Fly

Fly

I am learning 
in all things
to spread my wings and fly.

Even if my wings are clipped, broken,
I know the 
essence of flight.

The season, the times,
my guides.
These, I have come to trust.

The wind calls—
it is this moment

NOW

I rise flying in what appears
the opposite direction.

I am strong enough to carry myself
into the raging headwind.

Even if pushed back,

even if I fall to my ending,

I will be true to the path
that has been unknown
yet, driven by love’s
desire to nest in your bosom.

Drops of Color/ The Scenery

Drops of Color

The Scenery

You held the ‘oar’—

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

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

I paused…

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

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

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

THE SCENERY.

I was held in beauty

and asked to

BEHOLD.

Together, we sailed on.

He said, ‘Follow me.’

He said, ‘Follow me.’

And, so I have.
I try each day.

He always seemed to say,
‘Be not afraid.’

I believe he learned these words from
his mother who bore him
and, I have spent my 
lifetime following this man.

He went about
walking parched paths.
He spoke to anyone, everyone
who would listen.

He changed people’s lives
and reminded them,
‘Don’t tell anyone.’

He broke open stories—parables.
The person who dug a hole
when given a talent
is one of my favorites.

That person chose NOT to
be part of the system.
He knew the one handing out
the talents, a person who gathered
where he did not sow, and reaped
what he had not planted.

How little attention paid this man.
After giving out certain percentages of talents,
 he set off to conquer lands

AND

he was sent back empty for he
was corrupt.

This message was overlooked because of the focus
on ‘profits made,’
and hearing the words,
‘well done servant.’

The one who buried the treasure
belittled, made fun of, bullied,
cast out…like the one
sharing the parable.

Did he know his destiny?
I think he knew the love he
proclaimed would change
hearts, would open minds and
it would threaten the 
dominant systems.

He was true to what was
planted in his soul
and, at times, it caused him
to weep.

He would never lay a hand to
strike.  His message was
nonviolence.  He told his
friend, ‘put your sword back
in its sheath.’

When he hung upon 
the cross, he spoke
‘forgiveness.’

He never rallied troops
to fight.
He gathered food to feed people.
Everyone ate, no one went away hungry—
there was bread and
fish left over in baskets.
A nameless little boy
turned over his fish.

This is who I choose
to follow.

He said, ‘Heaven is within’—
God’s Reign would 
one day come—be ready
—be vigilant, watchful
—be kind, respectful
—show mercy, lend a hand.

He blessed the poor in spirit.
He blessed those who mourned.
He blessed those persecuted
for trying to live rightly.
He blessed those in search for mercy.

He blessed
the fullness of life
and the abundances it offers.

He did not set out to create
a new religion.
Instead, he attempted
to clear a path of ALL religions.

Everyone came to hear him—
no one ever sent away.

A woman at a well was told
‘Go, call your community—
Invite them to hear a message
from the One who came to bring
about a new spirit.’

This woman did not say, ‘but, I am a 
woman and you are asking me?’  No, she 
heard his call and ran to
call all the others.

He told a little man up in a tree
‘Come down, I am eating at
your house.’

He created paradoxes—
welcoming the poor, the leper,
the outcast, the adulterous.

He tore down barriers
that privileged persons set up
showing them
how to rebuild by
washing the feet of those
who would carry on his Hope.

He never asked for monies
to carry on his message—
he paid what the 
system required.

He turned over tables
when a house of prayer was
used for material gain.

My steps, I pray,
more and more
like his—

Walking a way
—that is not mapped out
—that I am not always
     certain is the direction I should be going
—that allows silent
     ‘moments’ when I 
     simply hear the wind blow
—that follows
     a man who loved
     God so intimately
     that he could not
     not love everyone
     he met.

Want to follow?

The only burden—
if you say, ‘No.’

Drops of Color/ A Window

Drops of Color

A Window

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will these people…

Will these people…

This moment 
a mist eerily moves 
like a milky shadow
enmeshed in a sky
painted in the sweetest essence
of black licorice.

Tasting this day,
this hour,
the moon in her fullness
dangles unperturbed
moving willfully in the 
pattern entrusted
and designed
by the One who seeks
no name.

