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

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

a single line was painted
east and west.

The bridge
carried over the sea.

From the right,
the gaze was infinite.

From the left,
an utterly distinct view.

Both angles revealed
something clearly ‘different.’

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

Differing views held this 
structure’s balance.

meeting in the middle
set the balance.

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

The bridge stood
encompassed from
polar, opposite ends


So others could make
their way in both directions.

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

it whispered,
“LET’S sail under.”

So many ways to travel

Can we find the 
balance to bridge
the divining gaps?

Drops of Color/ She Ran

Drops of Color

She Ran

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

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

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

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

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

She trusted
and she crossed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, history has a way of
repeating itself.

We are all One…
MANY believe this true.

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

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

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

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

She led them into battle,
to fight for freedom.

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

in which direction do we run

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

No Name

No name

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


I think I hear you laughing

You who no longer
needs a Name.

Drops of Color/ The Window

Drops of Color

The Window

Standing on the sidewalk…

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, here I am
on this sidewalk—

So many beside me.

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

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

I have found heaven…
it has been here all

Arms of a Crater

Arms of a Crater


in the arms of a crater.

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

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

***Once Upon A Time***

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

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

I look on
from a nestled crook
in this crater.

Closing my eyes
wishing to wake
to a fullness

eclipsed by the 

Drops of Color/ The Bell-Tower

Drops of Color
The Bell-Tower

The outline of the bell-tower
held in shadow.

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

A sweet caress of a 
face born anew.


Stone Edifice

Stone Edifice

A display of masterful

The precision in the edge
of the blade—

The chisel
positioned with a reluctant swipe.

A chip, one at a time,

what revealed?

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

No shame.

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

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

Even if this stone masterpiece
were ever to crumble,

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

Drops of Color/ Sometimes

Drops of Color

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

You, There

You, There

You, chalking the pavement.

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

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

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

You do not display your

You reveal beauty beyond yourself.

You know the rain
eventually will come.

You know it will erase
your work of long hours.

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


you do not need to leave
your signature.




Drops of Color/Puffin

Drops of Color/ Puffin


      U nexpected

       F  athomless


      I   ntimate

N  oble




The Season past.

You have held your color.

But why, what has led you
to hold on?

Maybe you do not know.

Are you ripening?

You have tasted the warmth
of summer.

Here you are in winter’s chill.

There is an elegance
that graces your frozen petals.

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

from your bud.

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

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

You have shared
yourself—simply by being.

Even after this season gone,
the beauty that is you


Drops of Color/Night~Fall

Drops of Color


You have held the day
casting light
chasing away shadows.

You begin your descent
giving way to the

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

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

in night’s fall.

A Potter’s Wheel

A Potter’s Wheel

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

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

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

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

We shared a glance,
but the meal was his.

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

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

I stood motionless—
He flew deeper into the woods.

I walked
glancing left
then right.

I twirled
beneath the sheets of
clouds just overhead.

I tumbled to the frozen earth.

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

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

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

Who’s There?

Who’s There?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drops of Color…The Ceiling


The Ceiling

The scaffolding—
a wooden floor.

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

Over my head—
a matte.

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

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

NOW—I AM ‘re-creating.’

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

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

The artist long ago…
A Soul bleeding colors

so, too, I.

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

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

Jabbed—my hands, my feet
my side

I am bleeding.

The ceiling ‘cracks’—

I cannot leave
the colors 
seeping from within me.

Drops of Color
re-creations forming.

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

For a moment…
I stand

I will be back—
simply going for
MORE colors.

The ceiling,
THIS matte,
a Dome of Transformation.


Sketch of Myself/Crack Open

Sketch of Myself/Crack Open

Crack Open the shutters…
Colors are on their WAY!

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


This Moment

This Moment

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

Nestled in pines
embraced by ivy
covered by maple leaves.

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

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

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

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

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

I do not know…

Words end here…

For now

Sketch of Myself/ Menorah

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

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

At a loss…

At a loss…

for words.

And, yet…they steep
from this pen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sketch of Myself/Silent Wonder

Tis’ the Season

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

Gazing with you in Silent Wonder…


Sketch of Myself/ Silent Wonder
One branch
then another—

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

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

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

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


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



There is an art
to knowledge.

