Drops of Color/ I Can’t Breathe

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.



He arrived—
as if out of Nowhere.

In a ‘way,’ we summoned someone to drive around the bend to transport us to the location we originally sought.  We walked in the opposite direction~~~through forests and orchards of horse chestnuts, tobacco fields, grape vines, peach trees.

Our sole purpose~~~ to visit what I would name, ‘Oxen,’ in order to purchase the cheese made from their luscious milk.

The Red Fiat turned the bend and stopped.
Our guide approached.  He wore a classic straw hat,  a long sleeve blue shirt, tucked in…pants held by suspenders.  He responded to our request.  Four women invited into this man’s small auto.  He spoke Italian— Emese and Deanna understood. Wendy and I looked and listened.  Each day he drives to the top of the hill where there is a small cemetery.  His wife died almost 2 months ago~~~they were married 50 years.  Tears fill his eyes.  When he makes his way from the cemetery, he seeks ‘pilgrims’ on their way to Assisi…any WAY he can HELP, assist, offer presence.  He was our Angel and he told us we were his miracle. 

He drove us to the entrance doors—to the store.  He wished to drive us back, but we graciously declined—yet, not before an embrace… a kiss first on one cheek, then the other.

A simple word  packed with MORE feelings than one can explain…”Thank You.”

Did we meet Francis of Assisi?  Yes!

Did we meet Christ?  Yes!

Was this man and angel?  Yes!

His name, Leonardo.

Today, I AM no longer the same having joined the path called Life~~~with him.

(Excerpt from a Journal on the Camino St Francis/Italy)

“If the only prayer you ever utter is ‘thank you’…it is enough!”     Meister Eckhart


Drops of Color/ Built on Water

Drops of Color

Built on Water

The house
was not built upon sand…

Nor did ‘rock’
hold the weight of an
array of limbs and twigs.

The branches were laced, intertwined,
woven together
on a bed of water.

Yes, this house built
upon a weightless
stream running slowly
—rushing effortlessly down yonder.

The builder,
out in the early hours of dawn
chopped trees 
like a pecking of a chisel

Yet, no sound heard
except the pounce of
the wood caressing the ground
and then the mighty branch
being hulled by a tug boat.

But, this boat
has no motor.

An enormous tail works
the water like a shutter
—swift movements
—a thrust forward then back
finally arriving at home base.

The builder tugged,
pulled, lifted
and sewed the wood
into the foundation.

Protected from the weathers
—inside, one dry elegant room.

A family gathers.
Day has begun
—hidden they remain,
until the first star appears.

The lumberers sharpen
their teeth
as off to work
they paddle.

Their house on 
the water
and fashioned
with care.

A Perfect Contradiction

A Perfect Contradiction

Once a seed
held in a bed
of dark, liquorice soils—
you ‘broke.’

You, already ALIVE
pulsing, surging,
taking in sustenance.
You pushed softly,
until your delicate
burst from Earth’s womb.

Inhaling life,
—you stretched
—you reached
—you expanded.

Enveloping the sky,
you bathed in the light of the sun.
You wrapped yourself in
the crescent moon
and glistening stars.

your rings unfolded.
Your task in this world
if, it be termed a task—
to Grow.

Each day
you trust what is
needed to allow you to be.

Season upon season,
you have been bent,
reshaped, broken by storms,
healed by soaking rain.
You rested while snowflakes
gathered around you
until you burst with buds
painting the world
green beneath a sky,
blue as an ocean.

Waves of clouds
gathered to greet you—
welcoming you to
THIS time.

A cycle of perfect
You stand…

Life, death and rising
again and again
in a fashion
unduplicated by a human hand.

Drops of Color/ Red Shovel

Drops of Color

Red Shovel

There it was
lying on the path—
a price-tag dangling from its handle.

Who lost this treasure?
A simple red sand shovel…
it held the potential
to go ‘deep’ into the sand.
Oh, what ‘one’ could create
with this ‘toy.

Reaching down,
I held it by its neck…
placing it in my pack so that it 
was visible…why?

Days passed—
the red shovel
stepped with me,
but it began to weigh down
my being.
“Let me dig,” it seemed
to say.

I was not about to stop,
and then
in front of me,
a clear path—

flowers strewn on both sides…
scented walls greener than green
cascading with blossoms…
a pond of fresh lilies to my left
—they held my gaze
I heard the fall!

She was five maybe six—
she was on the ground.
She was hurt,
she wanted to cry.
A little hole was in her pant leg—
her tiny hands cupped her tiny knee.

As she rose,
her father grasped her hand.
As she rose,
the little red shovel in my 
bag climbed out.

As I handed her the shovel,
a curve in her lips turned
a smile revealed.

“You, took a fall~~~
now you can use this shovel
to dig for treasures…
share with your brother.”