How we have tried, attempted
to define, explain this 
mystery.

How we have abused the wonder
defining limits on
the color of skin,
the role of each gender,
 to yield power 
to ones who carry heavy 
purses taking the spare
change from the widow
who feels obliged by
a hierarchy holding out
a collection basket.

This night the stones
cry out…
their arms raised out to
the side.

The goddess of the Universe
weeps.. the moon at her side.

Her words are few…
Her arms set ONLY
to embrace.

So many already
taken too soon.

She does not look
out as if there are
two sides.

She sees through a 
heart of Love
—the mist is the droplets
    of her tears
    quenching an earth
    wondering,

“Will these people ever
understand.”

Drops of Color/ Today

Drops of Color
Today

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

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

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

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

Another image created on
a page…a blank page.

Life, unfolding in pictures.

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

No, I’m none of these.

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

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

 

I had a sketch pad…

I had a sketch pad…

I had a sketch pad.

I had a sketch pad filled with empty pages.

White empty pages began to fill with colors.

Like Autumn’s leaves, the sketch pad
burst with hues—reds, yellows, oranges.

I had a sketch pad filled with faces
—Faces of passers-by.

I had a sketch pad that began to tell stories.

I had a sketch pad
—it was a wise guide.

I took my sketch pad to the one
whose approval I sought.

He held my sketch pad
and glanced at the pages.
He tossed it aside
—told me, “return it.”

He said if that is what I fill the sketch pad
with, it is a waste of fine paper.

I had a sketch pad.
I kept the sketch pad
and, for a long time, the colors died.

I had a sketch pad
with countless etchings
all in black and white.

I had a sketch pad
and chose to never ‘share’ the images
creating me.

I had a sketch pad
and the seed painted
in the black and white pages
burst through the cover.

I had a sketch pad
now filled with the sun.
Stars lit the matte
as green valleys washed
over the pages.
The wind became a song
singing from within the sketch pad.

The man who once told me to
return ‘me’
looked at the sketches.

He wept.

I had a sketch pad
and now I have many
(including a portfolio of creative images).

He has blessed every page 
with his tears.

From heaven’s canopy,

I hear his voice while I am sketching,

“Fill the pages, fill the pages—

well done.”
Inspired by Joy Harjo’s poem, “she had some horses”

 

Drops of Color/ Blossom

Drops of Color
Blossom

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sweet scent
like incense rising…

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

You were born for this moment.

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

Way

Way

There is not
a single moment
nor an hour
that ‘creates’ a Way.

More, like a path
formed, wild flowers
stretch alongside
the carved walkway.

Springing to life,
a solitary word…
sometimes the letters
allow that single word
to take root.
It grows through the 
summer spreading
itself in an open window.

Without notice,
the word senses the time
of ripening.

A harvest ready
—the word plucked.

It is laid on a blanket
of white—expanding.

One word
filling a season
only to begin again.

A new path made…
In the same meadow,
no longer the same.
A Way reveals the 
essence of a spiraling motion.

Circling a Way
on the path of life
timelessly ‘reborn.’

The word
parts my lips
spreading on this page

writing the Way.

Drops of Color/ A Living Well

Drops of Color

A Living Well

All who drink from
this Source no longer
thirst

AND

blossom into
eternal flowers
filling the world
with beauty.

Heaven’s Corner

Heaven’s Corner

I stood on a corner
searching for a stone—
a corner stone
that revealed Heaven.

I had dreams of heaven.
So many stories told.
I wanted to see it—
I wanted to know it for myself.
So I stood on a corner
in search of a stone—
Heaven’s cornerstone.

I stood for a while
on this corner…
“You can come anytime now Heaven,” I spoke aloud.
My mind set itself adrift
when there was a sudden tug on the tail 
of my jacket.

“Excuse me please.”   I could barely see
the face of the stranger before me.
“I’ve nothing to eat, might you have a
few coins to spare?”  I dug into my
pockets…
Here, I was on this corner
waiting for Heaven.
Here you go, get something warm to drink, too!
“Oh, thank you.”

The day lingered.
A cool wind stirred.  The sun blinded
my vision, but the swirling breeze
ushered tears cascading down my cheeks
splashing upon the ground.

