…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.

Face to Face

Face to Face

When I see you,

what shall you see?

Will I hear your voice?

Will my voice 
open like a new song?

Will time stand still?
Will the gaze
between us hold no space?

When I see you
face to face,

will I finally know
who I am?
And in this knowing,
realize
Who you are

and who you have been
all along?

 

Drops of Color/ Jonathan Price

Drops of Color

Jonathan Price

This is not ANOTHER sketch of a Black Man.

This is not a statistic of ANOTHER life
taken by the pull of a trigger…
the discharge made by a 
law enforcer, Peace Officer.

This IS an ‘IMAGE’ of a human being—
Created in the likeness of the One
who breathed life into this Universe…
The One who breathed life into the dust
of the brown soils of ‘Mother Earth.’

This is an attempt to ‘bring’ life
back to a life GONE too soon.

Every drop of ink—splashes a prayer
for Jonathan Price, his family, his 
friends, the one who took his life,
and for those who ONLY now have
come to know him because of this
‘senseless’ act.

This is a drawing of
a man whose life MATTERED…
especially because he was black.

You MATTER Jonathan Price.

May we not ‘rest’ until there is
Peace, Equality and Justice for
everyone whose skin
is a beautiful brown.

 

Life asked death, “Why do people
love me but hate you?”
Death responded, “Because you
are a beautiful lie and I am a pain-
ful truth.”
                                    Unknown

Night Rider

Night Rider

Late at night
or maybe
the early morning,

I step into
my auto.
I release the clutch.
The engine does not roar.
The sound of silence
releases the brake.

The pad of my soles
caresses the pavement
—the ride begins.

Along highways
and byways I go.
My vehicle does not putter
—it rolls.

We stroll through towns
long enough to know
it’s time…
Yes, time to get off the pavement…
time to create our own tracks.

We cut corners
—take wide turns.
Ah, the thrill of no traffic signals
or signs:
YIELD, STOP, etc.

The stars beckon.
I lift my feet
—the chassis
rises…we’re airborne.

I turn the wheel
as we maneuver
over steep mountain tops.

The ocean’s waves
glitter us with the salt of
the sea.

Desert sands create
castles as we hover
overhead

and fireflies join the
stars lighting our ride.

In the east a soft pink
hue revealed,
time to touchdown.

I shift the gears
—my soles again touching
the pavement.

I step out…
close the door.

Very few would believe…

but my night rider…

well, it also needs no keys.

Drops of Color/ Only a Dream

Drops of Color
Only a Dream

It was a dream.

Really, only a dream.

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

The tree reached itself
beyond the sky.

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

AND

the leaves were the shape of hearts.

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

Was it the leaves?
But how?

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

I wanted to pull down a leaf
—just one.

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

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

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

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

How can I put it into words?

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

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

WHY…EVERYONE.

Yet, as I reached,
I was held back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, am I still dreaming?

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

From my heart to yours.

Grow Brightly
and let-go.

The Fall

The Fall

How it happened
I haven’t a clue…

A crisp, clear morning dawned.
The forest was filled with sound.
Birds sang beside
leaves clapping their hands.

I heard the sound of my bicycle’s wheels
as they kicked up stones.
This was a ride I enjoyed so many
times.  I knew
each curve in the path
even with my eyes closed.

Suddenly, I was airborne.
 I remember my shoulder
‘touching’ the ground—
HARD.

Everything went black.
I do not know how long I was out
before I heard my name
called aloud.

Quiet now.
I was in search of my breath
and, when it came, I found
my glasses and was drawn
to the voice calling
my name.

My limbs
I knew broken, fractured.
I managed to walk my bike
home—the fall produced a new ride.

My flesh, in different
areas of my body began
changing colors—
deep purples, jaded greens
soft yellows.

I moved slowly but
I moved.  Sometimes
I cried but the tears
were that of ‘thanks.’

Earth padded my fall…
How so many things that
could have been 
brought me into this 
changing season
gifting my own being
with a deliberate
physical change.

Much unknown—
there are blanks left
never to be filled in.
A sort of dying has taken place while I breathe
—life sweeping away what no longer
seems to matter.

Another season
will approach.
For now, I AM living
The Fall.

 

 

Drops of Color/ The Poor Man

Drops of Color
(A Pilgrimage Journal Entry/Camino St. Francis September 2019)

The Poor Man~~~
the beggar man from Assisi—
is that you?