I glanced at the father
and then the mother—
their eyes spoke words
that were not echoed aloud.

Then, the little girl
holding the ‘toy’ in both hands,
said without prompt,
“Thank you!”

I walked on.
I discovered the buried treasure.

(Excerpt from a Journal in Wales/Pembrokeshire Coast Path)

Grow in Splendor

Grow in Splendor

Wake up!
Throw on whatever garment
adorns your closet of hangers.

Splash your face.
Forget wiping off the fresh scent
of water drops trickling down
your neck.

Grab a pair of shoes—
better yet, go barefoot.

Thrust yourself out the door of your dwelling
and allow the ‘dwelling place’
within you to immerse itself
in the depths of a million blades of grass.

Grasses which rise
without command—they stand
because this is their splendor.

Glance around you.
Look at the trees—
their branches extend
holding rays of light.
Their leafy coats capture the wind
—they carry the birds’ songs
in Spring’s timeless birthing.

Oh, the clouds, they too, grow like a sea
of parachutes, hovering for a time,
casting shadows upon mountain tops.

They carry rain into desert places
and dissolve without worry IF they
left their mark in the world.

The splendors of creation
—my feet bathed in mud.
I stumble ‘in’ this moment purposefully
dropping to my knees.

Before me flowering without assistance
yet, birthed by a Holy Unseen Mother…
her whispered voice
impregnates the Universe birthing
what grows into Fullness without worry.

It need not ask, “Who am I?”
Already, it knows…

It is the Incarnation meant
to be at this moment of Life.

It is your turn—do not even give it a 

Grow in Splendor.
Become the FACE of God ‘already’
alive in you.

Gaze at the blossoming flowers—
allow the petals of your being to
draw back

revealing the LIGHT
shining through you.

Drops of Color/The Font

Drops of Color

The Font

One by one
they flew in.

First, they appeared to
dip their wings.

Second, they dunked their
heads coming up for air
before a full immersion.

A baptism of fluttering
and the community
gathered around
the ‘font.’

They welcomed everyone
before taking flight

even those without

who dipped 
mere fingers into the waters
for a blessing.

An Umbrella

An Umbrella

Something said,
“Leave the Umbrella.”

But, “It’s pouring.”

Again, “Leave the Umbrella.”

Who said that?

Clicking the button,
the sails folded in upon
It leaned itself
into the wall.

An umbrella cannot speak?!

Stepping out,
I glanced back.
No, I was not turned into 
a pillar of salt.

My right foot
was in a puddle.
Makes perfect sense
an umbrella would NOT 
have allowed this 
present situation
to dry-out.

The left foot,
not particularly cued
into the puddle its pal was in,
unknowingly ‘plunged in.’

Heavy drops of rain
began to wash over me.
My ‘soles’ were soaked,
why not my Soul?

I stepped from the 
pool I was in,
and I heard this

It was a pleasant
The ‘waters’ in my shoes
drenched my shirt,
my pants,
my hair, my—


became a song!

I began to dance.

Now something said,
“Get the Umbrella.”

“What, NOW?”
For Whaaaaa…

But, I got it.
I reached for the
umbrella…No, I did not
open its drape.
Instead, we clung to
each other.

We danced.
My sails opened
and the umbrella laughed.

“Don’t you love a rainy day?”

Still believe umbrellas don’t talk?

Drops of Color/ This Coat

Drops of Color
This Coat

“This” coat
stitched in love.
The garment which I 
refer to IS the piece
‘inside’ the fabric.

One person
responsible for THIS
design is my mother.
(amongst  a host of others)
She used various ‘strands,’
pieces, designer rags
to form me.
At times, in moments of her own
sacred stitching,
she would tear ‘patches’
of me.
in my small mind, I knew—
I simply saw her brokenness.

Without SEEING—
my world became FULL
of colors…
deep reds
soft blues
gatherings of yellows
blankets of greens
rays of orange
black like an empty kettle
and white stars
without fading.

All the shades ‘fit’ me.
I have attempted
through the years,
to ‘invite’ others
to embrace
the many colors
of their coats.

Oh, the tapestries
we are~~~
The forms
holding our shapes.

Each of us fits
this Universe.

Without YOU,
this coat
of creation
would be less
than whole
and that pattern
never was
without you.

You are part of the
threading life
without end.



A quiet room,
an invisible altar,
a solitary being.

She understands silence
and even ‘welcomes’ it.

A glowing candle
ignites a hymn.

Underlying conditions
do not deter the rise and fall
of her beating heart.

A host of guides
daily ‘enter’ her dwelling space.
Their labored arms
give birth to love.

A soft bell chimes
through the halls.
She opens the door of her
hid-den cathedral.

With extended hands,
She ‘receives.’

She dials the phone—
I answer…
Her proclamation:
“The Body of Christ!”

I simply respond, “Amen.”

