Why Walk

Why Walk

Once upon a time
my feet touched the ground
running like a gazelle
upon a smooth sheet
of star-lit waters.

This is no fairy-tale—
a part of me ‘broke’…
The break in the pavement
nowhere near the
enormity of what
was dis-lodged
in my inability to step.

A new flow
‘sprung’ in me
—a new rhythm
My spirit unleashed.

I ran—
this time on paper.
I filled the pages with
images, persons
mystical, mythical~~~ALIVE.

I shared them
visually and through story-telling.

I regained my steps…
I discovered a new balance
or was it a lost balance

In all the unknown
I sat beside persons
preparing for beyond.

I had been doing this a life-time
it seems—
but, now those persons
were kin to me.

I was not the ‘professional’
coming in to assist the 
grappling, the acceptance, the ______________.

I walked, and walked
tumbling, looking into the eyes
of these persons
who now live
each day
in front of me, out of reach
yet, at moments, beside me
as I inhale their delicate

I walk
because their faces
are the maps
that guide my steps

and sometimes I 
go off alone
to see

YOUR face
of me.
“The eye through which I see God is
the same eye through which God
sees me; my eye and God’s eye are
one eye, one seeing, one knowing,
one love.”

~~~Meister Ekhart~~~


Sketch of Myself/ Jewel

Sketch of Myself

The Real “Jewel”
is not adorned around your neck.
The rarest gem is beating
and no ‘price tag’ could label
the value of YOU.



The seconds, minutes, hours
and in between

the breath…

The years pass-on—
yet, the ‘gasp’

The ‘un-marked’ time…

The unknown
place called Home.

Sketch of Myself/Table-Set

Sketch of Myself
Table-Set…Everyone Invited

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

Winnowed Away…

Winnowed Away…

Held by

The absence
of what was 
finds space…
in this emptiness.

A treasure
found~ beyond rubies, sapphires & diamonds.

there a life-time

the rubble removed.

The debris
now scattered~~~
winnowed away.

What lies
in this NOW


No longer 
needing to be named




Sketch of Myself/ Let a book ‘pic’ you…

Sketch of Myself
Let a book ‘pic’ you…

Discover the shelf
holding the treasure
waiting for you…

What will the pages say to you?
Allow the story to come alive.
Take a role of ANY character
or become each subject.

Can you relate to the message?
Can you fill in unwritten lines
magically giving life to a story of
your own?

When you have reached the last page
and closed the cover,

rush back to the shelf
and begin again.

A book waits to ‘pic’ you.

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



No matter
how I run
or pause

You are there

Always quiet,

Especially when
my mind adrift.

You sit beside the

Every vessel carrying
each ‘thought’
floats on by.

You do not 
pull any of my ‘wanderings’
to the water’s edge.

You patiently
curl yourself
like a kitten
cradled in a blanket…
I almost hear your purrrr.

You leave room—
an empty space…
I settle at your side.

You laugh
as I pull myself


A song is being

Perhaps, it is 
a first time
I hear it spilling

Notes after notes.

It is beautiful really…

and the Rest

I have discovered
so gently—

It has given me the 
JOY to play-on.


Sketch of Myself/ A Dab of Color

Sketch of Myself
A Dab of COLOR

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

The Buck

The Buck

The night young.
The moon wrapped 
in black drapery.
It would be hours
before the curtains pulled
wide ushering in the dawn.

A soft wind
nipped my frosted face.
Stepping, I listened to
the soft echoes of silence.

In my pocket two
small apples…
I would place them where my
forest friends would nibble
on their succulent juices.

Suddenly, the quiet hush was
 a loud ‘strike’ and then
cries…I heard the hoof beats
pounding the pavement.

I knew
I ran, limping—crying!

The car stopped.
A small man stepped out—
phone to his ear, he pleaded.
