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

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
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

A Living Well

All who drink from
this Source no longer
thirst

AND

blossom into
eternal flowers
filling the world
with beauty.

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

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

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

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.

 

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

Drops of Color
Glory & Wonder

In a lowly valley,
stood a towering pine.

Lofty needles
formed its lengthy arms
lifting toward the sky’s ceiling.

A whisper from the tree
rose like the sound
of a hand sweeping across
a harp’s strings.

“Oh, glorious stars,
you illuminate this silent night.
To you, I raise my branches
in endless waves of gratitude.”

A pregnant pause
was heard.
The stars seemed to 
‘glow’ in splendor.

Like a host of angels,
they gathered their sparkles of wonder.
 One star hovered softly
floating effortlessly
adorning the top of the pine.

In harmony, a voice,
its face blinded by the brilliance of light made manifest…
Beckoned.

“To you beautiful tree…
WE give thanks.
Together, let us reveal
the Glory & Wonder
of Creation.”

Drops of Color
Lived

The tables are set—
the silverware placed.

The chairs are set
for countless persons,
yet an emptiness remains.

A hush hovers—
it feels like a bell in
a cathedral whose
clapper has been removed.

The sounds of silence
hardly convey
what is not taking place.

The chefs are home
and so, too, the host
and waiting staff.

Those responsible for setting-up,
taking-down, cleaning
are home, too.

Some places may never open
again, others will create
new venues—that’s who
we are.  We are people
who rise no matter how
difficult the odds.

Many have endured  
the tremendous loss of
family members—
and they could 
not be laid to rest in
the ‘way’ we’ve been accustomed.

New ideas charted
and memories now strained
tucked like a garden in
a soul’s dwelling place.

What will bloom remains to be seen.

One day these tables
will hold feasts,
elegant spreads.

Communion will be broken and shared
—this act never ceased
—food being distributed
     because persons are hungry.

We’re all hungry, especially to gather,
and we will once again.
When ‘everyone’ is invited to the table
to eat, to drink…

when our prayers are
lived out by our actions…

yes, even social distancing.

When we SEE each person as ‘neighbor’
and love one another as we love
ourselves…we BECOME

a humane community…

a Gospel no longer
simply read

but

LIVED.

Drops of Color
Masks

I placed one mask
over the naked essence
of my expression
—it fit.

I took it off
and tried the other
—it fit.

Who was I
if both fit?
Either one so simple
to wear.

I have worked
a long time
to hide this me.
Perhaps, from no one more
than myself.

So, who am I?
Who are You?

The masks are me
and they are not me.
They are simple to keep on.
Complicated to take off.

They are a part
of me and
they are nowhere
near close to
whom I’m discovering
myself to be.

My life—
Your life…

Take the stage.
Live your part.

Be the side alive
—living life to the fullest
—bowing when the lights
shine solely upon you

AND

Be the person that
—can weep
—can utter a cry when
the way is lost and forlorn.

It’s easy to wear a 
mask.

It’s even easier to take it off
and be you.

Drops of Color

 

Scraps

Each word, she recalled,
as if it were spoken directly to her,
“Even the dogs get the scraps that fall
from their master’s table.”

Many years have passed,
and she can ‘taste’ each syllable
as she has spent her lifetime
‘gathering’ scraps…each a fragment of her faith.

Her prayer beads dangle between
her disjointed fingers, fine instruments,
her hands—still soft, a tad wrinkled,
yet they remain open for the scraps
she shares freely.

Her faith has made her well
and, even as the glowing candle’s wax
of her being melts down,
a faint glimmer remains visible.

It is her faith that takes her into the darkness.
She does not fear…in her unknowing, she
trusts the ‘scraps’ of those who have made their way. 
They leave, for her, soft hues
of penetrating light, places where her
footsteps can tread…a NEW path.
Death is not an end.

I can still see her shadow
as much as I long to ‘cling’ to her hand.
Her cane begins to fall…I have to let it drop.