Emphatically, before she hangs up,
she whispers
“I Love You!”
The candle flickers.

The sweetest ‘communion’
I have EVER tasted.

Drops of Color/ Reminding US

Drops of Color
Reminding US

Each one of us
—a vessel.

Our sails
—how they love the wind.

The ride changes
from day to day.

There is ‘something’ about
moving with the current.

Moments can push us beyond
the movement of the water’s flow.

Tossed off course,
we discover a resolve
within to find the path.

To accept the course

Sudden wakes
the bow
into clear waters.

Gentle waves
tickle the sides of
our vessel.

Lifting our head,
—Sails extended.

The wind blows—

“Divine Spirit”
a presence
reminding us

“I’m here
     I’m here
        I’m here.”

Climbing into the mast
—looking outward

No land
in sight—




There you were…
Your yellow shutters opened wide—
The slender green houses
growing beside you
were like a frame
accentuating your gentle presence.

There you stood
The blue sky above you
tipped its hat.
Puffy white clouds
cast shadows all around
you…your beauty

A mountain of stone appeared as a
backdrop…if one LOOKED
closely enough,
your soft color
painted the rock.

I almost passed you by
—So tiny
—So dainty
—So unnoticed.
All that mattered was YOU.

You spread yourself—arms extended.

Your invitation
for ALL


Look often THIS day.

Life is speaking its glory.

While words are attempting to bring
this reality to light,

Your lack of written expression
FILLS the page.

Drops of Color/ Come

Drops of Color

Come pick a lovely
flower from my basket.

Find the color
or colors that pick you.

Please, don’t leave any coins—
these flowers are my
gift (for you…)

Their beauty—behold.
Their soft scent—take in.
Touch their petals—their skin.
Hold their stem—fragile, yet firm.

Tend your bouquet of flowers
even it be one or two.

Treasure the flowers
picked this day
just for you.




there is a flame
so intense

heat surges
through my pores.

I rush outside to
meet the cold
and an invisible
surges with an 

I do not wish
this fire quenched—

Only now
am I trusting
the ember’s receding.

The ones burning
down and at 
the same moments
setting aglow
what I have tried to 
release again and again.

The shadows—
death soon to ‘spring’
again to life…

“Unless a seed falls to the 
ground dying,
it cannot begin again ANEW.”

Inside…so very

an incubator
“You are” while 
winter’s snare is outside.

A resurrection
awaits in an
empty tomb—
inside this
Soul set on fire.

Drops of Color/ Endless Pages

Drops of Color

Endless Pages

Every day another
story shared—
better yet, an abundance of
GOOD News messages.

Yes, I have read
and been immersed in these
times of difficulty
I’m aware we are writing
chapters of what it IS we
are living ‘in’ presently.

The messages
‘breaking’ open through
‘hosts’ of wordless emotions,
gut wrenching facts,
heart felt feelings
ARE creating a Gospel—

A STORY that could never HOLD
the endless pages of Love transforming.

‘Behold, all things are being
made new’…
right before our eyes.

A New Song

A New Song

The forest pulled back—
pushing aside the leafy branches.

An old fence post…
a tiny crevice…
a perfect ‘fit.’

The couple
chiseled, pecked,
then dashed into the 
woods gathering soft
nettles, tiny twigs
and dampened soil.

In the hush of night,
their feathers
caressed each other—
three delicate eggs

Taking turns,
the new oblong rubies—
never without shelter,
always swaddled in
the curl of wings.

Then, ‘Crack’
another, ‘Chip’…
Unseen to the visible eye,
the wonders of pregnancy—
life brought forth.

The pair scurried
into the trees
bringing with them morsels…
moths, crickets,

Three new voices
open beaks, plunging
necks reaching, expanding
to taste
unfurled desires.

Days passed—
weeks went by.
A new song 
sung by three
little chicks yet to 
life ‘outside’ the nest—
their hid-den cave.

Sitting quietly, I watched
the proud parents.
They would reveal their
‘catch’ to me
and scurry into
the den to feed.

I would strum
a few cords
on my guitar.
 From the fence post,
the duo would swoon
then dip into
open cupboards
of soft dewy grasses
savory delicacies
for their young ones

I knew what 
was to come.
Yet, I could not
help playing
one chord then
a small attempt
to join in 
‘the song.’

The dawn arrived.
I knew
the parents came to 
my step the night 

The first one
‘flew’ out
and stood atop the 
The ‘parents’ perched
calling for the others.
The sweet sounds
made their way
into the wings of 
towering trees.

Silence overcame
this time
chords plucked me
—tears gathered
—my lips parted,
but a song
was not ready to be 

I laid myself down.
My nest seemed to 
have so much more room.
 I slept hoping to
feel a pair of wings
around me.

Walking early,
I reached for my strings—
they sang to me.