“Come quickly, the deer jumped in
front of my car…come quickly
it’s in pain.”

I knelt beside the creature—
he wanted to get up with such
urgency but the hip was
severely broken.

He let me touch his soft head,
its delicate ears,
his long nose…his new antlers
just breaking through.
I spoke as if he knew my
every word.

The ‘gentle’-man knelt beside me.
He placed his hand on the buck’s
brow and said, “I’m sorry.”
The moment shall NEVER leave me…
The buck held the man’s gaze—
it was the most tender sight I
ever beheld…
The creature, solemn & calm yet in
horrific pain seemed to embody…
“You are forgiven.”

An officer arrived…
We moved the buck
as tenderly as we could to the
frozen bed of green grass…
I knew what was coming.

I stayed holding a “hoof.”
The shot fired—
I felt it go through my ‘hide.’
He clung for life.
A second shot—
his breath stopped.

I wept.

I would walk
soaked in my own tears—
my heart ached.
I could hear the cries of the
young deer in the forest.

The next morning
the moon was full—
I walked to the tomb.

Before I arrived,
a solitary buck rustled from
the brush…
he walked with a slight limp—

No, no it couldn’t be!

Then again…
everything dies
and finds a way to RISE again.

Sketch of Myself/ Docked

Sketch of Myself


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

The Face

The Face

In the eye
of the majestic hawk
intertwined in the branch’s steeple…

In the delicate pines
a herd of deer—
we hold each other’s stare

and I am beholden
to the face of God.

In the faces
of each life
the image of You
speaks to me
like a hushed breath.

I bow in prayer—
the ground beneath my feet casts your pupils
in the soil.


Sketch of Myself/ “Sit right back & you’ll hear a tale…”

Sketch of Myself

“Sit right back & you’ll hear a tale…”

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

Wooden Box

Wooden Box

A wooden box
with a long slender neck
whispered from a hollow center,
“Will you play me?”

Looking left then right,
in front and then behind—
No one was there but me.
Did I HEAR the wooden box
whisper, “Come play me?”

There it was again…”play me!”
Gently, I grasped the neck
mindful of the six slippery
strings longing to be caressed.
“Play me.”

Sitting on  an old tree stump,
I plucked what seemed a sturdy
vine~ “TWANG.”

The vibrations wove around tree branches,
cascaded through hanging leaves.
The sky seemed to reach down
and the sun held what became
a stage.

A pick in hand—
then another “TWANG”
—fingers danced between frets.

Birds chimed in
while insects made music
with their wings.

When the performance ended,
I picked up the wooden box.
Rising from the stump and 
walking beneath the stars,
I believe I heard the stump speak…

“I live on~~~thanks for playing me.”

Sketch of Myself/ Prayer

Sketch of Myself/ Prayer
       Some day’s
        prayer is
         an expression
         leaving me

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

Flower Baskets

Flower Baskets

Three potted plants
perched on a white rail.

Someone ‘placed’ them
—arranged them and cared for them.

One day…
when the three plants thought they
were alone

they began a blossoming

The blue basket of flowers
said to the green basket of flowers,

“I could gaze upon you forever.”

The reply was soft, no words
only a gentle wave of buds.

The green basket of flowers turned
to the white basket of green and said,

“Did you hear what the blue basket
of flowers said to me?”

The white basket of flowering greens
did not speak.

Again, the green basket of
flowers repeated its question.

The white basket,
clearing it voice said,

“I looked at you and saw your
beauty and I was envious
so I kept silent.
The blue basket…which truly
bore no flowers saw your
beauty and could not cease
from holding a gaze.

Deep inside the blue basket
there is a beauty

The green & white baskets of
flowers turned to the
blue basket of what was

and spoke in unison,

“We SEE you
and hope we grow
in your ways.”

Sketch of Myself/Behind this wall..