Before my eyes, a person’s shadow jumped in the pool,
drenching my shoes.
“I’m so cold,” the voice from the 
shadow spoke.  “Might you have an
extra layer beneath that coat?”
Her brown skin cracked, broken from
the elements.  I took off my jacket
and, I helped her put one arm in,
then the other.  A perfect fit.
She touched my cheek with her hand,
then blessed it with a kiss.
I stood on this corner.
Was Heaven getting nearer?

Dusk was now covering the canopy
of dawn.  This corner had
a lamp post.  I decided to sit
down.  A man walked toward me,
but he stumbled first, then fell.
I quickly rose from my seated place,
ran to his side, lifted his head
on my lap…”Sir, are you alright?”
He said, “I’ve no place to go
except Heaven.”

Wait, you know where Heaven is?
The man closed his eyes…
I had to get him to some place warm—
some place he could rest—
somewhere like heaven,
but I didn’t want to leave—-

With all the strength I could muster,
I draped the man over my shoulders
carrying him to an Inn.

I paid for a room,
and a little extra for the care
of this nameless soul.
I found a store and purchased clothes,
and took them to the Inn.
The Keeper of the Inn was most gracious.
I said I’d be back.
If there was a balance due, I’d handle
it come morning.

I said I had to go because I was planning
to arrive in…Heaven almost slipped from
my lips, but I stopped myself.  The Keeper
would probably laugh if I told him
about the corner.

I ran as fast as I could, back to the
corner.  What if Heaven came and went

while I was gone?

I stood at the corner.
Something, someone knocked out the light.
I was suddenly held in a beam
of perpetual colors, and I was warmed
within.

A note was taped to the lamp post:

“You’re HERE
THIS is Heaven
It IS within You!”

I stood at a corner

AND

I was in Heaven.

 

Drops of Color/ Quieting the Mind

Drops of Color
Quieting the Mind

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

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

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

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

Exposed again

Exposed again

Beneath a blue
drenched winter sky,
a cloud floats on by
like sifted flour.

I peer out,
as if perched below
a table, gathering each breath
so as not to reveal myself.

Looking, searching
—scanning the clock of the
day’s minutes ticking by,
I am mindful of harvest.

Harvest is so far away
yet, only yesterday,
I recall its savory abundance.

Just now,
the lofty branches rustle
—the wind lifts their stately limbs.

Do they, the steadfast trees,
recall the season?

Their leaves, once a designer’s 
jacket, the artist left
no name…
the garment whisked away.

Exposed, the nakedness of
this ‘time’ understands no shame.

Beneath a blue 
winter sky,
white flour, flakes of snow,
land on a table.
I crawl out from beneath.

A banquet preparing itself…
and I, blessed to be a 
welcomed guest.

Drops of Color/ History/HERstory

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

 

Drops of Color
History/HERstory

The binding of her being
a soft shade of brown.

From the dust of the earth,
she was fashioned.

Her DNA is linked to the soil’s foundations.

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

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

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

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

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

United we Stand.
United we live out the Story…

“Behold all things are made NEW.” 

It is taking place right before 
our eyes.

History being made…HERstory
being told.

Thank You

Thank You

The ground 
had spoken.

At first, a reluctance
to believe actual words were heard.

Was someone speaking
—someone unseen, unnoticed
lurking behind trees?

Painted shadows marked the ground.
Was it a person disguised
filling my ears with 
the illusion of sound?

Again, the ground quaked—
it was a rumble of sorts
and, now as I glanced at my boots,
a soft drape of brown earth
colored the moistened leather of my soles’ cover.

H-e-l-l-o-o-o, I stammered
ever so softly.
I heard something, but I could
not make out the words.

I sat silently unaware of the
growing hours passing by.

I must have nodded off in this haven
of solace…the sun inching its way
toward the west.

I rose realizing I was covered in
mud…the ground spoke clearly now,
“Here is from where you came.
A single breath, and you were
formed and fashioned.  Protect me,
watch over us, this vast crust of skin
veiled over earth,  Care for us so
humankind can grow, multiply and 
serve what it has been gifted to tend.”