I began to envision
all the wonders
the three tiny starlings
were encountering
and I Played on, and on, and on.

When I stopped,
I looked out from my perch.
There, in the branches…
the pair sang.

I knew their song—
It lives in me


Three ‘new’ notes
filled the forest.
A new song


Drops of Color/ Paper Roses

Drops of Color
Paper Roses

I planted thee
a rose garden…

Paper, though it be.

If you close your eyes
and slowly breathe inward,

the scent of the flowers’
sweet perfume
fills your nostrils.

I remember your
garden of roses.

I would listen
from a distance
as you clipped
and trimmed.

A love song
you would hum
as the hot sun
blanketed your back

and the roses

each and every petal.

Knowing, yes
somehow knowing,
you were
singing a ballad
for them.

You are no longer
and yet,

here you are in 
this paper
rose garden.

I close my yes—
teardrops of tiny
lace my cheeks.

And, smiling~~~
my heart beating

knowing you are
not gone.

Life and…

Life and…

Venturing outside
from my inner dwelling,
I was greeted by Life.

Together, we walked 
shoulder to shoulder.

Alright, I confess,
we held hands.

Quietly, we traversed
mile after mile.

Life began ‘projecting’ scenes.
Before my eyes,
a rolling film played itself
—slides, before my time,
flashed in rapid succession.

I looked deeply into many faces
—there were horrific times
—no words ‘fit’ to diagram
     for they ran on, and on, and on.

No sentence structure
could piece together
paragraphs, chapters of inhumanity,
natural disasters, chaos.

Yet, Life nudged my hand,
and I picked up a pen, this pen.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Life stepped with me
over mountain tops
dazzled with pristine snow.
We skipped through valleys
with colorful wild flowers
stopping their sway to stare.

Life took me to the water’s edge
and, letting go of my hand,
united me with another—Death.

I gasped, I cried.
I knew this ‘sting.’
I dropped to my knees.

Death seemed to hold me, yes,
almost lovingly.
Death stayed at my side
and wept with me
as the tide rolled itself in.

I did not move~~~

Sand slipped its way alongside
my body wrapping me like a blanket
—it was so difficult to be comforted.

The film I had been watching…
I whispered, ‘cut!’

What was before me was NOW.
How long I was held on this shore
I know not.
The tide was out.

Death brought me back to Life.
The three of us rose.

I’m ‘inside’ again
with this pen and paper.

Though at a “loss for words,”
I continue creating
because the picture now playing 
IS my Life

and I’m living with so ‘many’
in these unknown times.

I still know how to laugh.
I embrace the depth of my tears.
Fear is a friend, anger causes me to
reach out more and more.
I touch, and am touched, even 
from a distance.

Life is in ‘these’ words.
Death will come and the ink spilling
from this pen will dry.

NOW…I live
along side you
and, among the many who have become new stars
in the canopy overhead.

Hebrew Prayer…
“Let there be such oneness between us that when one cries the other tastes salt.”


Drops of Color/ Today

Drops of Color


Jump in…
Carry your umbrella…

Splash with delight
in the largest puddle you might find.

Go ankle deep,
knee deep if you’re daring.

Laugh out loud
for the sake of nothing.

Give thanks for simple moments.

If today your heart is filled with
shed the tears into the puddles
beneath your feet.

Immerse yourself in the flow
maybe, just maybe,
close your umbrella
and get soaked.


Jump in
and splash ‘someone’
with Love.

Gentle Shepherd

Gentle Shepherd

I enter your pasture…
Where is your flock?
Are there those who follow by night?

No seats set
between the blades of grass—
the rocky crags,
the lofty mountains.

No pulpit
awaits a message

because you, lamb,
You are message itself.

I hear you
in the quiet hush—
the place where one is

and the Gospel
is the harmonization
of a crescent moon,
an owl’s winnow,
Orion’s belt loose in a Universe


filled, ignited with reckless abandon.

Gentle Shepherd

I do not see you remove
the artist’s easel from your
tangled hair, damp with dew.

You carry a hollow sack AND a
prism of colors begins to span
across all space.

Time is only seconds on a 
clock, but the ONLY time you keep
is the ticking of my heart
within this pasture.

—In this moment—
writing a sermon
from your lips that do not speak,
yet meet and dip the curl of
my pen around these words.

Gentle Shepherd

You are the ballad of
THIS song.



Drops of Color/ Window’s Ledge

Drops of Color

Window’s Ledge

From this window’s ledge,
the views are limitless.

She holds a gaze—
her own vantage point.
It IS what she sees
and from here
thoughts flow—
beliefs once held
drift on by.

She does not cling
to anything she 
thought she knew
for certain.

She does not hold
as a ‘possession’
this day’s unique

For she realizes
it is always changing—
The images of years gone

Yesterday’s sun broke
through the window
and today’s drop of
rain skews the scenery
splashing the brick.