The winds whispered through the trees—
the leaves clapped their hands.
“ALL Praise and Glory” sang through
a tiny pink flower on the side of
the trail~~~

Yes, now I know it is You.

A painted blue sky…a picturesque sea
washing itself above my head—
while the sun holds it center and
I feel myself revolving with you
Brother Francis, poor man,
beggar man~~~Lover of Creation.

Walking toward Assisi
the dust rises like incense with my
every step.
Small stones, large stones, lie in the
valley…an uncharted path giving way
to mountains dipped in soft clouds.

You’re near poor man, beggar man~~~
the Lord’s Troubadour.
You sang creation’s love song
and Praised creation’s Lord.

Your story Blessed Francis
lives on.
Sister Death came for you~~~
You welcomed her.

You’re here poor man,
beggar man from Assisi.

The Christ in You
is the Moon’s Fullness…
the Light, the Darkness—
Your friends.

How powerful ‘we’ SEE more clearly
in the dark solitude of 
our beings
when we view only a small speck of
our shadow—that IS the True Self.
“No? Yes?”
Does the False self come out in the Light?
Is it the illusion we pretend to be?
Wish to be?  Hope to be?

Poor man…
Beggar man…
You lived the journey simply—
it was yours.

I live mine
through your words.
“Who am I?  Who are you, Lord?”
Some days, I feel further from the discovery
of the answer to these questions
AND my being “Rejoices.”

In some ways, my prayer so small—
Pray, “I NEVER know.”
So like you
Poor man
beggar man from Assisi…
I walk on like you till
Sister Death takes my hand.

Francis, One day I’ll walk beside
you in the stars…

For now…I’ll simply bow
in Holy Wonder.

Feast Of Francis —October 4th

Alive

Alive

You think
simply looking at me
that I am gone…
only my life-less branches
remain.

But, I tell you—
I AM alive.

The color surrounding me—
The blue sky
moistens my aged bark.

The brown soil~~~
my bedrock.

Down, deep~~~
the silent darkness
the womb of my being
 is from where I began.

My roots stretch
so far down—
the naked eye does not see.

So many dispel the dark—
cast it off as something not ‘good.’
Yet, it is from the 
spring of blackness
light became
Manifest.

In Oneness, dark and light
blend the Universe
beyond our narrow ‘scopes’
of belief.

So, NOW,
look at me again.

Even if I one day fall
to the earth—
I will rise again.

How?

If I gave you the
answer—would you
really believe?

 

Drops of Color/ Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Drops of Color

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

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

You’re Asking Me?…What Hope is?

You’re Asking Me?…What Hope is?

Hope is waking up
—taking in that first
conscious breath,
and whispering a silent
Thank you!

Hope is,
when that final breath taken
a soft voice whispers,
“Thank you for Coming!
You’re Home.”

Drops of Color/ A Treasured Map

Drops of Color

A Treasured Map

I have sought a treasure—
a hid-den gem
unseen and, yet, visible
—so I’m told.

I’ve spanned countless miles on foot…
Endless terrain.

I’ve followed endless maps.
I’ve utilized devices
pointing the way.

Did I find the treasure
you ask?

Well…
Here is what I can tell you~~~

When I have set out
and stepped ‘off’ the map,

I have found
the pearl of great price.

I did not bring it back with me.
Others are searching for it.
I know them when I see them
(The Ones who’ve discovered the pearl)
and they know me.

Yes, once you find it—
it’s within.

Keep it there—
‘stay’ off the map.

Trust the direction guiding you

—it’s your course to journey.

 

Beloved

Beloved

Eyes painted with stardust.
Suddenly a ballad playing itself
caused me to rise.

A flutter of strings
accompanied by pecks upon keys—
was this a dream?

Wrapped in my comforter,
a soft feather caressed my brow.
I held open the palms of my hands to 
receive this prayer
and, I felt the soft wings
nestled upon my flesh.

I flew from beneath my
covers.  I sought out in search
of the One who lay this gift
for me to receive.

Into the forest I traversed.
The majestic trees towered into the sky.
Their branches, like a conductor’s hands lifted,
calling each note to begin to play—
dawn would soon be here.

I said, “Please, please tell me—
I seek my Beloved.  They have left me
this feather…please have you seen
my Beloved?”

The leaves giggled.  I hurried my pace
—my breath, a song…
Urgent was my tune.