Before I could utter a word,
the ground’s last words to my
listening ears, “Thank you.”

My eyes filled with a river of tears
now bathing the surface at my feet.

I stepped differently now, turning back 
wondering if this was ‘just’ a dream.

A garden of flowers blossomed
where I had sat.

Plucked from this garden,
I whispered, “Thank YOU.”

 

Drops of Color/ …I’ll be back again

Drops of Color

…I’ll be back again

Sammy  Did you hear that?

Rosie:     What?

Sammy:  Shh, there it is again.

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

Sammy:    Quiet!

Rosie:        Hey, I heard it, but…

Snowperson:  “Pack it good, real good!”

Did you say that Sammy?
No, Rosie.

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

Sammy, Sammy can we keep
the snowperson forever?

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

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

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

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

A Path

A Path

An uncharted path
hid-den beneath
pristine white snow
—a blanket spread
—a quilt of dazzling snowflakes
     knitted without a needle or thread.

Many paths that we walk in life
we never intentionally
set out to traverse.

Many paths
were invitations
we may not have accepted
YET—the way we had to find and discover
while knee deep in the path’s center.

Stepping with a silent anticipation
—the snow rises above the ankle
—the next step sinks in
     and powder gathers to the hips.

The wind howls
releasing speckles of frosty drops
clinging to eye lashes.
Branches click then clack together
seeming to laugh aloud 
at the site.

Proceeding, more slowly 
every day steps taken for granted
—now gliding, slipping, stumbling
across this path
a satiny sheet of white.

Glazing forward
—a visible pattern
    etched between tree trunks.

Was this 
unmarked
path chosen?

Does it matter?

The beauty of the landscape
even with its 
unspoken perils
invites the walker
to press onward.

The snow 
begins to fall
and once again
the path unseen.

Yet,  for the walker
—an invitation
to begin

AGAIN

Drops of Color/ What Song

Drops of Color

What Song?

Sing to me…

What song is being sung
in you?

Are you blowing through
the saxophone?

Are you caressing
the piano keys?

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

Are you sounding a trumpet?

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

Are you someone quietly listening,
taking it all in?

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

you are gliding, dipping, swooning
right NOW.

What song is being
played in you?

Follow whatever ‘notes’
and
create the symphony

‘in’ you.

Unknown Hour

 

Unknown Hour

The branch
holding you for so long
knew it was ‘time.’

The ring inside this tree’s sturdy trunk
forms another circle like each tick
on a clock.

Letting go, you waffled left, then right.
For a few moments, you hovered
in the air like a ballerina
completing a pirouette.

You fell landing in a tranquil pond.
When you touched the water,
     it was a soft kiss.

A gentle ripple spread itself.
You held each other.

The unknown hour came.
You were pulled under
by what, by whom…no longer relevant.

Gone, yet there lies a trace.
Your veins stretch across your 
    leaf’s face.

I see a part of its pattern in me.

Right now, the pond holds the reflection.

I turn aside, moving on—
the branch let another leaf fall.

 

Drops of Color/ GOOD Trouble

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

get in GOOD trouble, necessary trouble.”

                                          ~~~John Lewis

I Still Remain

A square etched
on a blank page.

What words
began to follow?

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

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

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

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

NOW

washed away.

I stand, soaked.

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

Even though I am drenched,
I still stand.

I hope
      I trust
                 I believe

in GOODNESS.

No-thing can
wash me
away while

I still remain.

In Memory of John Lewis, ‘GOOD Trouble.’

Sweet

Sweet

Sweet

A morsel of honey
dripped from heaven’s comb
dabbing the soft palate of 
my being
filling my words with
a savory hymn.

I placed my pen down
and listened.

The salt from my tears
added to the rich flow
of golden sustenance.

A bee, coming from an
unknown place,
lands on my shoulder.

Together, we listen
as another drop
splashes upon us.

Bathed are we in the
sweet expressions of

life’s ‘sticky’ orchestras
always being played.

Drops of Color/ One

Drops of Color

One

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

Why do we go on
pretending we are not?

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

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

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

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

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

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

If it so…

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

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

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

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

You have already Risen—
do you understand?