There are so many
windows to LOOK out from
and to search
ourselves ‘in’ from.

No ‘One’ window—
right or wrong…

Let us SEE the
world through
different windows

and allow other
to give us the room
to grow.

Amen, Amen…

Amen, Amen…

Amen, Amen I say to thee.
You do not have to be
spiritual, religious, atheist
to notice persons
during these times
coming together
even at a ‘humane’ distance.

Amen, Amen I say to thee.
Figuratively, so many ordinary
‘routines’ have been upturned…
‘blood’ now pooling
from heart centers.
Persons are reaching toward each other,
families are riding bikes, playing in the parks,
walking in the woods.
Long conversations are taking place
with grandparents, our seniors,
vesting ‘time’ talking 
and there is ‘listening.’

Amen, Amen I say to thee.
The world has gotten a bit quieter—
Less traffic on the roadways,
restaurants functioning on carry-outs,
grocery stores are open but the shelves
are bare.  Many of us, a large majority,
have what we need…and then some—
while there are those who
have NOT (each day) and understand THIS moment—
We are learning the gift of the Sabbath.

Amen, Amen I say to thee.
One cannot deny the present sufferings.
Yet, why is it, kindness ‘grows
abundantly from grief, chaos, and pain?
I will not attempt to explain it and I 
certainly will not deny it.
Persons are coming together.
Oh, yes, sometimes the usual ‘stutters’
break the flow, but hope held,
as curves rise and fall AND
acts of compassion, care, service
heighten to needs still unknown and growing.

Amen, Amen I say to thee.
Our children are watching—
they are ‘hearing’ and observing
the heart beat of our world.
We, as adults, are we able to exemplify
the sacred art of ‘pausing?’
Breaking from rushing to the next constant event
in our daily schedule?
Can we light a candle
guiding our young people
no matter how much may still be invisible?
Our flame will not burn out.
AND, if it does, we will create another wick!

Amen, Amen I say to thee.
May we burn brightly enough
that our light casts itself
across this globe reaching outward
to the Sun.

Amen, Amen I say to thee.
I can almost hear that fiery ball exclaim,
“Look, they’re finally trying to imitate me.”

Drops of Color/ Tides

Drops of ColorTides

The tide in…

My feet at the water’s edge.

A ‘rock’ picked me—
I cocked my arm


the rock airborne.

I heard the ‘plunge.’
The ‘rings’ it cast while 
making its way to the sea’s bottom
eventually splashed at my ankles.

Unaware of time,
I see the tide slowly recede,
and there I am 
standing in a barrage
of rocks…
some jagged, others smooth.
There were stones the size of boulders,
unmovable, unshackled.
Yet, the water
seemed to carry them with ease.

I bent low…’it’ was the 
stone I threw!

I picked it up, but then settled it back 
in its place.

In the moment,
I became the stone
carried in THIS life by infinite tides
coming in, going out.

Where I am presently…
is it my choice?

Only the tides will tell.



Dangling locks.

Tiny buds

An invisible voice
from no-where
whispers, “Let down your hair.”

The velvet~green leaves
The flowers trumpet.

The roots hold
the soil as the satin
braids give way.

The invisible One
Each petal, a step,
draped in pastel hues

reaching the soft
hung beneath the window.

The silent One
laying down.

A golden hush
loosens a braid
covering the 

‘you’re home.’

Drops of Color/ YOU

Drops of Color

Play a tune—
sing whatever comes to mind.

Let loose your heart~strings…
trust each note
will turn out right.

Your words
a melody—
a hymn of effortless praise.

What is ‘inside’ of you
—a concert of longing
—an opera still searching
—a rock band waiting?

Bring your yearning—
Let ‘out’ the music
that IS you.



In silence,
perched upon a branch,

a feathered mortal
scanned the pool of water
where the ice
had not begun to sculpt.

Its eyes sought
‘any’ movement. 
Its longing for a taste
of some-thing to satisfy
an empty belly.

Holding steadily,
bathed in sun’s light
like a monk
consumed in prayer…

was this communion?

Was this solitary winged-being
already fed?

It was I who feasted at this site

AND so very full.

Drops of Color/ Heaven’s Entrance

Drops of Color
Heaven’s Entrance

The entrance to heaven IS
If you’re waiting
for the afterlife,
you are missing
the words of the One who
simply said…
“Heaven IS within you!”

The Shade

The Shade

A pull of a string—
the shade begins to rise.

The picture—clearing.
Leaves falling—
visible openings to NO where
and everywhere.

How a canvas
can appear so full
draped in the succulence
of life’s finest spreads


one swift
swoosh of the table cloth—

a barren display.

Hot savory dishes
once providing an appetite
for communion,

now choose emptiness—
hosting ‘absence’

extending an invitation—
not a formal note.

a silent
a loft in
naked branches—
A resting place.