Sketch of Myself/ Behind this wall…
                                                 There are beautiful walls
                                                    draped with windows
                                               allowing the fresh air to roll
                                                       in and sway out

                                       There are ‘entrances’ built within these
                                   walls— sometimes the doors remain opened
                                             everyone enters is welcomed…
                                                  no one is turned away.


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

Your Name

Your Name

The piece of paper
turned…back & forth, up & down
could not hold
the immeasurable span
of feathered drapery.

At first,
hid-den by darkness
the ‘unseen’ broke the night.
The wings flapped in perfect balance.
A metronome
ticked in the silent
beat of creation.

The Universe seemed to stop breathing
or it was I
covering my mouth to conceal
the gasp of magnificence
as my eyes beheld
the night’s stalker.

I froze in time.
Matter and spirit on display
harmonizing a ‘piece’ that
for now was not finished.

A tiny bird woven into
a thicket—
The owl would not receive its prey,
NO, not this time.

For a moment we held
each other’s gaze.
It seemed an eternity
yet, it was only seconds.

Did the night hunter
think I, too, after the same morsel
as it flew into the ‘staged’ forest?

I heard a branch break
in the thick shrub.

for now
the tiny bird.

The pursuer
will return.

Hungry enough
it will be filled.

THEN, I thought of YOU
who no longer bears a name…

You, who calls me
from slumber
casts me in the night sky
and reveals to me what
day cannot portray.

You are the pursuer
and this night
I am carried in your
talons (unharmed).
I hear the chorus
in your outstretched arms.

I am lifted
wishing the stage I am in
could hold a moment longer.

The world plays-on
my breath—
inhale & exhale—
Yah-Weh, Yah-Weh, Yah-Weh.

Your name
without speaking a word

in my very breath.

Sketch of Myself/ Sitting by the Sea

Sketch of MyselfSitting by the Sea

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

Sketch of Myself/ There is COLOR

Sketch of Myself
                                    There is COLOR even on cloudy days…”

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

A Dark Night of a Soul

A Dark Night of a Soul

The water cool
splashing at the ankles.

The helm held
for the time being.
It is that which the soul grasps.

There are no controls—
no way to steer the vessel.

Direction is irrelevant
all earthly North—lost.

Yet, from this point
the one aboard the living cocoon
sways with the ebb and flow.

In the darkness, one hears the wind.

The moment quickens
water soaking the soul…
hands grip ‘no-thing’
yet there is a sense of holding onto Life.

From THIS center, all life

The winds cease…
wobbling now to maintain balance.

Which easier
to stand as the wind wrestles,
tossing in the unseeing


stopped as if frozen
held in place?

The soul rocks simply to stay afloat.

A light streaks across the black
A roar heard in the not so distant

the sound~~~a hundred hoof beats
stampeding in every hidden corner.

Hurled from the cocoon,
the soul bursts
the remains of the vessel submerged.

The soul—in a shattering
moment…a taste of freedom
elicits a sense of fear and wonder.

Nothing to hold/no longer held
—a gulp of water swallowed unintentionally.

The soul is alive.

Life is holding the soul
and the being realizes it
never had to ‘grasp’…
never had the soul
had to hold on

to any-THING.

The deep sea churns—
the soul drifts
and takes moments to tread water.

A deep breath in
the soul plunges and from the
port of the ‘being’ an
exhale expands as the
surface broken.

The darkness reveals a newness—
SEEING so many others
NOW floating alongside—free.
The soul is not alone.

The stars appear from galaxies
far away~~~
they, too, alive in the dark.

Ahead—the soul makes
out a landscape~~~
shadows of mountains,
arms of swaying branches.

One hand curls over into
the water, the other hand
follows the rhythmic motion.

When the soul reaches the island,
the arrival only marks the
beginning of the journey

the dark night of a soul
sails on and beyond.


The Ground

The Ground

The ground took me—
holding me by surprise.

I crawled upon the soft
mattress of its wet grasses.

My nails dug deep into its
cold dark soils—
muddy, unclean.