Now…go back
into this World…

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

…become the wave

…become the Wave

I dive.

Leaping no longer an option.

A force pulls me into the open sea.

I am not adrift.

Almost immediately, I am fashioned
into the swirling drops within which I am
now gathered.

A natural flow
—a rhythm undefined
—a sacred dance formed
     is now playing itself out.

In a solitary sweeping motion,
I am part of a wave…no, I have
become the wave.

Effortlessly, the substance of each
enmeshed drop follows a pattern
—one not designed, yet one
    seemingly written on unspoken pages.

Rising to a crest
—an unexplainable high
delving into a curl
—a hallow tunnel absent of any drop,
     yet held by each ‘strand’ of water.

The curl rolls over into its Oneness
—into the sea from which it has come
     and again, the creation of the wave
—the repeated pattern
     discovering itself for a first time
     until suddenly it discovers the shore.

For a moment, reunited with the sands of time
—like two lovers they embrace
     knowing they must depart…
     holding one another
—never forever.

And, the unknowing realization
they are never parted.

Their hearts linked to the vast
ocean of life carry them beyond.

Submerged in wonder
—in hidden depths.

Only now, am I learning to breathe
‘under’ water.

 

Drops of Color/ The Gate

Drops of Color

The Gate—

it is not so narrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ENTER

it is open for all.

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

Pilgrimage

Pilgrimage

Out of the sea,
I surfaced.

My tail morphed itself
splitting in two
—delicate stumps began to bend.

I was held in a moment of silent prayer.

Two feet sprang and I stood.

Limbs branched from a torso, like a breast plate,
and I reached skyward.

Ocean drops fell
upon earth’s bed.

I stepped and could not stop.

I was no longer held in a sea of blue.

I traverse a bed of green.

A hawk soared above my head,
I lifted my arms.
I began to fan each limb
faster and faster.

I was no longer on the ground—
this PILGRIMAGE so utterly new.

I looked down… ‘inside’ I said,
“This cannot be happening…
            I cannot—fly”

The hawk swooped beneath me—
its feathers became a bed for me
to lie upon.

My arms grasped the magnificent
wing span—I closed my eyes.

I don’t know where this pilgrimage began
or where it shall end.

The hawk led me to the sea,
I dove in— forever.

Drops of Color/ Solitary

Drops of Color

Solitary

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

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

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

The winds rose
as did the vessel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moon rises
from hid-den galaxies.

I am not alone.
Invisible oars lap the water.

I am destined for
the Unknown.

I know you’ll greet
me when I arrive.

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

See the faces…

See the faces…

Today.

I am praying.
(call it Meditation, Tonglen or Contemplation)

Not for me.

Not for you.

I am whispering into
the Universe
for our World 
gone asunder.

I cry out,
“What is Truth?”
“Where is Justice?”

See the faces of
innocent tiny eyes,
fragile minds
listening to adults—

listening, observing adults!

Grown-ups,
unable to communicate
without hurling 
words children are taught
not to repeat.

My prayer is for them—
‘our little ones’
that they understand
we make mistakes,
yet we get up and 
try again.

We forgive, we turn the other cheek.
(We do NOT inflict harm—we extend kindness at ALL costs)
We stand beside each other so that everyone can be fed.
—Fed with meals curbing hunger
—Given clothing so no one is left naked or cold
and shelter for those who do not even know
the meaning of the Dow Jones. 

This is a simple prayer,
I know,
filled with hope
while I still
sit beside woe.

Sometimes, I wonder,
Have you heard a single word?

Then I grow quiet,
no longer a word to utter.

I know you are here.
I need not worry about
tomorrow.
Yesterday has passed.

I will sit a while longer…

Prayer truly never ends.

Drops of Color/ Seven Hanging Pots…

I share this poem through tears…

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

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

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

Drops of Color
Seven Hanging Pots
(In the Beginning)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Satisfied

Satisfied

The time—
the hour…I know not.
Yet, it was as if a 
symbol clanged
and a host of drops gathered
from a Source
wider than the sea.
Into the skies they soared—
higher and higher
they climbed
until they were out of sight.

Silence ‘broke.’
With a rush,
the sound of stampeding horses could be heard
across a barren desert.

