Drops of Color/ Dazzling Kernels

Drops of Color
Dazzling Kernels

The field was endless.

Stepping into one of the rows,
I softly made my way.

The stalks reached toward the clouds.

I crossed over into another row.

Time passed.
I lost any sense of direction
—the sun, my guiding post.

Here I was in 
a corn field.

I thought I heard
a crackle, then a pop.

Sitting in the middle
of this pleasant abundance,
I glanced noticing an ear.
Something , someone pulled it back.

Bright yellow dazzling kernels
layered like the rows I 
had been traversing.

I reached to pull it from
its coat of green leafy sheaves.

Suddenly, it was as if
my ‘reach’ held in time.

I heard, ‘Let me live long enough to die—
let my seeds fall, planting themselves…
let the birds carry them off, dropping a few
as they soar…’

See, see this pattern ‘in’ life…

Born from seed
—bursting from a sack.

Life, a harvest waiting
to be lived out.

Closure, returning to Earth—

Death

—it is not an end
    as we have been 
    led to believe

—it is a beginning
    into NEW tomorrows.

 

 

 

Spring Song

Spring Song

I heard your song for the
longest time.
I sat—listening.

A pen in hand,
your notes became words
on this page.

Still, it did not end
here…

No, it actually began
when the words began to
create your image.

Colors lit the page—
your song discovered
a new pitch.

Your wings fanned out,
growing in strength.
You would fly gain.

I hear it in your song.

 

 

Drops of Color/ Who Wins?

Drops of Color

Who Wins?

Victory will resound only
when, together, we
collectively ‘win.’

There is a time for 
everything as the writer of
Ecclesiastes pens.

We weep, we laugh.
We, mourn, we celebrate.
We sing, we sit in silence.

We pray ONLY to allow 
love to guide us.

 

 

The Cantor

The Cantor

The fulcrum held
—effortlessly left
—precisely right.

It was not time that set
the balance of hours
of light
and
others of dark.

It was the seamless
garment of creation
pulling back the covers.

Then, the Cantor arrived
needing no invitation.

The Cantor shook the stars…
Yes, each and everyone
as well as the new ones
expanding the Universe.

The Cantor danced upon the
earth releasing the soil
whose muddy perfumed
scent joined in the fresh morning dew.

The Cantor then began to 
knock on the trees…something,
someone was awake.

Leaves bedded down on 
the landscape began to rustle—
out they came.

The Cantor reached for a 
branch.  Pointing to an
owl, the Cantor beckoned
for a perfect pitch.

The lasting chord played
itself through a small slit
in a beak, and then, each creature
great and small
set the silence to the
melody of the season.

The chorus grows as the 
ponds wake to tadpoles…
the bullfrogs sing
in search of their one
true love.

The Cantor holds a pause
steadying momentarily to
listen…to simply listen.

There is more joy in this
held space, in this
mindful solace, than  a 
week long expedition
searching for what is here
NOW
and so, so good.

 

A Sling

A Sling

Metaphorically became
a cradle…
Mother Earth wrapping
herself around her child’s
wounded limb.

The fall was great.
The limb took the brunt
of the storm.

There still lingered moments
of the unknown.
What took place before
the tree, I am.

What tree describes me?

Is it the Oak?  My leaves
changing in extraordinary
color each year?

Or am I the Willow?
Weeping up the sweet
sustenance of life’s 
varied moistures?

Maybe I am a Pine…
endless tap roots connecting
me with this Universe and
beyond.

Mother Earth laughs aloud.
The cradle holds my limb
closely.

There is no space
between us.

Mother Earth lowers
her voice whispering
softly to her healing
sapling—

“You are part
of all three
AND
cradled so gently.”
I was fast asleep.

 

 

Drops of Color/ For her…

Drops of Color

For her…

I have written those
two words innately—‘for her.’

Only now
these two syllables burn into this
page like commandments
engraved on stone tablets—‘for her.’

For her
the ink spills from this pen
or is it a river
flowing from the corners of my eyes?

I wrote ‘for her
—the girl just about to go into the
     classroom a first time
—the feminine Soul who has already
     learned ‘letters,’
     has begun to form words and 
     is creating sentences
—the ‘She’ who has embarked
     on a path significantly making
     her way in the world as a person
     designed and fashioned
     in the divine image of Life.

—NOW, PLEASE DO NOT LET IT BE TAKEN AWAY—

For her
I bow and pray
that her identity not be shielded
—that her beauty and integrity not
    be covered or handed over
    as if, she, a mere possession.

I speak out for her,
I cannot hold back.

How long,
How long, Oh, Lord,
will you hear the weeping of ‘her’
and remain still?

Show me what to do,
and I’ll act in the
only way YOU are made
known to me.

Let me write a door way
of love
for her,
so that she might pass through
safely, freely.

She has already bore witness
to what ‘eyes’ should never see
or the body never experience.

For her

For her,
my ink runs dry.

