Drops of Color/ The Curtain Sways

Drops of Color
The Curtain Sways

Waiting for an ‘image’
to appear.

Holding a timeless gaze.

Suddenly, a window
emerges.

It’s open.

You have been here
before…

Perhaps, You have been
all along?

This time the tempest
seeping through
PLAYS a new kind of song…

it begins from the ‘inside.’

Like the Pied Piper,
a solitary breath finds,
discovers, an opening
and plays through…

The curtain sways
Trusting its partner
to guide the dance.

Now, ‘outside’
every sentient being
waltzes on life’s stage
while stars glitter
igniting a Universe whispering,

“They are catching on.”

 

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Drops of Color/ Poem

Drops of Color
Poem

Hidden beneath
a quilt
—patterns of colors
warming
a poem.

Words blanketed in stitches
looking out
for unruffled moments.

A window gives way to stars.

A poem breathes
—a soft rise of blues,
greens, oranges, and yellows
fanned out 
highlighting the room.

The sun found its way
adding rays
—a blending of a Universe

a simple poem
becomes…

 

 

Drops of Color/The Sea and a Light House

Drops of Color
The Sea and a Light House

The sea said to the light house,
“Cast your radiance and we
shall carry it outward upon
our waves.”

The light house said to the sea,
“You stretch beyond any
conscious reach where
light and darkness
come together and bridge
any thought of a divide.”

 

 

Drops of Color/ The Wild…

Drops of Color

The Wild…

A soft ‘yip’
met with a cajoling purr
—so nurturing, far from fierce.

Her paws, their tender pads
—the size of a catcher’s glove.

She nudges, prods, cradles
the kit closer and closer.

She draws her into the delicate
blanket of her laced
orange fur.

Mother and child
so affectionate
—come near her youngster
THIS ‘image’ changes immensely.

What would the wild teach us
regarding care for ‘our’ young?

Perhaps, the One who brought
all things into being
has placed a cushioned 
padding around our Souls.

Protecting, guarding, always loving…
yet not eliminating hardships.

Life holds risks as we venture
from our ‘dens’…

The wild has many lessons
to teach the tame Soul.

 

 

Drops of Color/ Open Heart

Drops of Color

Open Heart

Page after page,
words placed like canned goods
on shelves.

You choose the aisle
filled with chapters
delighting your appetite.

At times…a certain shelf
holds a paragraph.
It becomes a sheet of music
—You listen for a sound.

You read the sentences
over and over again.

Now, like a song,
you cannot get out of
your head,

verses enter your heart
open to a tune
longing to be heard.

 

 

Drops of Color/ …to Love

Drops of Color

…to Love

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

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

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

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

Love remains open.

Drops of Color/ The Center

Drops of Color
The Center

Kwanza

Hanukkah

Christmas

AND

from this post
holding this center,
each celebration
moving within
its own
direction,
—tradition…

The gift
—when we all
return
back to 
the center,
realizing
we are ALL
One…

Blessed Holidays

Drops of Color/ Painting Faces

Drops of Color
Painting Faces

How is it we choose
the colors we do?

Perhaps, the colors choose us?

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

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

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

Yellow bursts of daffodils,
I become.

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

All the colors painting faces.

Black, the splendor
which all things began

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

I see faces
in every color.

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

AND

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

 

 

Drops of color/ If…I only had a heart

Drops of Color
“If…I only had a heart

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

where its soft essence
rhythmically drums.

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

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

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

‘If…I only had a brain’

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

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

‘If only I had courage…’

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

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

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

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

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

If only I had courage,
I would whisper aloud,
‘SEE, the reign of heaven
is EVERYWHERE.’

Drops of Color/ Tight Rope

Drops of Color
Tight Rope

Slender pole
in hand.

A sliver of a thread
called a rope
holding feet.

Movement, S L O W—
precise.

Wind burst
pushing the walker.

Slanting into the wind,
not looking down
nor up.

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

Balanced.

This is NOT an ACT.

