Drops of Color/ Another…

Drops of Color
Another…

I struggle to place the
word on paper.

Another __________

I do NOT wish to speak it aloud!

Something ‘within’ breaks
like a dam unclogged from a river
—it flows.

Another SHOOTING
Another Shoot-ing
another shooting

For too long, in my seemingly short life,
I have listened.  Sometimes, I haphazardly tuned out
individuals who spoke out about laws that focused 
on weaponry.

NOW, I hear the arguments, the jokes
unfurled…please, this is NO
laughing matter.

I hoped, prayed when the VOICES
of children rose like a phoenix rising from the ashes
addressing their concerns~~~
 their cries would be heard.

The voices of children, the children,
OUR children

their future!

Instead, BIG business prevailed.

Is there an answer?
What is the correct question?

They are ‘in’ us—each of them…

MADISYN BALDWIN

TATE MYRE

HANA ST JULIANA

JUSTIN SHILLING

We must respond for them!

Is this sad for you to read?
It is breaking  open my heart
to pen these thoughts.

BUT— Love
                   Love
                        Love
brings us again and again to a cave…
no room in any inn
—a child born to ignite the World.

We are here to LIGHT the world…
Called to do even greater things.

Can we drop to our knees?

Are we able to create a lasting story
where another life is saved
because we ‘release’ all 
that would hold us victimized
and rise to leave a future
where our children our mindful?

Let us consciously 
choose love 
so that our children 
are able to live on.

Drops of Color/ Leap Frog

Drops of Color
Leap Frog

Remember the days of
hide-and-seek,
kick the can,
red light green light?

Do you recall
tag-you’re-it,
hop-scotch,
and running through the sprinklers?

Hour after hour of fun
from sun up to sun down…

No electronic devices found,
batteries were not included…or even needed.

The only ‘mouse’ discovered—
the one scurrying into the bushes because
of the sounds of little feet
seeking the perfect place to hide away.

We played leap frog…
Now, the memory at play
—one got so low to the ground,
the other ‘leaped’ over
and released a gigantic,
R-I-B-B-I-T,   R-I-B-B-I-T…

Places were traded, more boys and girls
rushed into the grassy pond.

Before we all realized,
the street lights turned on.
We hopped home.
We were asleep before our heads
touched the pillow.

Sweet dreams 
ensued
leaping over stars
until tomorrow

when we all
become ‘frogs’

once again

leaping into our imaginations.

 

***This poem is dedicated to ALL our children***

Drops of Color/ Lean In…

Drops of Color

Lean In…

The table set
— a lasting Supper…

that IS what Thanksgiving has come
to be—for me.

Is this a poem?  Lean In…

I often pause, held in the image of the 
Beloved Disciple, Apostle of Apostles,
leaning in to the One about to break bread,
share from the same cup, a sip of wine,
and then pausing, pausing long enough
to ‘still’ the table and each gatherer.

Room made to wash the feet
of every person in the space…leaning in.

I lean in…in Thanksgiving
to each of you reading these words,
who sometimes scroll down to see
the photo first, or take in the art work.

I lean in…like the one in Michelangelo’s Last Supper
listening to the lasting heart beat.

She held his silent actions,
breathed in his every word.

Wait?  Do you think I made a typo
by referencing the One beside
Jesus as she?
She, it is, I exclaim, leaned in.

Why?  Because it is what I hold
and lean ‘in’to.

An institution painted her to be
an adulterous woman yet, it was she who
remained at the foot of the cross,
it was she who announced,
“He” is Risen—it is she who leaned In
trusting as I do these words.

Today, as you sit at table,
I’m leaning in, held in gratitude
and Thanksgiving.

Each of us serves what we have been
called to create.

Take and offer your abundance.

Lean in to the life you have been given.

Share the fruits of plenty dangling
from the vine of your Divine Soul.

Together, let us create more space
welcoming everyone to dine.

Yes, even scraps are plentiful.

Today is a Feast, a feast of Thanks.

Lean In…
there’s room at the table.

 

 

Drops of Color/ Empty Cupboard Shelves

Drops of Color

Empty Cupboard Shelves

Each item on the shelf
waiting to be received.

This cupboard full
—the anticipation of food supplies
    flying off these shelves
    to feed others.

Empty, empty, empty
the cupboards.

We can fill them again
and again and again
in hopes that one day
we can proclaim,

“No one shall be hungry…all are full.”

The cupboard shelves bare,
waiting to re-stock
from the surplus
right outside the door.

Pure manna from heaven.

Drops of Color/ Home…again

Drops of Color

Home…again!

Your garment
changed in color
as the Season swept in.

You let-go.
The branch from which you dangled,
breathed a heavy sigh.

Landing upon wooden boards,
although you were not attached,
you felt yourself at home.

The connection—immediate.

The veins in your paper-like flesh
sought sustenance,
yet it was no longer needed as before.

You lie there beside others.
 A driving wind enveloped
whisking each of you away.

Carried off in every direction,
your destination—uncertain, unknown.

Still, you knew you were
making your way

Home—again! 

Drops of Color/ Notes

Drops of Color
Notes

Sheets set ablaze.
Scores of ballads ignited,
yet not consumed.

Every note a live ember
rising.

A perfect pitch
lights the rafters overhead
with music.

An inferno of sounds
cradles the room.

A blanket of crescendos
wraps around the listener.

Spellbound, the piece stoked
—a brief rest
—a crisp pop
—a sudden crackle
—sparks of vibrations
    extend coloring the pages.

Beyond the enclosure of the
concert hall,
a tiny bird flutters its
feathers.

When it sings,
the song inside itself falls like ashes
from heaven’s canopy.

Bravo, Bravo, Bravo.

Wings of flames
carry the sparks.

The sun calls it home,
setting into the western sky.

On the other side,
a fire being set
waits for wings to 
drop the flames.

The notes await
the conductor’s cue.

Chariots of fire
singe the sheets.

The song plays on
engulfed in cinder
holding a tune.

 

 

Drops of Color/ A Patch

Drops of Color
A Patch

The land
—it was fertile.

In early spring
beneath the sun,
the guides,
they tilled and toiled.

The aroma of the upturned soils
mixed with manure
—spread.

Planted, were seeds set
apart row after row.

Great care given to
this patch of land…

An unspoken prayer
delivered by hands.

The guides worked from dawn to dusk.

Rains would fall as if a switch
clicked and then
delicate veins burst from
the womb, earth.
From her hid-den darkness,
she broke open
the fruit of her being.

Thanks offered, not with words.
The ritual of nurturing the soils
pressed on.

The plants drank the juice of
sunshine, unfolding leaves 
and gourds taking form.

Deep green shaped ovals
shaded beneath green leaves.
When night came,
a visitor, a welcomed guest,
entered the patch with
what appeared to be orange
paints.

One after another,
row by row,
the brush glided over
pumpkins.

Harvest 
picked with perfection.
Countless shapes
each one unique unto itself.

Inside seeds, countless seeds,
born in a single patch
with great care…

Thank you Great Pumpkin

 

 

 

Drops of Color/The Art of Unfolding

The Art of Unfolding

Waiting
    wait—ing.

Slowly, without any need
to push, prod, arch or
bend,
a change uncovers itself before
the eye can see.

A reality perceived—
a lifetime of endless attempts,
one pursuit after another.

Then, sitting quietly,
waiting,
the ripened unfolding made
manifest.

There was no need to do
anything.

Blossoming happens—the art
form everlasting.

 

Drops of Color/ Sets of Wings

Drops of Color

Sets of Wings

They wait.

A soft breeze
rises through the marsh
—the wings ‘jostle.’

A storm making its way
—the wings begin to dance.
    THIS, the moments they live for.

Gliding, whirling faster and faster
—a song breaks into the clamor
     of the monstrous roar
—they meet.

Wind and Wings
—creating a sound.

The Pilgrim
steadied in the turbulence
—cannot help but remain calm

while being deluged
and lulled
by the flapping of wind
and the wings
of the windmill.

 

 

Drops of Color/ Gather at the River

Drops of Color

Gather at the River

Remember the song?
The hymn?

Do you recall the reasons
for the voices rising
in harmony?

Was there a reason?

I am of the ‘ilk’ that all things do NOT
happen for a reason.

I gently hold we attempt to make ‘meaning’
of all things ‘flowing’—

How do we SEE what is in front of us,
around us, beside us, beyond us,
within us?’

Even the most dire of situations
—the circumstances that ‘break our hearts,’
—that drive us to our knees, that invite us
to join hands in prayer and collectively
groan with a Universe in labor
desiring to birth LOVE…
Can we birth love? 

I do not know how to ‘join’ humanity.
 I am trying to write,
sketch for those who literally cannot.
I Am walking a path with persons
seeking the same dreams,
to BE the change we hope to SEE
in this World…

“Shall we gather at the River…
Yes, we’ll gather at the river
The beautiful, the beautiful river
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the [grace] of God.”

Please…sing along—
lift your voice
—remaining silent stops the current
—carry your tune amidst the rapids.

Amen.

Drops of Color/ We Arrived Before You…

Drops of Color
We Arrived Before You…

The forests fashioned.
The jungles let down
their brawny vines.

Mountains wore caps
of dazzling white
tipping elegantly
—igniting a widening avalanche.

The sea opened.
Separate streams pouring
into an endless pool
that seemed to hoist
a fierce, fiery ball
at dawn’s arrival.

Deserts baked
—an oven exposing cracks
—looking closely, life loomed.

Yes, before humankind,
we were.  We arrived before you.

The land was vast.

Roaming freely
—there was the hunter
     and the hunted
—ONLY, to sustain life.

Our existence
dependent upon
a simple task:

Living our fullness.

We multiplied
—caring, nurturing
     our young.

   Some let their young
   go, others remained
with a pack.

A butterfly freed
itself from its
cocoon to flutter
into the day’s
fullness and then
it passed.

Fullness of life
—each knowing
    instinctively its path.

Then, you arrived.

The story changed.

We did not tell you
how to be.
Nor did we tell you
where your accommodations
would be.
We did not tell you what to eat,
how to eat.

We did not speak…well, not in
a language clear to you.

We had no idea that you were
to have dominion over everything
and that you were to look after
all things created.

We were here before you.

Please, let us live our fulness
that we once had.

We all can go on from here—
can’t we?

 

 

Drops of Color/ A Change

Drops of Color
A Change

There is a change in the air.

The season has revealed
its timeless face
—Sun rising early
—Reflections of the sea
     in the blue skies overhead
—The gulls cry
     as the surf crashes into a shore
     laboring for the sea’s salt
     seeping into sands.

I have stood here
a myriad of times.
Yet, when I look out,
I see within a growing change.

What is it?
What are these words writing themselves?

They are waves
having passed this way before,
but now its movement different.

Like reading the same book twice
or listening to the Scriptures
—the same verse
—a hundred times
     yet, on the one hundred and first time
     there is a change.

How is it I never heard it
until now?

What opens the ear?

Silently, the sounds of the season
carry the vessel a last time
before the winter months
lift the sails.

Riding on the sea, side saddle,
the waves buck the bow.

Holding the rein,
the season speaks.
“I shall return
and so, too, you
—changed.”

Recalling what was,
holding the helm
carried in the direction
of the orange flame
lifting from the pool,

this sailing boat
trusts it is home.

Drops of Color/ Dazzling Kernels

Drops of Color
Dazzling Kernels

The field was endless.

Stepping into one of the rows,
I softly made my way.

The stalks reached toward the clouds.

I crossed over into another row.

Time passed.
I lost any sense of direction
—the sun, my guiding post.

Here I was in 
a corn field.

I thought I heard
a crackle, then a pop.

Sitting in the middle
of this pleasant abundance,
I glanced noticing an ear.
Something , someone pulled it back.

Bright yellow dazzling kernels
layered like the rows I 
had been traversing.

I reached to pull it from
its coat of green leafy sheaves.

Suddenly, it was as if
my ‘reach’ held in time.

I heard, ‘Let me live long enough to die—
let my seeds fall, planting themselves…
let the birds carry them off, dropping a few
as they soar…’

See, see this pattern ‘in’ life…

Born from seed
—bursting from a sack.

Life, a harvest waiting
to be lived out.

Closure, returning to Earth—

Death

—it is not an end
    as we have been 
    led to believe

—it is a beginning
    into NEW tomorrows.

 

 

 

Drops of Color/ Who Wins?

Drops of Color

Who Wins?

Victory will resound only
when, together, we
collectively ‘win.’

There is a time for 
everything as the writer of
Ecclesiastes pens.

We weep, we laugh.
We, mourn, we celebrate.
We sing, we sit in silence.

We pray ONLY to allow 
love to guide us.

 

 

Drops of Color/ For her…

Drops of Color

For her…

I have written those
two words innately—‘for her.’

Only now
these two syllables burn into this
page like commandments
engraved on stone tablets—‘for her.’

For her
the ink spills from this pen
or is it a river
flowing from the corners of my eyes?

I wrote ‘for her
—the girl just about to go into the
     classroom a first time
—the feminine Soul who has already
     learned ‘letters,’
     has begun to form words and 
     is creating sentences
—the ‘She’ who has embarked
     on a path significantly making
     her way in the world as a person
     designed and fashioned
     in the divine image of Life.

—NOW, PLEASE DO NOT LET IT BE TAKEN AWAY—

For her
I bow and pray
that her identity not be shielded
—that her beauty and integrity not
    be covered or handed over
    as if, she, a mere possession.

I speak out for her,
I cannot hold back.

How long,
How long, Oh, Lord,
will you hear the weeping of ‘her’
and remain still?

Show me what to do,
and I’ll act in the
only way YOU are made
known to me.

Let me write a door way
of love
for her,
so that she might pass through
safely, freely.

She has already bore witness
to what ‘eyes’ should never see
or the body never experience.

For her

For her,
my ink runs dry.

Still, though You be,
I will write on

For her

 

Drops of Color/ In This Town

Drops of Color

In This Town

Somewhere
in this town,
You are.

I am not certain
I will find you,
but I know
You see me.

You often
lead me
to places “I Think”
you could never
be found.

Then…

I find you
—on every corner
—in between alleys
—on each cobble stone  walk
—dangling from window panes,
spacious courtyards,
and coffee shops.

I find a place to rest
and sit on a park bench.
You are sitting on the opposite end
reading the newspaper.

You pause
placing the paper between us.

The headline reads:
“I Found You”

I, who was
in search of You.

 

 

 

Drops of Color/ Cornerstones

Drops of Color

Cornerstones

These stones…

I continue creating
—archways
—windows
—bridges

These stones carry
stories as they were
—rolled into place
—hauled, lifted, chiseled.

Is there a cornerstone
holding them in place?

Is that what I am attempting
to find as I draw
yet another ‘stone’ edifice?

How is it these structures still
stand, no re-building
plans.

The hands that laid this work
—Unknown

Perhaps, in their own way
each a Cornerstone…

 

Drops of Color/ Rosie

Drops of Color
Rosie…

rises on all fours.
Tiny paws already
revealing the size this pup
will one day be.

A tail swings back 
and forth like a metronome
especially when she hears her name
spoken aloud.

A soft step
followed by a playful tumble.
Now she rumbles into a pair
of limber legs.

Arms reach for her.
Rosie jumps with delight
attempting to wrap her
furry arms around a neck.

Her eyes glisten.
She always seems to adorn
a smile…
it’s that simple.

“…And they call it Puppy Love.”

Could it be so simple?

Just ask Rosie!

Drops of Color/ Mansion

Drops of Color
Mansion

‘Inside’ this mansion,
the views ‘outside’
reveal the essence of
what IS The Mansion…
Yes, from ALL directions.

