marriage spent
Yeah, and the widowhood
Of every government
Signs for all to see

I can’t run no more
With that lawless crowd
While the killers in high places
Say their prayers out loud
But they’ve summoned, they’ve summoned up
A thundercloud
They’re going to hear from me

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
there is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

You can add up the parts
But you won’t have the sum
You can strike up the march
There is no drum
Every heart, every heart
To love will come
But like a refugee

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in

That’s how the LIGHT gets in..”

Here Again
(excerpt from a journal)

A familiar place
yet changed.

So, too, this Pilgrim.

A walk.
Unknown terrain…
What will the ground be like?

Will it be like my Soul, a seed,
rooted again and again.

A tapestry of threads
beauty never fading…
colors binding!

A simple instrument I am…
—No-thing I seek.
Wishing only to be ‘played.’

I’ve let-go.

You seemed to have ‘passed’
—blossoming are words
like ballads,
harmonizing effortlessly
carrying me to edges…

My boots, light like feathers
fanning their way to the sun.

“Anthem” sung by Leonard Cohen
accompanies me.

I set foot in the ‘cracks’ 
so the LIGHT might be made
manifest in me.

the sound of the birds,
‘what will they seem to say?’

Even if no sound be heard
—if no sense made in these varied sentences
—it matters not.

In between the spaces, each word…

a crack—

‘that’s how the LIGHT gets in.’

Drops of Color/ Look up…but behold what lies below

Drops of Color
Look up…but behold what lies below

I have held my gaze
—above stain-glass windows
calling for the sun
to illuminate artistic expressions.

A lofty bell,
every strike marking the hours
of the echo vibrating into heaven’s dome
unleashing the winged angels
tucked into the bricked arches.

Countless persons
enter, exit, enter for long moments,
exit retuning again and again.

Beneath the bridge,
water flows under an arch—
trucks and buses move along
holding the view of the steeple.

the color in the water
—broken shards of tents.

Those who dwell here know not
the chorus of angels
lifting a golden chalice.

Wait, perhaps these persons
are Angels
knowing the riches of heaven.

They are unseen,
often unnoticed,
and they move as the church bells sound
so only those who are able
recognize their presence~~~

shattered fragments
of the truths of a 
hid-den Gospel foretold.



so blue

so blue…
Winter mornings.

Words melt into
frozen snowflakes.

I pause and listen.

A hymn rises.

The sound so blue.

Drops of Color/ Windows

Drops of Color

The Window

Sitting beside a window,
I suddenly noticed
the reflected glass ‘gazing’ out
into my Soul.

How might this be?

I nudged closer to its sill,
and I heard a sound
drawing me closer and closer.

I perched myself upon the
window pane and there it was
that sound, a familiar song,

“I see trees of green
red roses, too,
I see them bloom
for me and you
and I think to myself…”

I was waiting for the glass to shatter.
Would the window see my Soul in
shattered pieces?  Even, if so,
each fragment part of the story.

I closed my eyes.
The window did not break.
A soft breath released itself,
from my being.

The window, yes, the very window
‘opened,’ continuing its refrain

“…What a wonderful world.”


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…lost in heaven

…lost in heaven

Walking with you each day
has become a tapestry mosaic.

Piece by piece,
my steps, your steps

Often times, they are One.
I cannot notice
what is Yours?

After a distance,
as I glanced back,
and turned,
I realized that I was not
changed into
a pillar of salt.

I saw,
I bore witness
to the artistry being conveyed.

So much revealed
that was unrecognized.

After so many uncounted, uncalculated
the design fashioning itself
~~~everlasting, eternal.

Here I am, 
lost in heaven NOW.

Excuse me while I lace my boots.
I’m heading out
to walk in wonder
and fashion more pieces
in the mosaic
of life.

A new image
hid-den and revealing
itself throughout time.

Drops of Color/ Sometimes

Drops of Color

in prayer…

A hand creates a fist,
clenching the sorrows, the lament,
the senseless inability to embrace 


Words crushed in tears,


my other hand appears

as if attached a first time
and cradles my braced knuckles,
softening my fingertips,
applying balm to my palm

so the anger, the pain in me
might soften

so these hands,
this Sanctuary that is

OPEN to and for all.


The Frame

The Frame

Create what lies
within the frame


behold the image
cast between
four wooden slats


set sail.

The moment of birth…

The moment of birth…

the wide expanse
of a sunrise

Is it enough?

Everyday, casting warmth
even if hidden
behind an array of bundled clouds

Is that enough?

Birth…it is ongoing

leaving the safety of
a comforting cave, my mother’s womb.

Life pulses
amidst airstrikes:
bombardments of advertisements
offering more, More, MORE!

Enough already!!!

Beating to the rhythms,
~~~moments of birth
 guiding us back to
the comfort of the dark cave.

Success, recognition, honors,
all the fan-fare, the ribbons,
the golden certificates!

Not nearly enough!

One exhale of breath
releases what once seemed so relevant.

The inhale~~~
lungs expand.

Kindness, gratitude, forgiveness
of a self
alive in a moment
mindful of the disparities


Open hands, a heart beat softens
~~~bringing to the world what I am
able and unable      unto death.

And then, birth…

Yes, Mother Earth cradles us in
the ‘rubble’ of her womb
Written and inspired under the wise tutelage of June S. Gould,  Ph.D.

Drops of Color/ Fragments of a Self

Drops of Color
Fragments of a Self

Each piece
a story.

Every ‘frayed’ edge
holds a glimmer
of light
discovering in pools of deep
darkness vast avenues
rising to the surface
becoming whole.

Missing pieces, searched for,
lost until found.

Were they deliberate, these missing pieces?

Perhaps…the ‘timing’ absolute
to see the significance of the ‘absence’
longing to be addressed.

The wound, a fragment of a Self
beholden to its beauty.

Just who am I?  

A fragment of a Self where You reside.  Not only in a 
jagged ‘piece’…

You reside in EVERY segment.
You are the Life in me
endlessly becoming
a ‘work’ 
created in awe.