Revealed, not yet…
a blossoming to come.

Waiting is the joy
in the unknown.

The shade
covers nothing

and the light
so blinding—

we are asked
to trust.

Drops of Color/Ivory Blanket

Drops of Color

Ivory Blanket

An ivory blanket—
painted and ‘perfected.’

Between—slender trunks
living beside a 
pearl black stream.

The only sound—
a snow-flake
rolling off the edge…

plunging into
the shivering water.

The white 
seems to rise

attempting to cover itself
so ‘no-thing’ will fall.

But, fall it will
and, the 
sound created,
if only a hush,

melts its way down the water.



Sails unfurled—
Like over-sized blankets,
they dangled from an invisible line.

Moving in the direction
of the wind’s speed,
a vessel ‘held’
enormous beams
strewn north and south…

a single line was painted
east and west.

The bridge
carried over the sea.

From the right,
the gaze was infinite.

From the left,
an utterly distinct view.

Both angles revealed
something clearly ‘different.’

Both ends spoke a ‘truth’
from a ‘fixed’ point.

Differing views held this 
structure’s balance.

meeting in the middle
set the balance.

One side
did not speak to the other
reciting, “You’re NOT seeing correctly.”
No demeaning remarks hurled.

The bridge stood
encompassed from
polar, opposite ends


So others could make
their way in both directions.

The sails caught
a gust
and, speaking for
the wind,

it whispered,
“LET’S sail under.”

So many ways to travel

Can we find the 
balance to bridge
the divining gaps?

Drops of Color/ She Ran

Drops of Color

She Ran

She ran…
then she picked up her pace.
The sounds of bloodhounds in the distance
—in pursuit.
She quickened her strides
—they were after her.

There was no path—
briers covered her garments
branches slashed her ankles.
At night, mosquitoes would draw
her blood
still~~~She ran.

In the evening,
the North star pointed the way.
By day, she covered the banks
along side the river.

She fell to her knees
when her captors drew near…
“Show me God”…”You brought me this far.”
She walked into the water…
She never swam a stroke in her life.

The waters rose
—to her knees
—to her hips
—to her shoulders.

She trusted
and she crossed.

The visions she had—
Were they from the blows to her head
She ‘saw’ what was yet to come—
She was haunted by the memories of her
family being carried off, sold…
Why?  Because of the color of their

She ran…
making her way to freedom.
BUT, she was shackled within
knowing her people were enslaved.

Back she went…
When she was told she should NOT
because it was too dangerous,
she refused to listen.

She listened to the voice speaking to her…
Her God said, “Go, FREE my people.”

She fled ‘back’ into
a villainous landscape
where persons used/misused the Scriptures
to ‘possess’ lives.
Her God would not hold ‘kin’ to that~~~
THAT way would NOT lead ALL to the 
Promised Land.

Her God led all people, all things,
all seasons to lands flowing
with Milk & Honey.

Yet, history has a way of
repeating itself.

We are all One…
MANY believe this true.

there are still systems at work
religions intertwined
‘laying’ down the voice of
the gods they see themselves to be.

The same voices that passed
(Fugitive Slave Act, 1850)
the law allowing slave owners to return
and reclaim their run-away property.

Again—she ran.
Others ran beside her.
She went back for the sake of OTHERS…
For the freedom of others…
this was her ONLY reason…
her greatest gain.

Segregated still—
she gathered her people like a 
mother hen.

She led them into battle,
to fight for freedom.

Violence was NOT her nature—
The scars of slavery, like roots,
thread through her people’s skin.
She would NOT allow tomorrow’s
children and their children
to carry those stripes.

in which direction do we run

Spirit calling Harriet—
lead the way
Woman, daughter, sister of God.

No Name

No name

A soft hush—
the wind pulling itself
through strands of hair.

Enveloped in a sea of darkness—
the permission of light
still had access.
A battery of stars
needing no charge
except what already is given them.

Longing stretched its way
along the path.
A longing NOT to be filled…
this time ONLY to follow…


You a silent voice
inside my temple’s-tent.
Residing and always 

I love your surprised
expressions when you
say, “Good, you are here again.”

I used to ‘hear’ that expression
as if you were saying,
“Is she ever going to understand?”

Now, I realize
or I’m seeing a pattern…
A circular flow?
I’m spinning, spiraling.

I am in your Orbit
revolving through seasons—
I AM a part of ALL


I think I hear you laughing

You who no longer
needs a Name.

Drops of Color/ The Window

Drops of Color

The Window

Standing on the sidewalk…

I SEE the window.
I know what is ‘inside.’
Metaphorically, I was
born between the pews.

At a young age,
I was always drawn to
the window—
the light from ‘outside’
stained the glass
in colors
not a single word
could convey.