A deer stood in the mist seeding the valley.
Ears lifted as I cried out…
“See this feather, it belongs to 
my Beloved…help me find my
Beloved before the sun lifts
its pregnant rays across the sky.”

Drops of dew held on every blade
of grass.  I lay down soaking myself.

“Beloved, sing to me, I’m here.
Come, gather me in your wings—
Let me soar with you
to unknown places.  Let us orchestrate
an Opera for those with
ears to hear.”

A rush of wind whipped through
my hair—but, it was not the wind.

Gazing into the horizon, a pair of
wings stretched wide.

One day, I will come for you.
Your time has not come.

Now, you must sing your song
—strengthen your wings
—soar.

You are the dawn
creating the cast for a New day.

I stood and began walking
—each step as light as a feather.

I could not stop singing.

Drops of Color/ Please, Please, Please…

Drops of Color

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

Please, Please, Please…

This poem can 
barely      write        words
 to          breathe.

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

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

Amen

A Footstool

A Footstool

Lying prostrate
before two feet,
they appear as if
giant roots
curled like fingers
into the earth’s masses.

If I glance skyward,
I trust the mighty arms—
endless branches
lifting as if in praise
and adoration.

Today,
my face
lies in the deep darkness
of mud…crusted, cracked
and my lips
kiss the soils~~~soft, moist.
Yes, exactly where
the ‘roots’ hold themselves—
‘grounded.’

I attempt to SEE,
to touch
what lies below
but, I would have to 
shovel my way to its
core…its heart.

Would I then trust
the darkness?
Would I believe in 
the unknown,
the quaint, quiet
unfamiliar silence?

The growing awareness
of unforeseen life
—a light blathering
in penetrating pools…
No camera can capture.
No picture visible.

Birth—
the growth
before labor pains.
Two feet balance on the ground.
A prostrate soul refuses to rise until its time.
A heart beats

Drops of Color/ Stuffed Bear

Drops of Color

Stuffed Bear

I remember a time
you were the one
who was always there
—always near.

I held you ever so closely.
As the years passed,
your stuffing started
coming out.

You never said anything.
Your eyes looked into
mine and the two of us cuddled closer.

There were those long nights
when I didn’t feel so ‘good.’
You didn’t correct my grammar—
You just soaked in my tears.

When I was up and running,
you stayed right in that
‘spot’ awaiting my return.
I knew you needed a hug
after a long day of my
being away.

Who was I kidding?
I needed to feel
your matted down fur.

You heard every story I 
shared with you—
those written and those 
I simply lived…

and You stayed beside me.

I’m sitting here writing
about you as if—
well, now that I’m older,
I no longer need my
furry ole’ friend.

Truth is,
sometimes I need you
more than ever

to help remind me
there’s that child inside
that needs that
‘make’ believe friend.

The one that sits quietly—
paws wide open.
Still filled with enough fluff
to squeeze tightly when a tear falls

or when I start laughing
for no reason at all.

This poem is about
a little girl
and her stuffed bear—

A bear who listened
to every prayer the little girl
whispered

Believing some One
was listening

and still IS.

Edge

Edge

There it was—
a diving board.

Well, it looked like one.

I have lived on this 
‘edge’
a long while.

The views—
endless,
effortless.
My ‘gaze’ held in these
moments.

So many clicks—
My lashes like a camera
lens.
One photo, then another.
The panoramic
view could not
be captured in a single 
shot
nor in an accumulation
of images.

From the ‘edges,’
nothing stays the same.
The views, even if returning,
hold a new unspoken
visual.

Can I name it?
NO!
Its ‘timeless’ shutter
has pushed me
to leap—

Leap into
the air like a leaf
letting go from a tree.

Carried by winds,
it touches ground.

But, the risk I take
in soaring 
finds no apparent bottom.

Instead, it is like a
black hole.
I descend,
yet I am hovering.

I am in realms
too vast for words.
I try to pen a few words,
yet the ink
melts into the darkness.

A galaxy of stars
enters from nowhere.

A few words drift into the presence of light.

I can no longer 
sit upon the edge
waiting, wondering—
believing any ‘truth’
long since held.
(Not implying the past has not assisted
in the formation of my becoming)

I must speak the truth
revealing itself to me
—trust in its goodness
—share its message
ONLY if it extends oneness,
removes all facets of violence—
even if I am taken down
for casting love and love alone.

Sometimes, I want to reach back
for the ledge—
hold the perch that once held me.