I only pray to share the scraps of my 
faith as well.

Drops of Color

Details

It all began with an idea
—a vision.

Then, there was a layout
—a blue print.

Numbers of persons
responded from everywhere.

An enormous ‘spattering’
of specialties assembled
—to create.

Everything brought together
—orchestrated.

The finest details
—each a solitary note
—each playing its tune
     on the scale
—a harmonic assembly
     steel, hammer, nuts & bolts,
     rails, beams and human
     ingenuity…innovation
—every’one’ an instrument
     in the design
     ready to play their exact
     rhythm, measure, when
     beckoned by the conductor.

The performance
—gaps creating bridges
—the ability to cross over
    and back to where
    it all first began.

An idea
—a vision.

All the details laid
on parchment
—a scroll
    handed down through time.

Together, we have built
and accomplished
so very much.

Hard working hands
toiled to have a part,
to be a part of the dream.

Every being
wanting a place in the details
so that the dream could be
lived out in all.

Let’s work to make it
happen…
Opportunities for all
down to the last detail.

Only when each note
heard, respected,
given a part in the details,
can we hear
the song as it’s 
meant to be played.

Together,
let our IMAGINATIONS
bring to life the 
REALITY

—‘together we stand
divided we fall…’

It’s really that simple
when we see
in one another
—our unity
—our oneness.

We are the bridges for our children’s
lasting tomorrows.

Let’s get busy on the details.

Drops of Color
Only a Dream

It was a dream.

Really, only a dream.

In the center of
a lush garden
stood a majestic tree.

The tree reached itself
beyond the sky.

Its leaves
oh, yes, 
countless leaves were a splendor
of cascading colors

AND

the leaves were the shape of hearts.

The wind picked up,
and I thought I heard ‘beating’
—one soft beat
followed by another and another.

Was it the leaves?
But how?

I rushed to the tree—
My heart awakening to the
strumming pattern. 
It, too, was listening.

I wanted to pull down a leaf
—just one.

But, then, right before my eyes,
the tree began to sway—
it moved left
then right.

I was beholden to a dance—
a sort of waltz.
Then, a soft blue leaf
let-go.

It crooned, hovered a while
until it settled itself
in the very palm of my
outstretched hand.

From the distinct time
the leaf ‘touched’ itself
upon me, something inside me changed.

How can I put it into words?

I was so ‘light’…
like the weight of a feather.
Yet, I was full
like a bucket of water
brimming over the edge,
spilling itself without end.

I wanted to pick a few leaves so
that I might send them to

WHY…EVERYONE.

Yet, as I reached,
I was held back.

The tree, THIS season
it seemed to say,
“This is ours to do.”

With that, a gust
swirled like a whip of a tail.

Several leaves let-go
floating on to their destination—
wherever that may be.

The time, the season ahead,
was a time for rest
as well as a time
of renewal.

A transformation of new colors
would be born again
come Spring.

I let-go of the blue leaf in my hand.
It was not a possession
or a keep-sake…
it was a companion, a guide.

I woke from my dream.
I was draped in a brilliant blue.

Wait, am I still dreaming?

No, I was wide awake.
I could hear ‘beating’
—a soft melody.

From my heart to yours.

Grow Brightly
and let-go.

Drops of Color

Ruth Bader Ginsburg
March 15, 1933 —September 18, 2020

May the rays
which extend
through her shadow’s passing,
ignite within us a passion
—to bring truth to light,
—to forge peace,
—to live justly,
and to humbly walk with
the ‘Source’ of life
seen in ‘countless’ faces,
cast from a host of traditions
stretching beyond horizons unseen
trusting that LIBERTY 
is meant for ALL.

Drops of Color

In Memory of Daniel Prude, 41
Died March 30, 2020

Please, Please, Please…

This poem can 
barely      write        words
 to          breathe.

I pray the image
holds a ‘human being’
without a bag over 
his head.

Please, please, please
let us come together
in the Oneness we
already are.