I cannot give you
a day, an hour
when it happened
but, somehow
the glass shattered
and I climbed out
from ‘inside.’

I let go of everything
except what I carried
within—beating aloud.

Now, now that I am out
I see someone has
repaired the window…
better yet, it has been

Wouldn’t want anyone
sayin,’ “Another Gone.”

So, here I am
on this sidewalk—

So many beside me.

Maybe ‘we’ are the 
broken pieces the
light shines through

because from out here
we are ‘in’ the 
dwelling place
where not a 
‘single’ One
left out or

I have found heaven…
it has been here all

Arms of a Crater

Arms of a Crater


in the arms of a crater.

The silence
pounding like a drum—
beat with a delicate feather.

The hush in this
void like a favorite nursery rhyme
I never tire of hearing—

***Once Upon A Time***

Lying awake,
gentle speckles of light
grip hands with
night’s mask.

Both have a face
and recognize
their reflection in one another.

I look on
from a nestled crook
in this crater.

Closing my eyes
wishing to wake
to a fullness

eclipsed by the 

Drops of Color/ The Bell-Tower

Drops of Color
The Bell-Tower

The outline of the bell-tower
held in shadow.

As the first chime
begins to clang~~~
the coloring of the dawn
‘high-lights’ the sound.

A sweet caress of a 
face born anew.


Stone Edifice

Stone Edifice

A display of masterful

The precision in the edge
of the blade—

The chisel
positioned with a reluctant swipe.

A chip, one at a time,

what revealed?

The elegance of ‘nothingness’…
nudity—its strength,
its vibrancy, its search—

No shame.

There is no need to hide
any bit of the stone’s

The stone edifice…David
Michelangelo’s work
magnificently stands.

Even if this stone masterpiece
were ever to crumble,

I believe the voice
in each stone ‘piece’
would sing the creator’s
chiseled song.
Truly, the voice of
God be heard.

Drops of Color/ Sometimes

Drops of Color

Sometimes I can
sit for hours
and the only words
that caress the paper—
the point of
a pen…
the rest
‘paint’ a picture…

You, There

You, There

You, chalking the pavement.

You, unknown creator
casting images of grace,
splendor, excellence.

You, ‘covered’ in chalk dust.
Before you, your ‘matte’
the mere street…

You swipe a shade of blue
then yellow…
eyes appear…widening in

You do not display your

You reveal beauty beyond yourself.

You know the rain
eventually will come.

You know it will erase
your work of long hours.

You know you’ll continue
creating because it is what you’ve
been ordained to do, to be…


you do not need to leave
your signature.




Drops of Color/Puffin

Drops of Color/ Puffin


      U nexpected

       F  athomless


      I   ntimate

N  oble




The Season past.

You have held your color.

But why, what has led you
to hold on?

Maybe you do not know.

Are you ripening?

You have tasted the warmth
of summer.

Here you are in winter’s chill.

There is an elegance
that graces your frozen petals.

What will become of you?
One of your petals
NOW has let go…
drifting upward
yes, a wisp of cold
air lofting a red velvet blanket

from your bud.

Is this the pattern?
Will another and another
be gone, taken
leaving the simple
skeleton of your stem?

Some One
holds your soft fragrance.
Pierced by your thorns, they could
never turn away.

You have shared
yourself—simply by being.

Even after this season gone,
the beauty that is you


Drops of Color/Night~Fall

Drops of Color


You have held the day
casting light
chasing away shadows.

You begin your descent
giving way to the

The sounds of the ocean
loud and fierce—
I can no longer SEE the curl
of the wave into the shore.
Yet, I hear it crash.

Closing my eyes,
I am lulled to sleep
sweet dreams of light
comforted like a blanket

in night’s fall.

A Potter’s Wheel

A Potter’s Wheel

The moon drifting
into the depths of the western sky.
Deep blue shades laced with hints
of lavender.

An arm’s reach—
stretching across the ceiling overhead—
the eastern ‘print’ growing in 
hues…pink, orange and other splashes
unwritten by crayola.

Softly, my steps crunched the ground
frosted in winter’s bedroom…
The season invited me ‘in’
as did its roommates…

Before my eyes,
clinging to the ground,
—a Great Horned Owl.
Wings outstretched like a canopy…
in its talons a small bird
—its prey.

We shared a glance,
but the meal was his.

Lofting itself into the skeletal trees,
he carried the feathered creature…
—its weight did not encumber his 
take off.

Perched in the branches,
he looked first to his left
then he turned to the right.
Suddenly, like a potter’s wheel, his
head twirled effortlessly
scanning every which way.

I stood motionless—
He flew deeper into the woods.

I walked
glancing left
then right.

I twirled
beneath the sheets of
clouds just overhead.

I tumbled to the frozen earth.

Was I prey?
or was I predator?
Was I both?