Hoof beats showered downward.
There was no rhythm—
but a melody.
A harmony was heard that could not
be transcribed.

Notes fell splattering
the surface.
Every drip, each drop
crescendo
into pools of sweet sounding
echoes
playing on, and on, and on.

Standing in this musical,
I cupped my hands
as they filled with water.
I drenched myself
refilling the cup
to drench myself again.

Then, I stepped out
as if in the center of 
the stage.

I was deluged
until not a speckle of
me remained dry.

A thirst rose in me
“Fill me more,
Fill me more…
so that I can bring it to others.”

—Satisfied—

I splashed these words for you…
hoping you are soaked in wonder.

Drops of Color/ In Our Hands

 

In Our Hands
A painted ceiling 
began its formation.

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

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

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

Instead,
the paint burned with
crisper colors.

How could color become
more vibrant than 
it already is?

Pools formed and I 
dipped my pen.

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

What was being painted?

In Our Hands…images.

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

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

Simple words written, “Thank you.”

Ordinary classrooms linked via 
Zoom…extraordinary!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People were talking— others were
listening.

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

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

Tears became a pool—
A lament painting itself.

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

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

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

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

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

does not say much at all.

INSTEAD,

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

Let nothing divide.
Let communion be shared with ALL.

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

                                   —The Painter of Ceilings

A Novel

A Novel

A beam of Light
—like a series of words
—descends ‘into’ a flower.

Each letter becomes a petal.
The stem forms a sentence
while each leaf a paragraph.

The One who gazes is
drawn into the heart
of a Novel—blossoming.

Now, the light transforms
the beholden and the beholder.

Truly, this is how it has
always been

ONLY the light broke any
divide of it not being so.

Drops of Color/ The Night of Christmas

Drops of Color
The Night of Christmas

Twas’ the night of Christmas
and I lay covered in bed.
Thoughts of this day
wrapped the gift it had been.

It began beneath
stars made manifest
in the dark and the chill
of winter’s wonders
glistened upon branches
and homes
dressed in lights.

I walked into a 7-Eleven
to purchase the news of
this day and I was
greeted by a gentleman.
“Merry Christmas” and I wished
that were the headline for the day.  
Before I reached
what I’d come for, I looked
at this man…
I asked him what tradition
was his on this day.
He quickly responded, “I’m Buddhist.”
I bowed as I spoke “Namaste”
and we hugged in the aisle.

Off in my sleigh,
I took off in the night
to a Starbuck’s for tea.
Again, to my joy-filled 
surprise…a choir of angels
shouted with glee, “Merry Christmas”
and I ordered my hot cup of
Earl Grey.

Then at the window,
a young man stood.
His name was Muhammed
and morning greetings ensued.

I asked if he celebrated this day.
He told me he was Muslim and will
celebrate come Spring.
I thanked him and said, “We share
the same sky…” he gazed out the 
window, looking up at the stars.
He spoke, “That’s beautiful” and 
again my sleigh pressed on.

I held the hot liquid
close to my lips.
Before I could drink,
I had to swallow my tears.

The Incarnation
of this day
is NOT only THIS day
it’s each and EVERY day…

The birthing mystery
broken open
IS for all.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah,
Blessed Kwanza, Happy Holidays

and to each and everyone

A Good Night.

What IF…

What IF…

What IF the stories
are TRUE?

What IF a mere child—
a girl with a name
we know as Mary
WAS overshadowed
by ‘some-thing’ other
THAN a man.

What IF she bore
a child…
not even she could
understand.

What IF—
Water really was turned to wine?
And baskets were filled
with leftovers…
some little boy (nameless) gave
the last fish he had—
NOW everyone ate
and was FULL.

What IF
these miracles TRUE?

Perhaps, then
might come true
the words…
“You, too, shall do
even greater things than these.”

The deaf could hear—
The blind could see—
A leper cleansed—
A hemorrhage ceased—
A prostitute ‘touched’ so 
she would know she’s loved— 

What IF
we looked closely
and realized
these daily miracles
go on

By persons
who daily whisper…
“Don’t tell anyone”

What IF?