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

Courage…
holding, reaching out for
the resources in hand

AND

getting up again and again

trusting an Unknown presence

holding the narrowed line at 
both ends

—offering, guiding
and leading you

—to step
and walk the path

—designed for your soles
to discover and live out

one solitary step at a time.

Drops of Color/ What’s Next

Drops of Color
What’s next?

What, what about Rascals?

Little?

Oh, the Little Rascals:
Spanky, Buckwheat, Alfalfa, Darla,
Froggy…’Petey.’

The ‘He man Women-Haters Club.’

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

Spanky…Leader, coordinator: he was trusted.

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

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

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

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

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

FINALLY,

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

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

Then again,
a glance back
beside a sketch of characters

What’s next?

Maybe recalling
some GOOD ole’ days.

Drops of Color/ The Amusement Park

Drops of Color

The Amusement Park

—ALIVE—

then suddenly STOPS…

Hovering above the magical ‘landscape’
—a scene.

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

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

IMAGINE?!

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

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

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

It is how we choose to LIVE it out!

How we dwell in this
amusement-park together…

A light flashes…three, two, one.

Hands raised in the air—

Trust the ride.

Live it to the fullest!

 

Drops of Color/ That’s why

Drops of Color
That’s why

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let us carry one another.

No One is too heavy.

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

It’s time.

We cannot give up trying.

CROSS

let’s cross

until no one is left
behind.

Drops of Color/ Here Again…asking the same Question

Drops of Color
Here Again…asking the same Question

Chewy, rich, gooey

savory, chocolaty
seeping with delight.

One wrapper removed
—ingesting the tiny piece of candy.

Treats…no tricks.

Ahhh, unwrapping another
—it only gets better.

The gourd seems to smile
filled with pleasures.

Is this season really here…AGAIN?

Seems only yesterday I wondered,

“What shall I be?”

Did I pack away the costume?

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

“Who am I
after removing
all the wrappers?”

Drops of Color/ Jump In

Drops of Color
Jump
In

That’s right!

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

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

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

Autumn’s golden moments.

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

Drops of Color/ The Bridge

Drops of Color

The Bridge

A long trail
through the woods…

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

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

I stepped before realizing
my feet already in motion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drops of Color/ This Glass

Drops of Color

This Glass

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

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

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

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

pouring itself

on those who
chose to 
drink from its contents.

The lives of those who drank
changed.

They could not stop serving.

A Story Book…

Drops of Color
A Story Book…

with only two pages,
soft, translucent.

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

and hold

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

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

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

Listen to the story—
its power turns
the tides.

 

Drops of Color/ This Garden

Drops of Color
This Garden

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

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

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

Take in a land flowing
with milk and honey.

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

All invited to the table
in this Garden of Abundance.

Drops of Color/ Fiery Furnace

Drops of Color
Fiery Furnace

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

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

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

Drops of Color/ Strings

Drops of Color
Strings

Six strings
running parallel.

Its body
a hollowed tree trunk.

A branch
shooting through
the center
becomes a lengthy neck.

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

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

A vibrational energy
staggers within the space between
the strings.

The free hand
stretches fingers between frets
—chords played.

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

The sun rises
and a tune plays
itself.

Shadows streak across
the landscape.

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

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

The music finds 
another way to 
express itself

—splashing into the Milky Way.

Drops of Color/ A Pot of Gold

Drops of Color
A Pot of Gold

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

Metaphorically speaking,
a rainbow of floating
kayaks—‘wait.’

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

‘glide’

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

The treasure LIVES within—
the sojourner never the same.

Drops of Color/ Keyboard

Drops of Color
Keyboard

Some one
turned it around.

Ebony, ivory
—they have taken opposite forms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Drops of Color/ Above the Mantel

Drops of Color
Above the mantel

The warmth of the
fire contained.

Rising
a sea
and the sun setting.

Vessels
harbored after a long
day of bringing in a catch.

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

Can you see it in the painting?

Perhaps, one
 story drifting into 
another.

Can you hear the sound of the gulls?

What are you hearing
as you ponder so many possibilities?

Above the mantel,
a painting.

Contemplate what the tide
in your Soul is embracing.