The silent echo of my breath
lifted to meet the frozen particles
joining the vapor spewed from
my being.

This bedroom I was held in
was both ‘comforter’
and a final place of rest.

Who’s There?

Who’s There?

Tiny ‘dimples’—
light beams
like a face filled with
the dome above my head painted in stars.

The wind hollowed—
my steps not my own.
I was pulled in the direction
of a ‘breath’ guiding
each ‘sole’ planting itself.
I, a mere vessel.
The sail of my being
thrust in the current’s flow.

But, then
a sudden sound.
What was it?
It, too, held in the swirl
and it pushed drawing nearer 
to me.

I did not look back…
Instead, I picked up my pace,
yet, whatever was behind me
seemed to be doing the same thing.

‘Crackle,’ then ‘crunch’…
then, one long chord~~~
a musical note struck
skidding across
earth’s skin.

Before I had a
moment to turn,
the wind caught me
from behind. The pursuer
clung to my back.

A soft blow~~~
the equivalent of a gentle caress.

After its ‘strike,’
it delicately
hovered until it touched
the ground.

I began to laugh!
You, again…
You, show yourself
in a vast array of splendor.

Again, the wind gathered itself
carrying a ‘leaf’
and me
beneath the night’s sky.

Drops of Color…The Ceiling


The Ceiling

The scaffolding—
a wooden floor.

hay-like as I lie on my back
nestled in.

Over my head—
a matte.

From a quilted tip
a simple line flows—
another follows.

In my memory—
traces of masterpieces a hundred years and
beyond filled a ceiling.

NOW—I AM ‘re-creating.’

A space between—
stories, divine revelations…
meaning, understanding, lasting

All GOOD, even with dark shadows
casting sides un-frightened to be

The artist long ago…
A Soul bleeding colors

so, too, I.

The ceiling—
the one above my being
rumbles then quakes…

I am being MOVED—
I slide across wooden floor boards.

Jabbed—my hands, my feet
my side

I am bleeding.

The ceiling ‘cracks’—

I cannot leave
the colors 
seeping from within me.

Drops of Color
re-creations forming.

A tree holds 
the center—
Roots spread infinitely in an
expansive Universe.

For a moment…
I stand

I will be back—
simply going for
MORE colors.

The ceiling,
THIS matte,
a Dome of Transformation.


Sketch of Myself/Crack Open

Sketch of Myself/Crack Open

Crack Open the shutters…
Colors are on their WAY!

In Gratitude and Growing Love for two years of journeying with me through Sketch of Myself
Inspired by Walt Whitman poem “Song of Myself”


This Moment

This Moment

No words write themselves.
In a deep forest,
I stand…

Nestled in pines
embraced by ivy
covered by maple leaves.

Songs sung
in clicking branches…
the wind whispers through
and throughout.

I am held…
Looking up
a ceiling of blue
reveals I am NOT lost
in this forest.

In fact, I could not be more found
than I am in this moment.

A tiny feathered friend
breaks the silence…
a cacophony of notes.

This ‘piece’—written…
The words of her song

I do not know…

Words end here…

For now

Sketch of Myself/ Menorah

Sketch of Myself/ Menorah
Light the Menorah—
each branch
awaiting the festival Hanukkah

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”

At a loss…

At a loss…

for words.

And, yet…they steep
from this pen

running over the cup
filling spaces all around
the saucer
the bubbling liquid
of fluid—
and vowels.

At a loss…
a bridge forms
allowing me to cross
the uncharted stream
of fluidity.

Rising inside of me
a tide—
from where it comes
I do not know.
Nor, does it matter.

At this loss,
I am finding what
flows from within the
‘spring’ I AM

Without needing
any longer
direction, ideas, thoughts, guidelines
rules—from others.

I trust what pools
from the hid-den depths
of my being—
treasure chests of GAIN…
gold fashioned from
the fire
cooled by the waters
dripping over me.

The sea
I have become—
Vast, open, timeless—
fierce, calm, soothing,
tumultuous, unending.

At a loss,
I step ashore
gather my breath
and jump back in.

The splash—
a single drop.
I am alive in all the ripples
finding rest in every wake.

Sketch of Myself/Silent Wonder

Tis’ the Season

Whatever ‘phrase’ you choose to extend—may it carry the message of our Universal ‘ONENESS.’
“We” have all been gifted with dwelling on this Glorious planet~~~
You are a part of EVERY shining star…

Gazing with you in Silent Wonder…


Sketch of Myself/ Silent Wonder
One branch
then another—

Each tender shoot
curled into the other
discovering a silent longing—
a resting place.

Forming a circle
—no ending
—no beginning
the pines hang
on a brilliant star.

Many would come to gaze
upon the site
and were changed forever.

May the season
find you ‘gazing’—
leaving you in silent wonder.


Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself”