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.

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
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
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
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
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.

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

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.

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
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

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
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.

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

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
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

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

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
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

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
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

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
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
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
“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?”