Drops of Color/ Windows

Drops of Color
Windows

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

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

I wipe the glass again
and clear the streaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look out your window this day…

Can you see?

Drops of Color/ …Take my Hand

Drops of Color
…Take my Hand

Oh, this night
 lures me.

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

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

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

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

I long to enter You
and You release me.

How do I express this love unfolding,
Beloved?

I cannot!

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

Do I truly understand your intentions?

The love I seek is You.

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

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

There are no road
signs for this path.

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

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

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

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

I wait
again and again
as you take my hand.

 

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

Drops of Color/ Weights & Measures

Drops of Color
Weights & Measures

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

Who decides
the values placed
on the scale?

If we lived
the lesson

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

—to satisfy those
who hunger and thirst

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

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

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

 

 

Drops of Color/ Conversation with a Flower

Drops of Color
Conversation with a F
lower

Who asks you,
‘What is your race, your gender,
your creed?’

Pardon me, I could not hear
you.

‘Does anyone question the essence
of your being?’

Forgive me, I really cannot
understand what you’re
saying.

Help me…

Suddenly, the flower
unfolded itself before me.

Its beauty, its sweet savory perfume
expanding between us.

No words necessary.

Really, so simple,
if only we ‘saw’ the
loveliness in one another—

Each of us…A Divine Unfolding!

Drops of Color/ Definition of a Woman

Ketanji Brown Jackson
The 116th Associate Justice of the Untied States Supreme Court
Definition of a Woman

Let us begin with a fresh slate.
Our ‘ribs’ are uniquely our own.
Our physical attributes simply
do not define our brand
of how we are ‘made-up.’

I am fashioned and created 
from a Source who designs

all life in goodness, harmony, and
loving-kindness.

Women have a place
beyond the roles ‘She’ has been ascribed.
The masculine nature, its divine essence,
does not have a right to 
lay claim or set boundaries on the feminine nature.

A woman grows and becomes herself
like a tree planted beside restful waters.

Yet, even restful waters are stirred
when storms arrive.

The tree learns to thrive in difficult
moments and this, too, defines a woman.

A woman is strong and resilient
—if she chooses jeans, T-shirt and
high-top sneakers…so be it.

If later she places pearls around her neck,
drapes herself in a dashing dress which accompany
four inch heels…so be it.

A woman’s love is fierce
—if she has children, help the soul who
attempts to remove them from her nest

—if the woman does not have children,
trust, her feminine nature will pass

through any storm to reach out to a 
child in need, in want, in wonder.

A woman’s inclination invests in birth.
She is a life-giver,
and she has the God-given capacity
to choose what is right for her own body.

A woman carries both
feminine and masculine qualities
within herself
—just like her many loving brethren.

A woman loves to be comforted and
she loves to comfort.

When a man holds a door for her
—the gesture received in gladness.

It is not that she cannot open 
her own entryway
—it is the warmth of the expression.
A woman knows and understands
—she appreciates.

She, too, washes the stains of tears
that fall from men broken by pain
—men who fall into her arms
for solace at loss, illness,
senseless sufferings.

A woman is so many wondrous
expressions
—she is not a label expected to follow
guidelines on being
—she is a creative expression
of a smattering of colors
expressing themselves on a matte
—a work of art eliciting
a manifestation of endless meanings.

A woman cannot be defined.
Words cannot explain
the holy wanderer she is.
She walks awakening this world
with her ‘Yes’ to life.

She lives.  She moves.
Her being cannot be contained
—her lips worth kissing,

and her actions leave the Universe
BREATHLESS.

Define woman…she is the half
of a whole.

She who IS
cannot be anything else
but who she has been designed to be.
Cage her—she will still sing.
Bury her— she will rise.
Love her—she will give birth
again and again.

A woman is Creation
—pregnant with life
in its fullness.

Drops of Color/ For No Reason

Drops of Color
For No Reason

A stuffed animal
left behind
‘in a child’s dirty boot.’

A maternity ward
‘has collapsed.’
I look out the window
…I want to hear the cries
of life just beginning.