Drops of Color/ Wedding Garment

Drops of Color

Wedding Garment

The garment
—a natural design
—a fit needing no alterations
—feathers laid like a winnowing fan.

A blue painted sky
began the celebration.

The wedding feast
—an invitation to all.

The trees let loose—
The ground shook as sprigs of grass
stood tall like towering steeples.

Buttercups unraveled.

Why, even the wind stopped a moment
to honor the silence.
Silence…the opening hymn.

Wings spread themselves like open arms.
The sun lit the cathedral.

An open eye
scanned the vast assembly.

Everything had its place.

No words spoken—
No rings exchanged.

They took to the
sky and exchanged a 
wedded kiss.

The garment no longer two—
they flew as one.

Petals of white feathers
floated down
anointing the ground
blessing this
holy union.

Drops of Color/ A soft Howl

Drops of Color

A soft Howl

In moments
of silent meditation,
a soft howl brews
inside of me.

Then, the howl expands
on an ordinary
piece of paper.

Drops of Color/ Rainbow of Puddles

Drops of Color
Rainbow of Puddles

Slender bristles
separate, yet bound together,

dangling from a wooden rod.

Each strand
seeking ‘the color’ revealing
an essence of its individual self.

Only inches away
a palette lay…a rainbow of puddles,
pooled separately.

The rod, rocking
back and forth,
not of its own making,
but that of the 
collective gathering
in the form of a brush.

The anxious thrill
to bathe oneself
in one’s color

BUT…

a pause holds
—an empty canvas waiting.

One brush, many bristles
decide to use each color
not one left out or excluded.

A prism painted,
another canvas beckoned.

When ‘all’ the colors used and fashioned
—utilizing its purpose,

the designs

Eternal.

Drops of Color/ Undecided

Drops of Color

Undecided

Do I go up the stairs
or do I walk down the stairs?

Who or what determines
where the stairs begin?
What if they never end?

Why is ascending the 
path we seemingly aspire to climb?
Do we fear the descent because at
its deepest roots we could actually
discover our unseen selves?

I sat in the  middle of the stairs a while.
I wasn’t drawn in either direction.
Up, down…in the moment I sat
balanced.

The stairs did not crumble or fall.
I was not launched in a direction to soar
nor was I destined to plummet into
the depths of a hid-den well.

Can we meet in the middle?
Your thoughts, my ideas, your opinions,
my approaches, your style, my design…

From this middle ground—
I sit here on these stairs,

together, the stairs are endless
in ‘all’ directions.

Drops of Color/ Full Bloom

Drops of Color

Full Bloom

When you unfolded,
the heavens rejoiced.

The waiting—an eternity.
Now, that you arrived,
each moment that proceeded
this dawning
~~~alas, makes sense.

I don’t want to close my eyes.
The petals of your presence
have attached themselves
to my Soul.

Yes, my Soul, in full bloom.
It did not even see
the arrival.

Now, that it is here,
closing my eyes
~~~I see.

I see what could not
be timed
or planned
or predicted.

Opening, opening
to an unfolding

noticed
here, now

then gone.

Blooming season
shall ‘become’ once again.

Now, my Soul
no longer struggles
as it waits.

Drops of Color/ The Interview

Drops of Color

The Interview

The interview began.
“Please, take a seat.”

Which chair do you wish me
to sit upon?
“The empty one.”

Excuse me, but…

“I’m sorry, I did not hear you.
What did you ask?”

It was nothing…I’m simply going
to sit.

“Good, good take all the time you need.”

Wait, I’m here for an interview.
I thought you were going to…

“Excuse me, did you say something?
Sometimes my mind is racing and
I’m oblivious to the sounds all around me.”

It’s alright…
I’m beginning to think this interview…

“Pardon me”

Well, this interview…there are no questions
to be answered.

“Yes”

I’ve been invited to sit and LIVE
the questions.

“Amen.”

Drops of Color/ This Side

Drops of Color
This Side

There
in front of a calm stream
~~~a bridge.

A bridge
with an unwritten invitation,
‘Come, crossover.’

So, cross over I did.
Now, that I was over
what I crossed
was I on another side?

If I crossed back ‘over,’
would the bank across the way
be another side…again?

Bridges do indeed
give way to
another side.

Yet, from this place
~~~from this bridge
~~~as I stood in its center,
both ‘sides’ opened my
eyes to see.

Yes, dad, you!
You crossed over~~~
yet, I see you
from this bridge.

I see you in all things.
As I gaze into the
water beneath this bridge,

I see you staring up at me
from the reflection of myself
on this side of a bridge.

I love you dad.

(In lasting memory to every man who is a father)

Drops of Color/ Tear Drop

Drops of Color
Tear Drop

The form of  a 
tear drop
hangs from pines.

A choir 
bellows from
this ‘spun’ papier-mâché’ drop
~~~dangling effortlessly.

A single entrance
carved out at the bottom.

The community worked
from the sun’s rising
until the stars appeared.

Chewing upon wood fibers,
the workers blend their saliva—‘wasp spit’
creating the formation
of their castle.

Open-celled combs
~~~life being birthed from within
~~~the outside, a thick
        multi-layered shell.

Hundreds work inside this stately drop…
it serves its purpose
for a time and then remains vacant

or is removed by Autumn’s winds
or winter’s chill.