I felt alive.

Sparrows twirled
around my head
whispering love chirps.
Bees soaked the pollen
from the dandelions’ dander which
caked to my knees.

Passion rose inside me.
I rolled down a hill
holding onto every slivered blade of grass
laughing so loudly the
trees began clapping their branches.

Enveloped in the earth’s
crust,I was the golden nugget
I was the diamond needing not
to be cut.
Already, I was the ring
at one with the gem.

Darkness came.
I had no idea how or
when dusk slipped by.

Crawling all day,
I allowed myself to bed down.

Closing my eyes, I dreamed the stars
had rained down covering
me with a blanket of galaxies.

When I woke,
I rubbed the crusted
sparkles from my lashes.

Believing my dreams,
I lifted the LIGHT
drawing back the

A smile painted my
face…I knew
from whence
I came.

Sketch of Myself/Can you spare…

Sketch of Myself
                                            “Can you spare a cracker or two”

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ The Final Day IN this Guest House

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ The Final Day IN this Guest House
September 18th, 2018

Beneath the shallow
the hearts of men

On the surface,
black tears
stain the rippling

A faint heart beat
can be heard
in the deep

It is not a mystery—
it is the ache of

—War that ends life
—War that destroys
creation’s splendors
—We ‘all’ die
when weaponry is
hurled in a manic way
attempting to destroy life.

The graves
tho not dug—
reminders of a history
never to be erased


a history
we must prepare
NEVER to happen again.
We must
allow a seed inside                                               
ourselves to
die and lie
dormant long enough

to blossom.

When we ourselves
allow this transformation
a relational dance
Most often unnoticed.

Dance now upon the waves…
hold these men of war.

They never saw what was
and even if they did
there was nowhere to run
or hide.

We remember—
how we ‘ALL’ lose in battle…
Both sides.

Open our eyes—
at least wide enough
to recognize
we are the same side
of a circular coin…

one day you may be ‘heads-up’
the next ‘tails-down.’

No matter how many
times you flip the coin
it still is…

One solitary coin.

Treasures lie
in the lives taken needlessly.

the ‘Pearls’ below speak…

“NEVER let this happen again.”
Dedicated to those who lost their lives in Pearl Harbor and to the living, especially our children, who will ALWAYS remember.

Sketch of Myself/ LISTEN

Sketch of Myself/ Listen
                                             “Let the ‘strings’ write the words.”

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 12

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 12
September 15th, 2018

Class began…

It started before I arrived.

I did not have to go to
admissions to see if there was
room available…

this class was full—
but the depths were limitless.

I melted beneath
the surface
I tried not to make waves
I attempted to discover the flow.

For the longest time
I hovered.
I heard my breath
the snorkel attached to my mask
allowed me to fill my lungs
and release my breath
through an artificial port—

I heard the vibrations
of what came out of me
and especially what filled me.

Rays of sunlight
warmed the living coral bed—
Yellow fish
Black fish
Fish of numerous colors
swam by in perpetual motion.

Each fish ‘sailing’ its uncharted
path and moved as the current
carried them to and fro.

So simple—
fitting in this classroom.

The whistle blew
the class I attended—over.

I have discovered a new art
called, “Diving In.”

It is not frightening once
you trust
and believe in your own flow.

Cast yourself—
don’t allow a hook to keep you

Sketch of Myself/Quench Your Thirst

Sketch of Myself/Quench Your Thirst
                                           “When you stop to quench your thirst,
                                         find a moment to discover your reflection~~~
                                                  You’ll NEVER thirst again…”

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 11

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 11
September 14th, 2018


His name…


His office along side
the sea.

He picked his rock,
his office chair, on this
particular morning.

He brought large palms
pure green.

Before he began to ‘weave,’
—he laid out his ‘good’ book
—a few precious stones
and a tiny vase
holding a single flower.

He placed some crumbled
crackers on the stones
beside him.