A blank page
suddenly filled with
colors, shadows, images.

A scene is displayed—
it carries ‘truth.’

A story revealed…
a simple glimmer
until another ‘matte’
is set upon an easel.

This time new shades
scatter the naked canvas.

I trust ‘knowledge’
to be like THIS.

If ‘truth’ ever be a ‘fixed’
held in a frame,
I pray I know enough
about knowledge to toss
the image into the flames
where ashes will rise
carried away by the wind

AND invite me to
long enough
and embrace the invitation

THAT knowledge
invites the creative soul
to discover
its ever growing wonder

never to be chiseled
in stone.

Stones crumble.

The gift of knowledge
is the ever-increasing
to strengthen, to surpass
all we ever thought
we understood.

Sketch of Myself/ The Direction

Sketch of Myself
No matter the direction—
discover the wind,
unleash the sails,
and go ‘in’ the flow.

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

A Call to Act

A Call to Act

A call
loud, emphatic, running on,
and on, and on.

A lowly other
sits quietly
refraining from ACTING…
taking the moments
necessary to gaze ‘into’
a window within.

Who are you?

Only you can respond—
filling in the blank.

Your actions can be
pure when you do not
re-create what the obstacle
before you is—the one you scream
at, protest—even jab.

It is exactly what is in the window…
It’s your MIRROR

Let your actions
be a reflection only of love.

Sketch of Myself/ Angels

Sketch of Myself

“Angels are among us
even in ‘stones’ they cry out…

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



I woke this morning
the moon shining through my blinds.
I pulled back the covers
and reached for you.

I stepped out
under a sea filled with stars—
the twilight
sang love songs to my soul.

You took my hand
as a path revealed itself.
The trees bowed their heads—
their leaves
made music
guided by the winds.

I reached a meadow
and I laid myself
down—the dawn
began to paint the sky.

A brush stroke
dipped in pink
then a subtle hue of orange…
I sat wrapped in 
a green blanket~~~
dew drops bathed my skin.

Then, the earth
revolved to meet
the sun—that marble of fire
igniting the ceiling of heaven.

I sat long enough
knowing I never was alone—
the forest creatures
knew this song.

Listening to silence.
I found the sweetest prayer.
No actions necessary—
this sacrament required 
only presence.

I am not certain
how it happened
but, dusk
rose clearing the stage.

The curtain closed
lifting speckles
of galaxies
far beyond reach.

Then a miracle…
a feather
softly landing
in an open 

You are not ‘out’ there—
you are in the palm of my hand.

You the breath
of my being.

You are a miracle
and, I am one, too.

A Blessed Thanksgiving to one & ALL…
A belated greeting to my friends to the North who have already celebrated THIS day…
AND…to many of you who do NOT have this Holiday on your calendar…
Truly…each and EVERY day is a day of Thanks-Giving!
My heart filled with ‘gratitude’ that you join with me on Mondays & Thursdays in a collective community seeking ONLY love in the world!

Sketch of Myself/Freshest Fruits

Sketch of Myself
The freshest fruits
squeezed ‘justly’
can provide enough succulence
for all to
and be filled..

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

Shadow Sides

Shadow Sides
In the darkness
our shadow sides

As we gaze in
suddenly ‘we’ are 

because we dare to enter
the hid-den depths.

Sketch of Myself/ I can ONLY Imagine

Sketch of Myself
I Can ONLY ‘IMAGINE’ what lies ahead…

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

Love Notes

Love Notes

I Love You
like I have loved ‘no’ other.

In ‘all’ others
I am learning—
This is how I came to love you.

It has been years—
traveling through the “seams”
of seasons

—fading colors
—bitter blizzards
     draped in frosted flakes
—bouquets of lily blossoms
—the morning sunrise…
    each one a new painting
    done by the hands of Monet’

I Love you
who I can no longer name.

Perhaps, I will write-on…
trying because my words are 
love notes to you.