Amen

Drops of Color

What Matters

The earth rolled itself—
a small marble
gliding in infinite space.

From my perch,
the sun began to greet
a new dawn.

I held the rays spanning
beyond directions until
the inferno of flame
ignited the sky.

Staring into the sun,
my pupils engulfed in wonder—

I closed my eyes.
Inwardly, the flames
set fire to my soul.

Then, some-thing
EXPLODED

Bang        BANG       Bang
       BANG
Bang       Bang
       BANG

I fell to the brown earth.

I held Jacob Blake’s body—
I held his three small children.
Their memories will always hear
the sound of the explosion
as their father fell.

The ‘sun’ within Jacob
still rises.

His father’s prayer,
a sung lament.

His mother’s voice,
a hymn calling for 
unity…A United Nation!

Broken brown people
calling people to peace—
praying for those whose
‘shots’ created this scene.

We do not have ‘all’
the words to fill in this story.

How can we begin
writing a new story
—what will fill the blank pages?

New suns are out there
beyond our sites
extending the depths
that cannot be measured.

Let us leap from the ships
of certainty we have
been riding.

Let us swim in a sea
and discover how
we can all stay afloat.

What profit if we gain the world
and my brother goes hungry?
My sister has no clothes?
Children have no place to call home?
We build more walls—
and a virus spreads inside
what we attempt to contain?
We shoot and then raise the Bible
and fail to see the blood
spilling from within that book,
that Holy Book.
Its final pages reveal a man
denouncing violence
who chose death
instead of lifting a sword!

I cannot stop staring into
the sun.
It has blinded my ability to see
these words I write
yet, ink splashes upon the page.

Black words…

From the sun’s flames
exploding within my heart,

All I can see:

BLACK LIVES MATTER

Drops of Color
A City on A Hill

There is a city
at rest upon a hill.

Persons come from
all directions to visit
this place.

When they look out,
they can SEE a vastness
beyond words.

Many purposely come to 
visit the two Basilicas
dwelling in this city.

One Basilica enhances
the Sacred Masculine—
the Other, the beauty of
the Divine Feminine.

The two individuals 
for whom these Basilicas
were named
would NEVER had wished
these ‘glorious’ artifacts of
artistry to be in
their names.

What they would have desired,
is that when One visits this
lowly city upon this
glorious hill,

they would LOOK
outward and behold
inward the manifestation

of the Source of all
LIFE
residing everywhere.

Yes…even upon this
City on A Hill.

 

Drops of Color

Who Are You?

Interesting,
you gaze at yourself
through a shattered piece of glass.

Now, that’s telling!

But what is being ‘acted?’

Are you putting on colors
or whipping them off?

Who did you make yourself
out to be?
Certainly, the world loves a clown.

Underneath,
there is still you.

I think you love the you that
the crowd does not know.
Who are you once the mask,
the make-up removed?

You conveniently mingle through
the crowd and no one shouts,
“Hey, that’s the clown who had us
rolling in the aisles—”
the one who gently touched the child
on chemo and the little one smiled…

The parents cried—
it was an expression of Joy.

Then with arms spread wide you
embraced a senior citizen
all alone in a nursing home.
She raised her hand touching your face…
her first movement in God knows how
long—you could hear a pin drop.

I read about a person
who ‘touched’ the crowds
and would say, “Don’t tell
anyone what I’ve done…

go show yourself to the
priests…that will suffice.”

No one listened.
They broadcast the 
acts from town to town.

There was hardly a 
place the person
could go—

‘Unrecognized.’

Hey, Who Are You?

Are you that
same person?

Your show lives on…

I still see the
world smiling.

Your nose still has
red paint on it.

Drops of Color

Finding a Balance

The sun held
the blue ceiling
laced in rays.

The soft green
strands of hair
rooted in earth
stood as if their
performance was
on-going.

Center stage
a pink feathered
actor
dipped, tucked,
and stood eloquently
balanced on one leg.