Blessed Winter Solstice

Drops of Color/ Glory & Wonder

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.”

On a Clear Day

On a Clear Day

On a clear day

I can see for stretches of vast
landscapes.

Walking on—the pictures before me
change and leave imprints—
countless rooms, secret chambers tended,
beating in a cave
within my heart.

But, on days when all is not so
clear,

I look out and my imagination is
ignited.

Visions beyond words dance across
a hillside…a pool of water
carries me over a bridge into
far off lands.

The sky lets down a stairway
and, I  climb, and climb, and climb.

When I believe myself to have
reached the summit,
a slide appears.
Down, I plunge—
hands raised high in the air.

Laughing, I splash into a
garden of blossoms,
each gentle petal
softening my landing.

I rest and wake in a clearing.
—the fog lifts
—the mist gone

My imagination finds its way
to a blank page
and, words like flames,
fill the cave inside my heart.

The light never seems to fade
even when the embers
seem to have vanished.

 

Drops of Color/ The Stockings were Hung…

Drops of Color

The Stockings were Hung…

with affection and care

in hope that this year
would invite us to prayer.

Yes, the stockings were hung
with so much love and ‘wear’

—miles walked in so much unknown
—persons held in place…isolated
—faces guarded by masks
—the virus spread
—still, hosts of angels went in
…it was about LIFE
   and ministering in death.

I believe incarnation slipped in
between cracks.
Yes, suffering happened and still LOVE
was the thread.

These stockings were
hung with affection & care—
the greatest gift found

—in the Love
     of a world broken,
    yet, for a first time—FOUND!

The Sky

The Sky
The clouds spread

while wings expanded
in a sea of blue.
The sun lit the sky—
the horizon knew no border.

The hawk, a dab in the 
held photo, let out a wail
—a chorus echoed.

I stood,
“Encore, Encore, Encore”

Feathers hovered.

A circling pattern performed.

The ‘singers’ bellowed
a high pitched note.
Clouds gathered
carrying the sound
within themselves.

A soft rain,
from no where,
began to soak me.

I spread my arms…
listening, taking in the song.

Soon, I became
the melody…

I circled in
effortless wonder.

Drops of Color/ Lived

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.

Fruit from the Vine

Fruit from the Vine

The work of unseen hands.
The ‘planter’ prepared the soils.
Seeds laid in the rich, brown
mud…earth’s womb.

Labor pains ‘cracked’ the ground.
Broken, a vine spreads itself.

Taking in the summer’s heat
—moisture fed the budding leaves
—gentle rains caressed the fruit
     being born.

The Gardener watched, waited
and tended…a hoe of prayers
digging, breaking up, making way
for what was to come.

Picked, in bunches,
—succulent circles of pleasure
—juices dripping with the finest
    vintage not yet bottled.

The Gardener tastes
but, before doing so
—the fruit lifted
—thanks offered.

The work of an Unknown Hand.
What a Blessing.

Drops of Color/ Many Utensils

Drops of Color
“Happy Thanksgiving”
(Belated Thanksgiving greetings to my friends in Canada)

Many Utensils

In this kitchen,
there are many utensils…

Today, I’m handling
the spatula of gratitude.
Stirring again and again
awaiting its gentle boil.

I add touches of spices.
Each added ‘pinch’ descends
into the enormous pot and
an aroma ascends.

This day I prepare
what IS with ‘thanks.’

This soufflé of words
breaks open—

for all who read
it is your ‘giving’ heart
that reaches mine
reminding me of the eternal banquet
from which I daily taste.

Abundant Blessings.

Always Gratitude.

Can Be

Can Be

Seasons change
as do words.

The stately oak stands
in the middle of 
the dense forest;
inside, rings write themselves.

Age marks, the years gone by,
yet, ‘outside”
written between invisible lines,
limbs broken by gusty winds
—new formations etched by a pen.

Leaves dress themselves
adorning the dark edges of bark.
Paragraphs already written,
find new expressions.

Expanding this story, this once tiny shoot,
pushed its way through deep soils.

Even if NO one sees this autobiography,
there is a witness.

A day, an evening, a blanket of stars,
lives this moment
like a rhythmic poem not needing an ending.