One by one they arrived—
and then zebra doves.

They definitely knew Dave
I mean David.
If he did not tend first to his clientèle,
a turbulence more alarming
than the sea began.

David wove ‘hats’—
covers for the hot sun.
His craftsmanship…pure elegance.

His price…whatever you could place in his
empty cup.

David’s business practice
some would say was a tad unethical.
He quoted a few short verses he knew
by heart…yes, from his ‘good’ book.

I did not purchase a cover for my head,
but I left something in the cup.

David put his forehead to mine.
Looking directly into my eyes,
I held his gaze…he held mine.

No verses in this moment…

David said, “A”…exhaling
then continuing the breath after a
silent pause, he went on “LOHA.”


The island greeting…

I think the most beautiful prayer
I ever heard.

I left David’s office.
I glanced back after
walking a few steps.

David waved
as did I.

He went back to his work…

and, while I am writing
this prose
along side the sea,

I’m just beginning to
understand the work
that is mine to do.

David and I understand
office space…

I think I need to leave more


Sketch of Myself/ …ONE and the Same

Sketch of Myself

  “Each pane ‘holds’ its own view and still the picture is ONE and the Same.”

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 6

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 6
September 9th, 2018

This Morning’s Gospel
           written by the Sea

The Opening Verse
           carried by a wave
                and quickly pulled under

The Second Verse
         held the wind~~~
               a haunting ‘note’
                splashing the blue ‘reflection’
             from the sky above

The Third Verse
    lifted beams of lights—
rainbows…like boxes of
   crayons melting into the waters

The Forth Verse
     whispered, “I Am Carrying You”

while the 5th & 6th verses
    spoke, “Be Still”

The Seventh Verse closed,
      “The Gospel of the Sea”

a fish leaped…

“Thanks be to ALL”

Sketch of Myself/A NEW Season

Sketch of Myself
                                          “A NEW Season of Becoming”

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/Day 5

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 5
September 8th, 2018
A Pin Cushion

How ‘funny’ metaphors
come to be.

How it is our minds
paint images revealing
something held ‘deeper’ inside
well beyond the frameworks
of the rational mind.

So many needles poking
in this vast cushion.
Aboard a gigantic vessel docked
at the sea’s side—
NOW, in the middle of this ‘cushion’—the sea,
the vessel, a single head of the needle…
a pin prick.

Still, there are so many
heads upon this needle.

I am being ‘poked’ ceaselessly
as I ‘discover’ a room.
I am stitched into this tapestry
at times
threading the needle
before the string almost runs out.

I am this string
dangled from this needle
and, alas
a piece of cloth
holding my stitch.

Silence ensues…
Drops of rain
dump into the moistened cushion—
Rays pour down upon its damp
surface followed by
blankets of swimming clouds
casting shadows pouring
below seamless depths.

I dive in—
HERE I am home
tossed by the sea.

I am drowning in delight…
The only sounds the
soft waves crashing into the sides
of this dancing ship.

Rocking, rocking, rocking…
the ‘cushion’ I am upon
invites me, “Look out.”

Drenched in the tears
of this metaphor,
so much more to say
or maybe the words
have found a way to sink in

into this cushion.

Sketch of Myself/ Stories…

Sketch of Myself
                                                    Stories…still Standing

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 4

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 4 (Setting sail from Vancouver B.C.)
September 7th, 2018

The Brown Tent

Deep shadows of brown—
the soft leathery hide
of this tent.

Held inside a forest
beneath shades…hidden.
Reflections cast in every
direction that was
outside this house.

A gentle knock
on its canopy…
the zipper gave a tad.

Stepping more closely
extending a hand in word—
the zipper lifting another notch.

In the doorway
pausing, listening,
a forest now visible
through the trees.

This man
not touching, but
allowing the space
between us to close in.