The sun
began its bow
westward
illuminating
the light
long enough
for the artist
to see the curtain closed,

and then flying silently
to the standing
ovation—creation.

An encore
written
yet, not in words.

Wings unfurled.

Drops of Color

The Wheel

Like the Seasons,
the wheel circles

—dipping down
—drawing in
    the endless drops
    that fill the spring.

A sudden rush~~~ water swirling

—spinning the wheel
—holding barrels
   of sustenance
    for only so long.

NOW, the wheel spills like a waterfall

releasing its content
refilling once more.

The circle
—round and round it goes
    empty, full, pouring itself out…

Simple, to discover the Divine

—in a wheel
—in the water
—in the wood
     that holds long enough
     to let go
     over and over again.

Drops of Color

In this House…

there are mansions…MANY.

On the outside,
a bare wall—
you can see leakage.

A door tarnished.

An empty chair, brooms, buckets, shovel, a hose and a single pair of clogs.

Inside…
She’s setting a fire
—a steaming cup of tea
placed beside her rocker.

She is in from her garden.
She’s picked the vegetables
—she’s milked the cow
and taken the creamy suds
to the family down the road.

Three small children—
Dad lost his job.
Mom diagnosed with_________.

Several persons
who await her produce
‘attempt’ to slip the woman
a coin—
she kindly smiles
—shakes her head
—closes her hand around theirs…tucking the coin
‘back’ into their possession.

Some in the 
neighborhood
don’t even know her name.

She prefers to remain
anonymous
but, every once in awhile
someone calls her out.

“What you see in me
is in You” she whispers—

and moves on.

She walks to her home

AND

there are many more
like her.

Persons in the most
‘unlikely’ places
changing the world.

The real saviors of
the world NOT calling
attention to themselves
yet, LIVING each day
caring

Caring for
the earth giving her the 
bounty to share.
Loving creatures
who lovingly return
sustenance as if appreciative
of the love received.

You may vision a mansion
differently
but, THIS tiny place
holds a treasure
the world could not afford…

With the exception of
LOVE in return.

Drops of Color

I Can’t Breathe…

As I write these three words,
I keep hearing the sounds of 
the hammer driving three
nails into the flesh of an
innocent man.

I hang my head—my lament so raw.
Unraveling the words, my white, feminine flesh
spills black ink from a pen.
I do not know how to
frame the cry within me, choking me.
I must write, but what?

I sought the words of a Dreamer…

“…Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
     Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain Tennessee.
     Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
     From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

    And when this happens, and when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it
    ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city,
    we will be able to speed up that day when ALL of God’s children, black
    and white, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to
    join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

    Free at last!  Free at last!

    Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

                                                                                                                                                                                             ~~~Martin Luther King, Jr.
                                                                                                                                                                                              28th August 1963

I wish to sing, but my tears flood my
wind pipe…I’m choking.
Mr. Floyd, the simplicity of my words
are an attempt to BREATHE for you.

Was this your life’s purpose…to ignite a flame?
Your purpose so much more!
Across the country, from Minneapolis, to Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Illinois, Utah and—
cries are heard.

Systemic shifts are caving in
amidst a pandemic.
Lives are being lost.
The Earth is quaking.

Will we all perish in our inability
to see we’re all FREE…we are all created equal?

God Almighty, how you weep now with us.

  You breathed life into the dust of this landscape, brown soils, creating humankind…
my heart is not able to reckon what we are
living in NOW
this was/is not a part of your Design.

Come to our assistance—
Come, if ONLY, to embrace our sorrows.
Let us sit for a while in these ashes.
Let us bathe in the folly of all 
our unknowing.

May the loss of George Floyd’s life simply not be a moment we look back upon and ‘recall’.

Let freedom ring
and ring
and ring
until God Almighty we are all Free at last.

I pray my ‘eyes’ behold the Dream Come True
before I take my last breath.

Forgive me while I still breathe.
I cannot keep silent.