I know you read them.
You know from whom they are—

I do not have to splash any
fragrance on the paper…
flowery perfume—

certainly, you would know it 
was not I—

my love notes are draped in 
raindrops, bathed in dew,
sprinkled with sands from
the sea…they glisten in

and, sometimes
words lift
from the paper

flying in formation.

Ink turns to
wings spanning
across the sky
an echo heard—

I love you
    I love you

carry on

At times I think I hear
you laughing.

I close the notebook.

We sit together hand in hand
—the tide rolls in

writing a note in the sand


Sketch of Myself/ Spread Yourself

Sketch of Myself
Vision the moment
and fly to where
you have never dreamed
of going…
Behold the wonder

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



If today
this life of mine
ended with a period….
I trust in run-ons~

Yes, my life has been a 
continuous tale…
peaks and valleys
jagged edges and sandy beaches—

moments of penetrating light
and deep rivers of hid-den darkness.

I have LIVED in it all
and in death (I trust)
I will hold the lessons
from life’s seasons.

Eternal resurrections
flowing into vast
How? In what form?
I am clueless!

Yet, with outstretched 
wings, I will fly on
to new shores

plunging into
lasting tides
transforming with
the ebb and flow
of sacred mystery…

Ah, the sketches of THIS
one solitary Life~~~

The masterpiece
born anew.

Sketch of Myself/ The Stones Sing Out

Sketch of Myself
the very stones sing ‘out’
hear the beating of the drum
the whisper of the fife
AND __________!

Let your song play-on
…the very stones
long to hear you ‘rolling.’

Inspired by Walt Whitman’s poem “Song of Myself

A Costume of Changing Colors…

A ‘costume’ of changing colors…

Sketch of Myself/Hanging

Sketch of Myself


A simple day—
A perfect day to dry—
and be ready for wear!

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



What is it?

What knocks on the center of this breast plate?
On this door?

‘Let me in, let me in!’

Who is this visitor
who raps emphatically—
not with force,
but with a tap
as delicate as a 
feather released from a
bird in flight,
flowing , with a swagger,
to the earth

touching the ground.

Yes, the ground feels, hears,
senses its landing
as does my being

and tucks this soft feather
into itself as if
it were ALWAYS there…

known, yet unknown.

In this hour,
in this pregnant silence,

 a creaking doorway

Here you are…


Sketch of Myself/ Love Untethered

Sketch of Myself
There is a love,
so un-tethered,
that it holds
no bounds.

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

What I know by Heart

What I know by Heart

The soft cry of a babe—
no words
yet, there is a need.

The howl of the wind
yet, it bends the 
creating a ballad.

A hawk
soars in the sun’s light
because it can.

Two old lovers
sit side by side,
hand in hand
watching the sun sink
into the sea.

The final farewell—
when the last touch
lives in the heart.

Sketch of Myself/ Beneath the Stain-Glass

Sketch of Myself
Beneath the Stain-Glass

The soft glow
the stain-glass shade
cast images
where dreams
are made
and yes…even
come true.


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

The Rain Fell…

The Rain Fell…


Not possible…
it was once my thought, too.

the pools of drops rose
from the earth.

The flowers
dipped taking in the 
ascent of dew.

one after another
climbed an invisible

I knew not their reach—
I simply beheld
their flight
—a grand balloon
—soaring drops
—vapor vessels
beholden to nothing

yet, appearing
as if puppets
dangled by a string

Up, Up, Up.

I stood a long while
drenched in disbelief.

I woke
dry as could be.

Was it a dream?

The rain falling upward?

I’ll never tell.



Sketch of Myself/NOTES…

Greetings Friends,

Back with “Sketch of Myself” each Monday.  Many NEW ‘images ‘ are creating themselves…
Hope you’ll enjoy  these sketches as much as I do ‘penning’ them to paper.

For the many NEW persons who have joined the viewing…
If you’re wondering about how “Sketch of Myself” came to be, please go to  Click on BLOG, then “Sketch of Myself.”  This unfolding(almost two years) can be read and understood from its beginning via the inspiration of Walt Whitman.  The series of sketches unravel from there—


Sketch of Myself

NOTES…waiting to be played

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

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.