Many times the tear
shaped domain
hangs in life’s museum.

How wondrous
~~~no entrance fee!

Open your eyes
~~~beauty all around
~~~so prevalent

tear drops forming
    in my eyes.

Drops of Color/ The Entrance

Drops of Color
The Entrance

The doorway
opened itself wide…releasing its hinges.

The architecture surrounding
its space
was strong like bar bells
secure like a knot in a rope
and held a delicate design…
like petals lapped around a flower.

The wood dipped in varnish
darkened like a pool

beneath a mid-night sky.

The stone-cut, shaped
smooth like the feel
of melted wax.

Stepping through,
a silent pause taken.
I was neither inside its chiseled arch
or outside its course frame.

The way, suffice it to say,
depends what you choose.
Will you enter
or believe yourself unworthy?

You , you are the image and likeness
of the One knocking in the doorway
of your being,

“Come In, Come In
why are you waiting?
Welcome.”

The entrance is narrow
and it is open
for ALL.

Drops of Color/ This View

Drops of Color

This View

From here
—the view appears
     eternal.

Time seems to 
     hold its hands
—each tic
     every toc
     ECHOES.

Beyond the valley,
     the mountains 
     ‘catch’ the refrain
     launching it skyward.

Softly, the 
     sounds drizzle
     back down
     to the green
     grasses
—to the soil bed
    of the earth’s stage.

This performance
never closes
its curtain.

From this view,
the show lives on.

Drops of Color/ Up, Up and away in my beautiful balloon…

Drops of Color
“Up, up and away in my beautiful balloon…”

Sailing higher
into clouds,
my imagination
out of reach to find words.

My eyes look turning to the
East.  The sun joining this 
ride…igniting the 
balloon’s colors, the 
airborne vessel does not
burn…instead it joins
the Sun…two lights
beholden in the sky.

The wind catches us
launching us North—
towering mountain tops,
their peaks reaching to
‘touch’…jagged, rugged
places undiscovered nor
traversed by the likes of
humankind and still, the
mountains maintain their
recognition…they stand
unchiseled—created by an
unseen hand.  Mountain goats stand
on peaks, balanced like ballerinas…
they join in the flight.

Soft vapors
bath me, one drop after
another.  Descending
South, the current
pulls this flying bubble
swaying steadily as if the 
sky were an ocean.
We float looking
down upon rolling waves
as dolphins lead us along
as if pulling us in play.

The hours have passed.
Beds of green grass, rolling
like a million fingers waving,
waving, waving…

Persons stand together.
Yes, hundreds, thousands stand
upon the landscape.
Brown, black, yellow, red and white—
their heads joined in unity.

The balloon bows
and veers Westward.
A purple sky reveals the beginning
of dusk.
Before this day ends,
I begin to sing…

“Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon?”

 

Drops of Color/ Design

Drops of Color

Design

Who designed your outer wear?
What makes up your daily uniform
defining what you do,
who you are,
how you ‘attempt’ to present yourself?

Does the outer design hold many colors?
Is the fabric a solid shade
imitating crayola?

When the garment of your outer self
removed
and your nakedness appears—

Do you ask
in the quiet space of yourself,
now disrobed from any form of titles:

Who am I?

Silently, behold what is You.
‘Stop’ looking so hard.
Pause from ‘thinking.’
Close your eyes and when the soft
light finds its way
into your internal gaze,

bathe in the color or countless colors
of the creation that is extraordinarily you.

You light the world…
you’re the ONLY design which
casts~~~ You!

 

“Even after all this time,
The Sun never says to the
Earth, you owe me, look
what happens with a love
like that, it lights the whole world.”
                                                              Hafiz

Drops of Color/ For Brian

Drops of Color
For Brian

When he saw them…

Immediately, he knew
—their white button down shirts
—their black tapered suits
—their ‘fine’ beaks
    tipped so,
    so that every morsel of sustenance
    filled the little ones beside
    their patent leather boots.

He fell in love with these
feathered arctic penguins.

Like tiny toy soldiers
at attention, they lovingly stand
facing harsh winters in creches.

Taking turns amongst millions,
stepping outside to be a barrier
from blustery winds,
they step back ‘in’ to warm
long enough to go back ‘out’
combating the elements.

The ‘sound’ of their nestling heard
amidst shrieks of thousands—
the parents know their own chick.

My friend—
He draws them
and draws them again.

I love him…
So Brian—this is for You!

Drops of Color/ Beneath the Boardwalk

Drops of Color
Beneath the Boardwalk

The boardwalk beckoned—
instead, I dove below.

Surfacing, I heard the 
footsteps overhead,
and suddenly the soft echo
of surf chimed in.

Beneath the boardwalk,
a sort of amphitheater ensued.
The sound played
a soft ballad.

Several sailing vessels passed-by.
A few fish swam at a distance.
They blew bubbles
that rose to the water’s surface.
They dipped down quickly as 
a gull ‘sneaked’ in~~~unannounced
—no shadow revealed here.

Slowly, I tread
and came out from beneath
the boardwalk.

The sun was bright
and glided across the unknown
boardwalk of hid-den depths
living below.

Drops of Color/ The Arch

Drops of Color
The Arch

From the window, twelve sealed frames.
All who enter the arch below
or exit beneath its halo
are made visible.

The arch—
what is seen
from within its held space
—endless stories
—legends told
—myths created
—truths held
—footprints vanished
—timeless trails blazed.

There is an unknown element
that cannot be defined
or made manifest.

Its mystery is known to those
who pass—
those who do so
are unaware of the thresholds
by which they traverse.

At the time of ripening,
life’s unfolding happens as we
live life simply.

The thin veil
will open itself
and, in a moment unknown,
you’ll know you have
made your way through.

Drops of Color/ What If…

Drops of Color
What if…

What if the colors
in these windows
are the words resting upon the sills?

Drops of Color/ The Scenery

Drops of Color

The Scenery

You held the ‘oar’—

all I had to do
was ‘be’ in the moment.

Whatever way the gondola 
sailed,
it was in your hands.

I paused…

First, I reached—
then, I pulled my arms
back in.

Second, I heard
a gurgling in
my throat, words rising,
then ‘something’ within stirred—shhhhh!

Finally, I closed my eyes.
I’m uncertain for how long,
but when I opened them

THE SCENERY.

I was held in beauty

and asked to

BEHOLD.

Together, we sailed on.

Drops of Color/ A Window

Drops of Color

A Window

A soft wind echoed
pushing a rock
with enough effort
that the stone let-go.

Like Rapunzel’s hair
—broken bits of the
canyon wall slid
and, like waves
crashing into the shore,
you could hear the
plumbing avalanche
causing dust to
envelop the sky.

A whispering breeze
ensued pushing away
particles and
a window revealed.

A mighty gust howled.
It needn’t penetrate
the lavish wall.
For now,
an opening
allowing a passage
into yesterday’s gone-by,
today’s vision
and tomorrow’s uncertainties.

This window,
for now,
sends an invitation to behold
the present.

Fresh air cascades
along the sill.
The curtain walls a
lovely shade and the 
trees set off in the distance
look like a box of flowers
held within
the window’s arch.

Gazing awhile
through this ‘pane,’
an inner voice 
taunted me until
the rock split
falling upon a blank
page creating
an image of itself
by the person holding this pen.
“It IS A Holy Thursday”

Drops of Color/ Today

Drops of Color
Today

I created a sketch,
then another unfolded,
followed by a third and fourth.

Lately,
I’ve turned off the T.V.,
refrained from news.
I opened my windows wide,
the sound of song birds
—music to my ears.

Colors splashed on paper.
The ink ran dry
but, I found another pen,
another pencil.

Flowing between colors
—words, hid-den tears,
laughter…memories.
Memories of the past
bring me to NOW,
right now.

Another image created on
a page…a blank page.

Life, unfolding in pictures.

Maybe I’m not a Picasso,
a Rembrandt, a Monet or
Michelangelo—

No, I’m none of these.

Today, I’m me.
It has taken a lifetime to
just be me.

Today, all these sketches—a collage of this Soul.

 

Drops of Color/ Blossom

Drops of Color
Blossom

The Earth shook.
The ground quaked.
Thunder parted the clouds.

You lie in fallowed soil
unseen, invisible, hid-den.

No One called you to take the stage.
A bell did not chime signaling your time.
Lights weren’t beaming on/off queuing you.

You moved like a silent hush.
You adorned yourself with a heavy
winter coat and you knew just
when to unbutton the top button
unclasping the rest that followed.

You then burst.
Your coat scattered to the winds.
Your nakedness exposed your
true color.

You were One, yet hundreds of
petals were what blossomed forth,
revealing You.

Your sweet scent
like incense rising…

The sun poured its light meeting you—
taking you in.

You were born for this moment.

All you had to do was blossom,
and you naturally came to be.

Drops of Color/ A Living Well

Drops of Color

A Living Well

All who drink from
this Source no longer
thirst

AND

blossom into
eternal flowers
filling the world
with beauty.

Drops of Color/ Quieting the Mind

Drops of Color
Quieting the Mind

When quieting the mind,
images revealed.
Shadow sides
expose the roots,
nurture the blossoms
    of the One sitting
    in an open meadow.

Everything suddenly
connected.
No-thing is ever divided
except when the ‘thinking’
believes it knows all the answers.

When the mind is quiet,
knowing ceases.
Trusting all that befalls us
is part of the path
upon which we are to dwell.

We can remove our hands
from our eyes and 
say, “Look, look at the beauty of Life”
and, then
with eyes wide open,
you SEE ‘inside’ yourself
and know you are part
of Life’s Beauty.

Drops of Color/ History/HERstory

Today, is the last Thursday in February
—this month honors/celebrates/remembers Black History.
My sketch highlights Kamala Harris, the first woman,
the first African American/South Asian woman
to become the Vice President of the United States of America—
Perhaps, this is a first of many more to come where all women will make
History/ HERstory.

 

Drops of Color
History/HERstory

The binding of her being
a soft shade of brown.

From the dust of the earth,
she was fashioned.

Her DNA is linked to the soil’s foundations.

Her pages ‘inside’ were ignited like stars
—their flames lit words burned into
the core of her Divine being.

She stepped held in love, surrounded
by ‘bearers’ of light leading her down
paths that no entrance could deny her
access.

She is a Beacon for young girls,
older women, men with daughters who embrace the companioning
of the other gender understanding
its unique gifts.

The first woman to hold a position
of Vice President in the United States of America.

Imagine if ALL systems opened
their eyes and realized how much
MORE life giving,
how much more fuller they would unfold
to their highest good…
if all were given the opportunity to
become what they are called to be—
Each of us…
the chosen persons of God.

United we Stand.
United we live out the Story…

“Behold all things are made NEW.” 

It is taking place right before 
our eyes.

History being made…HERstory
being told.

Drops of Color/ …I’ll be back again

Drops of Color

…I’ll be back again

Sammy  Did you hear that?

Rosie:     What?

Sammy:  Shh, there it is again.

Rosie:      The only thing I hear
                    or feel are the icicles forming
                    on my nose…already 
                    they’re a frosty shade of pink.

Sammy:    Quiet!

Rosie:        Hey, I heard it, but…

Snowperson:  “Pack it good, real good!”

Did you say that Sammy?
No, Rosie.

Snowperson:  “Come on children,
                                    let’s make all we can
                               of this moment.”

Sammy, Sammy can we keep
the snowperson forever?

Snowperson:   “Rosie, I’m here now.
                                  One day I’ll melt away,
                                    but I’ll be back again…

                                              Now, how about a few more
                                            flakes around the middle?”

Sammy, are we dreaming?
No Rosie, this is REAL
and let’s promise
no one shall ever take
away our wonder.

Snowperson:   “Well said, LOOK, it’s snowing…
               Catch me if you can!”

Drops of Color/ What Song

Drops of Color

What Song?

Sing to me…

What song is being sung
in you?

Are you blowing through
the saxophone?

Are you caressing
the piano keys?

Maybe you’re strumming
the strings of the guitar
or tapping the skin of the drum
with wooden sticks.

Are you sounding a trumpet?

Perhaps you are holding the
microphone and words
are flowing from your lips.

Are you someone quietly listening,
taking it all in?

Maybe you have leaped from your
seat and created a dance floor…

you are gliding, dipping, swooning
right NOW.

What song is being
played in you?

Follow whatever ‘notes’
and
create the symphony

‘in’ you.

Drops of Color/ GOOD Trouble

Drops of Color
“Never, ever be afraid to make
some noise and

get in GOOD trouble, necessary trouble.”

                                          ~~~John Lewis

I Still Remain

A square etched
on a blank page.

What words
began to follow?

One drop after
another falls from
a sky sliced open
no longer holding
the weight of its tears.

Back to the square
~~~a lined drawing
now becomes a box.