The paper never seems to crumble…
even if covered over by snowflakes.
Icicles refashion what authors spend
lifetimes attempting to impart.

The mighty river, feeding the roots,
rushes by when the rains fall,
yet its stillness heard when a soft summer
breeze echoes through its
open canopies.  Caves carved out by creatures
living in this novel.

Everything is a noun.
Adjectives are the seasons
describing what has been seen
and yes, when seen again
it is as a first time.

An eraser does not rid the winter’s past
just as time cannot remove
the scenes of yester years.

Spring comes with a sweet
composition heralding the 
observer, “Begin Again.”

The oak spreads its branches
—words like soft buds
open unfolding a blank page.

And, this writer
paints sentences
here today
giving thanks for yesterday’s blessings
and, seeking the wonders of tomorrow,
new, fresh, alive
and in love
with a world
which gives each of us the ability
to create not only what we
want to see
BUT what we also believe 
Can Be.

Drops of Color/ Masks

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.

SEE in Yourself

See in Yourself

By grace
an eloquent rising.
Rays like ladders
fan every which way;
a lure for everyone
to cast one’s essence.

Join the flame
‘in’ you to the One
setting the World to Light.

No matter how dim shadows
pervade—you are set aglow
in radiant splendor.

Do not mimic anyone else.
Guides are good,
but leaders set you to
SEE in yourself
the SUN that you are.

In this knowing,
in this becoming,
we learn to bow to one
another,
to all living sentient beings we bow

Manifesting You in the World
NOW.

Drops of Color/ Inside

Drops of Color

Inside…

darkness ‘holds’ a space
as it did in ‘The Beginning.’

The cusp of windows
invites light into
hid-den chambers.

Listening ‘in’ silence…
voices~~~many!

They seem to be saying,
“This is Good, this is Good…”

All is quiet.

The blending of two entities
eliciting shadows
and bringing colors to life.

Behold the Oneness.

Today

Today
Like a table cloth
laced with an elegant
pattern,

You hung.

The detailed weaving
of ice particles
formed beside your body

ever so still.

Your color fading
—You hold in this moment
—You gather in the sun’s warmth
—Every vein in your paper flesh
savoring life
mindful of the fall
that will whisk you away.

You live the essence of this season.

Trusting, you will be carried away.

The cloth surrounding you shall be lifted.

You will gather ‘in’ a 
banquet of plenty

where eternal tomorrows
will appear

as if a new and already lasting

Today.

Drops of Color/ Scraps

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.

ALL Souls

ALL Souls

We remember
and recall their past.

What has become of
their future—
a constant question
many attempt to grasp.

Faith in ‘some’ place
beyond us dwells
or
do we adhere to 
the words
what we believe ‘beyond’
—resides within.”

Baffling thoughts…
Yet, what is the truth?
Answers or questions?
Yes, questions—
guides to the Unknown.

Words paint a page
and Souls still alive—
For me the stars mark
the paths where they now reside.

One day
I’ll know what lies
beyond.

For now ALL Souls (Saints)
I trust
are at peace
and are HOME.
(A Place beyond my Imagination)

Drops of Color/ Steps…

Drops of ColorSteps…

There’s no specific
way.

Exactly where you
place your foot
and then the other
is where you are meant to be.

Be present—
the place upon which you stand…
centuries old.

The patterns, the colors…
circles, lines—
they flow.

You are 
on a path.

Take a step,
then take another.
Pause awhile—
rest.

You might even
re-peat steps
a second time,
a third time…

things may seem familiar
but each step never
the same as the last.

Now, close your eyes.

The floor you
stand on
awaits your steps.

Pumpkin Patch

Pumpkin Patch

Deep in the woods—
a patch 
of pumpkins.

How…
How did this ‘orange’ garden
of tantalizing gourds arrive here???

The Great Pumpkin?

Let’s be serious…
This is NO ‘trick‘…
it is a tasty ‘treat.’

I discovered the spreader
of the seeds…

Carefully planted indeed!

Yes, there the Gardner was
sitting atop one of
the finest pumpkins
rolled to the side.

The harvest IS full
and the laborers are plenty

AND beyond human.

Drops of Color/ Details

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.