Returning is not an option.

Living from this place,
I see only the angels
right beside me (and beyond).

There are so many…

Drops of Color/ What Matters

Drops of Color

What Matters

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

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

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

Staring into the sun,
my pupils engulfed in wonder—

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

Then, some-thing
EXPLODED

Bang        BANG       Bang
       BANG
Bang       Bang
       BANG

I fell to the brown earth.

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

The ‘sun’ within Jacob
still rises.

His father’s prayer,
a sung lament.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black words…

From the sun’s flames
exploding within my heart,

All I can see:

BLACK LIVES MATTER

Picking Petals

Picking Petals…

Love me—
Love me not.

Love me—
Love me not.

Today, I plucked petals
and, the final One told
me…

“Tell them…I LOVE Them.”

Drops of color/ Lady in Blue

Drops of Color

Lady in Blue

I never knew you,
yet you showed yourself
to me on the street…in a far off land.

You were painted in chalk.
Your eyes sparkled—captivating me.
Still…I had NO idea
just Who was gazing into me.

I sketched an image of you
to place within these words of mine

AND

a wise Soul
wrote back, “The Lady in Blue.”
I paused, I held my breath.
There was something about
THIS Lady—

Her story…
her story it is told
—she never left her homeland
of Spain.

Yet, she appeared…

Appeared in far off lands.
Her DREAM—to Preach Good News.

The Lady in Blue appeared to
indigenous people,

AND

I cannot put into
words how she
revealed herself to me
at THIS time.

Woman

Lady in Blue
it is my heart in your hands.

The Sailing ‘Soul’

The Sailing ‘Soul’

Today
the winds 
swept the sea.

White coats
curl between
blue sheets
mirroring the sky—
its reflection.

A furrowed
sail…
THIS I found
myself to be.

Here, it mattered
not—the tempest.
Becoming a sail, was I,
in this encounter.

THIS my soul
unfurled.

Moving east 
then west…
I held a moment
to the south.

It was only when
the dazzling curtained sail opened,
clutched within the grips
of true North,
that I spread myself.

Hours passed
as minutes glided,
splashing

away the time’s
unknown hours.

In the inner chamber
of my being,
the helm
was at rest

allowing my soul
—a sail—
to find its way.

 

Drops of Color/ A City on A Hill

Drops of Color
A City on A Hill

There is a city
at rest upon a hill.

Persons come from
all directions to visit
this place.

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

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

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

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

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

they would LOOK
outward and behold
inward the manifestation

of the Source of all
LIFE
residing everywhere.

Yes…even upon this
City on A Hill.

 

Altered

 

Altered

The bed of grass
like a hay-field—
parched, lifeless,
longing for a brief
morsel of ‘any’ sustenance
to give it a chance to sway.

No-thing came to fill
the void.  Then, 
a quick jostle
from nowhere.

The sound was like
a freight-train
pulled along a track
without the engine running.

It whipped through
trees, unseen.  Yet
branches became projectiles.
Enormous trunks were uprooted, 
crashing to earth like
the sound of thunder.
Limbs lay broken
on barren grass
longing for so much
more than lifeless debris.
Avenues of light
poured into places
untouched by the sun’s rays.

Two warblers rushed in and out
of the woods searching for insects to
bring to their newborns.
Chirping aloud in cascading winds
their only longing was
to be fed,
and 
their feathered parents provided food
even in the chaos.

The perplexities around me,
within me,
created a soft calm
inside my soul.

How could this be?

How could it not be?

All around me trees stood,
others were uplifted,
while tender shoots were
re-shaped, re-fashioned.
So, too, I.
How?
Still, remains to be seen.
Everyday an
encounter to become.
Each moment an opportunity
to begin again.

Often, why, I cannot explain.
In broken places,
in grief’s gravity,
we are held in place
to finally SEE.

There You are
as You have always been.

Never promising perfection
yet, shining forth
from an altered frame.

EVERY-thing held
together.

The stars glisten overhead
as the sun
begins to rise.

 

Drops of Color/ I See

Drops of Color

I See

Legs dipping under
then quickly—reach up, and outward.

Higher and higher
the wind attempting to catch-up.

I breathe~~~ ‘in.’

My feet caress the soft grass
as I cascade above its
feathery green blades.

I breathe~~~ ‘out’
closing my eyes.

In between breaths,
the silent gap.

My eyes
wide open…
NOW

I SEE.