Stepping outside,
I lay the sketch
~~~a lined image
of the box
on the soaked ground.

Suddenly, an abundance
of gathered drops
fills the box so quickly
that the image

NOW

washed away.

I stand, soaked.

I am not washed away.
I stand, I am
present, alive, free to
wander.

Even though I am drenched,
I still stand.

I hope
      I trust
                 I believe

in GOODNESS.

No-thing can
wash me
away while

I still remain.

In Memory of John Lewis, ‘GOOD Trouble.’

Drops of Color/ One

Drops of Color

One

We are One Tribe
We are One Nation
We are One people

Why do we go on
pretending we are not?

Your Joy is my Joy.
Your sorrow is my sorrow.
Words flow like a river
down my cheeks.

Your prayer is a choir
sung from the heaven we live in here…NOW.

Look…even if your sister
does not understand you,
she remains your sister.

And, if your brother believes
you’ve veered off the path,
together, you still walk with
your brother on this land.

Your skin color—
Your sexuality—
Your beliefs—
Your religion—

If they separate You
from this One Tribe,
this One Nation,
from our Oneness
as people
United in Creation—

If it so…

Run, run and do not
stop until your very
breath almost leaves you.

Stay until the very roots
‘in’ you find their way
into the soils of life.

Trust, you’ll be fed by
rain, wind, bird songs,
luscious fields of wheat
and barley.

In time, you’ll rise
to the Sun calling you.

You have already Risen—
do you understand?

Now…go back
into this World…

Proclaim—
We are One Tribe
                   One Nation
                         One People
beneath a Universe of Stars
‘Welcoming’ us to
simple abundance each day.

Drops of Color/ The Gate

Drops of Color

The Gate—

it is not so narrow.

In fact,
if you simply ‘lift’ the latch,
it opens.

In fact,
if you’re unable to lift the latch,
there IS someone to lift it for you
—trust.

In fact,
the truth is ALL are welcome to enter
through this gate.

—You don’t have to DO anything
     to gain access
—You don’t have to be a certain race
     to pass through.
—Your religious background/affiliation
     do not matter…
     in truth—if you wish to leave
     your beliefs at the gate’s entrance,
     you can OR you can bring them through!

Because, what’s in your heart
is heard here.

Beyond the gate, the path is inclusive.
No judgements.
Sticks and stones are on the ground.
There they lay unless you pass a pond
and wish to toss a rock and gaze at
the circles growing wider and wider.
The sticks make great kindle for
evening campfires beneath stars…
white diamonds
glistening in a cascading black sea.

The gate.
There is so much more to be said,
but, lift the latch—

ENTER

it is open for all.

It may be a bit
narrow.
Everyone can pass through.

Drops of Color/ Solitary

Drops of Color

Solitary

The sea is
relatively calm—
white caps were making
their way before the
horizon’s line.

A solitary boat
rested along the edge
of the rising tide.

Stepping into the boat,
I cast off,
thrusting the oars
over the edge.

The winds rose
as did the vessel.

Carried into uncharted waters,
I reached, but there was
nothing to hold.

I let-go.
How do you let-go of nothing?

I heard a splash,
then another.
Dolphins were gliding alongside
this wooden boat.

A seagull landed
on the bow.
It let-go of the wind
long enough to hold
this present place.

Where am I?
This place?
Where are the waves
carrying me?

The sun has set.
The only visible direction
—an ocean of stars.

The rocking
has cradled me enough
that I closed my eyes.
Did I sleep?

The moon rises
from hid-den galaxies.

I am not alone.
Invisible oars lap the water.

I am destined for
the Unknown.

I know you’ll greet
me when I arrive.

Whom am I kidding?
You are the Vessel
I AM within.

Drops of Color/ Seven Hanging Pots…

I share this poem through tears…

My eyes swollen, I can barely read my own words…

NOW…
—Let us maintain kindness
—No matter how broken
     may we act peacefully
—May LOVE transform
     what at present remains unseen!

May we ‘see’ beyond the chaos all that is GOOD!

Drops of Color
Seven Hanging Pots
(In the Beginning)

Seven pots hung upon a 
wall beneath a window
hid-den behind a pair of shutters.

The sun was shining.
The first pot began unfolding its petals
and a voice was heard just inside the shutters
—“This is GOOD.”

Suddenly, an enormous cloud strolled across
the sky shading the light.
The second pot said, “I feel drops of water”
and the same voice whispered
—“This is GOOD.”

The third pot could barely hold back its refrain…
“my soil is so rich & fertile, look, look, see
all my seeds coming to fruition.”
The voice chimed in, “this IS all so very Good.”

The fourth pot shared with the others
an epiphany, “we are growing, changing.
At night, we seem to close.  During the day
we are so fresh and vibrant.  We have hung
here for some time and look what we have
weathered and continue to become.”
The voice said, “Ah, yes…very Good.”

The fifth pot giggled as little birds
and insects played in its gentle space.
The sixth pot noticed creatures
on the street below
and laughed along with the fifth pot
as the voice again softly uttered,
‘This is Good.’

Then, the seventh pot called
for silence.
The shutters opened.
A man and woman appeared in the window.
They gazed out at the lovely pots.
“We promise to tend to you.
Thank you for sharing your splendor
and beauty with all.”

The voice, like a song said,
“Alleluia, this is Good”
and took time to rest.

Drops of Color/ In Our Hands

 

In Our Hands
A painted ceiling 
began its formation.

In this year’s beginning,
here’s a simple reminder

Drops of Colors
splattered with ease…
Images ‘ran’—one into the
next…the ceiling draped
like a curtain.

Without notice, the curtain
became engulfed in flames—
yet, the ceiling’s images
were not consumed.

Instead,
the paint burned with
crisper colors.

How could color become
more vibrant than 
it already is?

Pools formed and I 
dipped my pen.

Faces, millions of faces…
Young, old and in between—
Furry faces, long beaks,
slender gills.

What was being painted?

In Our Hands…images.

Images of teachers coordinating
parades…children with parents—
a line of cars.  Neighbors
outside, keeping a social distance
holding signs,
“I LOVE YOU, ‘Ms. TEACHER’…
I MISS YOU, ‘Mr. TEACHER’…

Stuffed animals littered the dashboards
of vehicles.  Window sills
and doorways held hearts.

Simple words written, “Thank you.”

Ordinary classrooms linked via 
Zoom…extraordinary!

iPads were given to those without
proper tools.  Many
simply wanted to learn…(so many unable).

My paint dried for a moment
until another pool drenched me.
I witnessed truckers delivering food, grocery store
attendants ringing-up customers—
our Seniors first.

Our wise guides, needing
our care—they the most
susceptible/vulnerable to this
invisible predator.

What hovers knows nothing
of religion, race or creed…
gender, sexual orientation or
political affiliation.  It cares less about
borders, boundaries and 
surpasses the length of the sea.

A pandemic is what spread
and so, too, Drops of Color.

First responders…EMT’s,
Fire Fighters, Police
were out to Protect & Serve.

To Nursing Homes, Hospitals
 the CARE providers came…
gloved, masked,
 gowned. 

Doctors, Nurses, Mechanics, Dietary Aids
reported for shifts that never
seemed to end.

People were talking— others were
listening.

Stars were visible on clear nights
and animals walked the forests
where traffic once stood
bumper to bumper.

Again, my colors dried—
the number of persons
taken by this virus still grows.

Tears became a pool—
A lament painting itself.

From a distance, ‘WE’ touch
—a love-making in motion
—an intimacy
     unfolding, yet far from revealed.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you
for ‘looking’ at THIS ceiling…

it is far from over
in fact, it has just begun.

What will lay itself out,
I cannot begin to know.

The Source I call upon,
the Divine essence
that guides ‘this’ hand,

does not say much at all.

INSTEAD,

An Invitation…
‘It is in Your Hands’
 to go into the World to
Love, Serve, Create,
Hope, Inspire,
Shed a tear,
Laugh until your heart breaks.

Let nothing divide.
Let communion be shared with ALL.

May we SEE in each other
The Sun
and realize we are all One.

                                   —The Painter of Ceilings