Instead, I hear the sound of rubble
—person sifting through stones.

From a safe harbor
on the other side of the sea,
I keep watch
—safely
‘in my bed’
—the sandy shore.

The arms of a woman
clutching a blanket
—her child no more

—her husband turns running
the other way
letting-go of her hand.

Tears, like a dam bursting,
—soak his boots
as he makes his way

into a war

holding a gun
he knows not how to use.

Does he really have
to learn THIS way?

‘What is the war of this war?’

He was just warming
the milk in his child’s bottle
—it’s empty.

Are these words of mine bullets?
or are they wounds?
Imaginary shrapnel rips
open my chest wall!

I feel the pain searing my heart
pumping with the freedom to breathe,

and somewhere
NOT so far away

bombs litter the sky—

‘for no reason.’

 

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

Drops of Color/ Scapegoat

Drops of Color

Scapegoat

Atop a lofty crag
—you skipped
—you trounced
—you grazed.

Out of nowhere, they came.

In their eyes, you saw
an irrational intent,
but, it was too late.

They held you, they bound
you, no matter which way
you moved attempting to 
flee, tighter and 
tighter became their restraint.

You let out a shallow
cry, and then another.

They ‘weighted’ you down
all the more thinking they
would pile all their burdens
upon you setting themselves
free.

You watched your kin from
a distance, the smoke of
the fire waffled in the 
air.

Sacrificed—and, now you
let go.

After being scourged,
they set you out in a wasteland—
your very being laid down.

They celebrated back in 
their villages—lifting their voices
in song.

They were feeling the
release of their sins, placing
on you all their
demons.

They missed the sound of 
your lasting breath,
“Forgive them, they know
not what they do.’

 

A New Year upon us…
Let us pick up our back packs and not saddle its contents upon another.
Let us carry who we are consciously giving thanks for our created self,
holding all the realties that make us who we are, yes our joys and our sorrows.
Let us OPEN our eyes seeing life anew and step forward into a collective Oneness with all creation.

 

 

 

Drops of Color/ Let it be done…

Drops of Color

Let it be done…

You cannot
see
but,  there is a 
small child
behind this instrument.

The ensemble kept calling to her.
She was told, “NO,
you’re a girl.”

She took out
‘all’ the pots & pans.
Grabbed hold of spatulas
and wooden spoons.

Oh, she played the drums.
Yes, she did,
 even more so because
she was a girl.

Two sticks in her hands
were like branches on a tree.

The first ‘tap’— a leaf blossomed.
The second ‘tap’— the tree magically
draped itself in a green coat of notes.
The third and forth ‘tap’— burst
through the forest.

The beating of the sticks
loosened the ground
calling the animals to come out of
their dens.

They, creation’s creatures, thumped
the ground joining the beat.

The sun flickered
and clouds beat
together creating a 
rain shower soaking
the dance floor.

The child
came out from
behind the set.

She looked out
at all that was
before her—
The stage enveloped her.

She heard creation
‘groaning,’
laboring for another song,

and because 
she was a girl,

She said,
“Let it be done
through me!”

Drops of Color/ Star of Wonder…

Season’s Greetings
“We” Celebrate in ‘many’ ways
AND
“We” are infinitely One.
Blessings of Holy Wonder

 

Drops of Color

Star of Wonder…

Beyond frozen, ice formations
decorate a chilled window.

Oh, holy night.

Neatly splattered across glass,
a million faces
—each snowflake an image
of a creator.

Those gazing into
the faces,
a reflection of themselves
made visible.

Yes, in each speckle,
in every frosty bite,
artistic mortality
revealed without a pen,
or paint, or brush, no strands
of yarn or colored beads.

Stars unite with cold
linking to the warmth of the Soul
touching the glass from the inside
and reuniting with itself.

‘Star of Wonder
Star of Light
Star with royal
beauty bright.’

Overhead, you shine.
Overhead, you press the image of
yourself on this window.
Looking out from this pane,
Oh, star of wonder,
You have found
the One you reside within.

‘Guide us to this perfect light.’

 

 

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…