His story
a ballad…
A note of enslavement
followed by exile…
So many ‘grounds’ walked upon…
making his way
often alone
his family in his memory
mindful always holding gratitude.

Life…his teacher.
He sat in classrooms.
He knew the language of love
held within the beliefs of
his religion.

A family of his own…

He spoke of passing…
death’s pathway
the stars beyond.

He spoke of blindness,
humility, giving without

He led us to the path
where we would part…

Turning his face,
he ‘lifted’ the shades.
In his eyes the rays of
light filled the
space which held us…
his soul revealed.

We sat a long moment.
Our hands lay on the
indentation of where our hearts lie

No more words…
only the soft beating
of our hearts in union…
they echoed
each other.

I walked on.
The brown weathered tent
in the distance.

I donned my shades.
A tear fell
from behind the lens.

We all have a story
‘a pearl of great price’…


when we listen
to another’s sacred path,
we are never the same to be.

Sketch of Myself/ Open the Door…

Sketch of Myself/ Open the Door…

                                                                   Go “In.”

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day3

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/ Day 3

September 6th, 2018 (Vancouver B.C.)
                                                                  Spy Hop

The mountains lured
and the sun rose upon
the satiny surface of
the water’s black skin.

Oars caressed
‘her’ undisturbed silence
which seemed to be growing
with anticipation to reveal
all the comforts in this
home…THIS House—

One room—
no doors or windows
no locks or traps to
hold anyone or anything
at bay.

Her tempest—calm.
This morning,
as a seagull
devours a scrumptious
breakfast of juicy crab meat,
my eyes wandering—
I felt ‘some-thing’…
it moved closer and ‘still’

A face filled with the softest
whiskers, black pupils
like shiny marbles twirling
held my serene stare.
I ‘slide’ upon her soft, rubbery-like hide—
Her body not ‘in’ this house,
but at one in this place.

I sat in a pew—
she dipped down.

The boarding began.
The sun kissed my face
the soft breeze sent shivers
down my spine.

I would soon
begin to tingle as
‘presence’ revealed itself…

We arrived at their Table
Salmon rose from the sea
as suddenly
a majestic dorsal fin
split the surface
followed by another
and another.

We were in a circle
of the grandest communion.

I wished my eyes
would not blink…
How to capture the moment?

Was she thinking the same thing?
Her body lifting from the water,
HOLDING itself…
observing the congregation
…they call it a spy hop.

Did this really happen?

Again, she soared
this house, this cathedral
the seagulls—the choir.
The incense rose…
The very breath released
from the port hole of the Orca
each time it surfaced .

in this place
I have been broken
enough to taste
and receive
a Divine ‘Oneness’

leading me back
to shore
inviting me to live
this blessed sacrament.



Sketch of Myself/ Follow

Sketch of Myself
                                             …follow the LIGHT Home

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal/Day 2

September 5th, 2018…Day 2 (Vancouver B. C.)

In This House…

There are many mansions.

Four walls
paper thin—cardboard thin.

Shiny black outside…
Inside…I barely make out the face—
Hands folded…
stained with wear and tear.

All day
this human being
carried earthly treasures
from place to place


settling before the tallest
mansion in the city,
gold, silver and luxury

persons come
and go…
do they even see
the cardboard mansion?
The prince or princess
who resides within?

No one says,
“Be gone with you!”
Perhaps, some leave a
few scraps for the
evening banquet.

No linens cover the
floor, no knives or spoons or forks

yet, hands folded
within this mansion.

Are we as ‘prepared’
as is this ‘soul’
for what is in store?

Sketch of Myself/Selection

Sketch of Myself
“What is your menu selection?”

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

I Just Called…

I Just Called…
                                                        to sing…I LOVE YOU

Sketch of Myself/I can HEAR the whistle ‘blowin’

Sketch of Myself/I can HEAR the whistle ‘blowin’…
                                                      …a hundred miles

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

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal Sailing Out of Vancouver B.C.

Aloha…A Hawaiian Journal Sailing Out of Vancouver B.C.
                                                     The Guest House

This being human is a Guest House.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness
comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all
even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.



So many have been ‘knocking’ at the door of my ‘self’…
I have finally ‘opened’ a space wide enough to allow each guest in…”WELCOME”

September 4th, 2018 (Day 1)
Another Journey Begins

I had a dream…
I was cradled in the bend of a tree, its roots burst from the soils ‘holding’ me…not tightly, but not letting-go!

An enormous leaf, like the hand of God, towered above my head—its canopy, a palm. like an umbrella.  I began listening to drops of rain…pink, pink, pink

I attempted to clap my hands.  I tried to tap my feet to the performing rhythms.  I was held as if I were in a womb—invited to listen.  Fading in a moment, I felt like Gulliver  From an unknown place, creatures came… a doe and her fawn, a few frolicking rabbits, a lanky turtle slowly bowing its head, a howling coyote and owls screeched.

I lay still.  Was this a dream?  This…the longing in my heart…to listen.

A Divine disturbance has been my dance.  I cannot state its exact time, I know not the hours, but I’m mindful of so much of life around me as the journey begins.

I have left ‘everything’ behind.  I hear an echo a ‘first’ time…a drum beats loudly, deafening my being’s ‘in-scape.’

It has rattled my core…Every drop tapping the
landscape has become like the music of a guitar—the strings plucked softly and their vibrations the flow filling so much unknown.

These words I write I believe them written before—
differently and the same.  In the haunting unconscious, the shadows of who it is I am step forward—

Who are you?
Is this who I am?
And you, God
What are you becoming now that I’m learning to SEE you ‘in’ all things? And ‘no-things.’

Sketch Of Myself/ Crossing Over

Sketch of Myself
                                                           “Crossing Over”

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

Heavenly Tears

Heavenly Tears

A clanging bell is
held upon a swaying bed
of blue.

Rocking, wavering,
then chiming a soft melody
as the winds begin to stir.

A soft shower

the cascade of water—
a heightened deluge.

Tender tapping
turns to a draping of
beats…pounding, pounding, pounding.

The tempest
grows with fury
unleashing waves
engulfing the

and, as it resurfaces,
the song ‘still’ plays on.

Another whirling band
of water strikes.

Unleashed—the clouds
like a faucet lifted high.

Heavenly rains—
How can they be called

It is at these moments
a new song rises…

Giving voice
as tears
stream on.

Sketch of Myself/ Ask the Cattle

Sketch of Myself/ Ask the Cattle
“If you would learn more, ask the cattle, seek information from the birds of the air.  The creeping things of earth will give you lessons.  And the fishes of the sea will tell you all.  There is not a single creature that does not know that everything is of God’s making.

God holds in power the soul of every living thing, AND the breath of every human body.”

  Book Of Job  12:7-10

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



Step after step—
At times a path clear
visible, well marked.

there are roads—
unlike paved roads
where there is no distinct way.

No signs
expressing bear right or left—
merge or stop!

I suppose these have
become the more comfortable
paths for me—those that
are unmarked…yielding an
array of wonder.

The trails of life
that seemed to guide me for so long
“No longer feel fit for travel.”

I have lightened my
load and there is
more of which to rid myself.

Sometimes—I hold on
just for the sake of it.

All the items in the pack
I carry—the appropriate books,
notes from all the ‘right’
lectures, conferences,

Well, let us say they are
‘dissolving’ as an
unknown guide
reveals to my heart
that which I cannot explain.

I am no longer certain I
even desire to share
THIS way I am discovering?
(Yet—I am writing this to YOU the reader)

I do not wish my words to become a ‘product’—
a means for material gain or
personal recognition.

I am walking and
while this may not be making much sense
to you…
Be assured
it is not completely clear to me…

AND yet, it is!

It is no longer about
‘believing’ in some-THING

in this unknowing,
my steps are KNOWN by
“One” paving the landscapes.

My ‘soles’ touch the earth
and those footprints left
behind unfold the story

writing itself.

Inside of my being
there is a beacon…

an invitation
NOT to arrive.

No longer is it necessary
to ‘SEE’ the course.

Each day I
simply LIVE
even when
a disturbance in the
path ceases
travel as usual.

The pauses, the ‘breaks,’
the disruptions…the landslides

they are
the ‘shapers’ of
THIS soul…

I AM following—
at least trying

the design
etched for me.

For now, I walk on.


Sketch of Myself/Colors are ALIVE

Sketch of Myself

                                     Hid-den beneath the depths, colors are ALIVE

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

She Changed the World in Word

She Changed the World in Word
                                               In Memory of Mary Oliver
                                    September 10, 1935 — January 17, 2019


Every day
I see or hear
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for—
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world—
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful
the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these—
the untrimmable light

of the world
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

Mary Oliver

The Page

The Page


It has been a while…

I have heard you…

Each of your words
a string of pearls.

I am held in your ‘gaps’…

The pauses you have
discovered are far from ‘breaks’
in the middle of your sentences.

Your paragraphs ‘hold’ mysteries
one can only digest.

The pages upon which you are writing—
how I chuckle when they turn
themselves when
you turn away

—to gaze at a flower
—to listen to the water
drape over a bed of rocks
—to reach for a cloud’s puffy tail…
for long moments you are whisked away
holding this dragon’s tail
launching you into wonderlands.

I watch you soaring over treetops,
mountain ranges draped in the
purest snows…

you let-go sliding upon angels’ wings—
Aha, AND I thought
them simple snow mounds.

A school of fish leaps from the
water—naturally, you dive
right in!

Drenched in such delight, you

Once again, the tail dangled in
time—you reached as it launched
you into a sky of blue satin…

Ahead, a hawk extends her
feathered arms…
you took hold and I saw you flying…

In your eyes I saw,
I beheld your WONDER.

I knew it would be time
before ‘ink’ met me, on this page.

Your story
yes, your story—
Even when the ink dries,
will go on…

Look…I see the ‘tail’
coming.  You are reaching
already—this chapter
far from over!

How long will you be gone THIS time?

Matters not—

Sketch of Myself/UNFOLD

Sketch of Myself
                                    “No matter your ‘position’~~~UNFOLD”



Standing on a wall
or in the present
to hold ‘upon’ this rock.

I glance one way
recalling how I
once served—
My call…to protect,
keep safe
those who dwell ‘in’
this side.

I turned focusing my
gaze in the opposite direction…
Here I have been
as well—
walking, discovering
AND received with warm welcome.

From where I now stand,
there is no
longer this side
or the other side.

I’m discerning,
am presently realizing
I have
been a wall.

NOW…there has
been a landslide.

I am standing in
rubble..a threshold of sorts—
a wounded time.

I do not have a need to
rebuild ‘the wall’ I was.

I do not want to
see in ‘divisions’
as difficult as that may be.

So easy,
would you not say
to acknowledge our

To cast others off—
remove them from
‘our’ tribe.

How can we come
to a table…

One set

with ’round’ dishes—
a feast set for ALL…

A banquet of
diversified spreads—

Might this be the
“Body’ of Christ…(Allah, Buddha…etc.)
(I hold this vision)

I hear…
“This is too difficult!”

Is it …really?

Do we sabotage
attempts because we are
too tired to try?
Because we are so busy

Oh, you are about God’s work…
no time?

Once upon ‘a time’
I sat in the church pew…
I prayed, I understood.

amongst these crumbled stones,
my prayer rises.
I am dirty,
a tad broken.

I no longer
what I once believed
to be true.

From here…
I have discovered
The Gospel of Life.

An innocent person
died for these ‘views’
nearly two thousand
years ago.

Love and MORE love,