Still, though You be,
I will write on

For her

 

Drops of Color/ In This Town

Drops of Color

In This Town

Somewhere
in this town,
You are.

I am not certain
I will find you,
but I know
You see me.

You often
lead me
to places “I Think”
you could never
be found.

Then…

I find you
—on every corner
—in between alleys
—on each cobble stone  walk
—dangling from window panes,
spacious courtyards,
and coffee shops.

I find a place to rest
and sit on a park bench.
You are sitting on the opposite end
reading the newspaper.

You pause
placing the paper between us.

The headline reads:
“I Found You”

I, who was
in search of You.

 

 

 

The Sound of Bells

The Sound of Bells

Quietly listening,
I heard the sound of bells
being played by the wind.

One soft chime—
its echo lasting as 
another breeze pulses
through the dangling metals.

Within, the chimes have found
the sacred center of my Soul.

Silently, I sit humming
a wordless refrain.

The sound of bells lingers
in the symphony of my
heart’s beating.

 

Drops of Color/ Cornerstones

Drops of Color

Cornerstones

These stones…

I continue creating
—archways
—windows
—bridges

These stones carry
stories as they were
—rolled into place
—hauled, lifted, chiseled.

Is there a cornerstone
holding them in place?

Is that what I am attempting
to find as I draw
yet another ‘stone’ edifice?

How is it these structures still
stand, no re-building
plans.

The hands that laid this work
—Unknown

Perhaps, in their own way
each a Cornerstone…

 

Inside…

Inside…

a beacon of light.

A lighthouse staggered
within rocks,
a sea curling beside
its halo.

Miles away, the casting
beams reach vessels adrift.

But, this vessel is in port.
It cannot see the light
inside itself…like one cannot see into one’s own eyes.

The light is visible only
to the One who sets it ablaze.

The warm embers inside
—they are felt
as much as the
light inside invisible.

There is a longing, a 
desire to share—if only
a spark.

Inside the window of
a Soul, a fire burns.

There is warmth inside,
even as one sees one’s
breath, beneath this
starry night.

 

 

 

Drops of Color/ Rosie

Drops of Color
Rosie…

rises on all fours.
Tiny paws already
revealing the size this pup
will one day be.

A tail swings back 
and forth like a metronome
especially when she hears her name
spoken aloud.

A soft step
followed by a playful tumble.
Now she rumbles into a pair
of limber legs.

Arms reach for her.
Rosie jumps with delight
attempting to wrap her
furry arms around a neck.

Her eyes glisten.
She always seems to adorn
a smile…
it’s that simple.

“…And they call it Puppy Love.”

Could it be so simple?

Just ask Rosie!

Who’s There?

Who’s There?

You again…
I heard you rush in.
You are welcome 
even when you seem to
topple over things, beings
and me!

Tonight, you have picked up
your pace.

I hear the branches outside
clicking, clacking, some
breaking…then the sound
of a loud thud touching down
—enveloped in earth.

Eyes closed…this is the
last moment I distinctly
remember.

I am here with you, and
your swift chill wraps
round me like a covering.

Chimes hanging upon the deck,
ring.

You write music to join your
ballad. I am so pleased you have
come.

Wait—

Let me get my dancing
shoes so that we can
greet the dawn.

Drops of Color/ Mansion

Drops of Color
Mansion

‘Inside’ this mansion,
the views ‘outside’
reveal the essence of
what IS The Mansion…
Yes, from ALL directions.

Left Handed…

Left Handed

Left handed…
right handed…
the memory retains the shape,
the formation of
consonants and vowels.

Spelling words out with the
use of the non-dominate hand
—a challenge
—an exercise of engagement.

I am so mindful of my every
breath as I curl an ‘e,’ as
I inhale an ‘o.’

I linger a tad longer
crossing the ‘t,’ dotting an ‘i.’

Such minute detail taken
for granted until one begins
to learn an old skill
in a new way.

We can learn to adapt,
adjust, pass on, carry on.

Change—external,
transforming us internal.

The wonderment given to
us is gift when what is
so ordinary to us—
taken (even if for a short while).

Do not wish this space
over soon…
It has much to tell,
to write…

Yes, left handed.

Drops of Color/ Wedding Garment

Drops of Color

Wedding Garment

The garment
—a natural design
—a fit needing no alterations
—feathers laid like a winnowing fan.

A blue painted sky
began the celebration.

The wedding feast
—an invitation to all.

The trees let loose—
The ground shook as sprigs of grass
stood tall like towering steeples.

Buttercups unraveled.

Why, even the wind stopped a moment
to honor the silence.
Silence…the opening hymn.

Wings spread themselves like open arms.
The sun lit the cathedral.

An open eye
scanned the vast assembly.

Everything had its place.

No words spoken—
No rings exchanged.

They took to the
sky and exchanged a 
wedded kiss.

The garment no longer two—
they flew as one.

Petals of white feathers
floated down
anointing the ground
blessing this
holy union.

Let Me Flutter

Let Me Flutter

A broken wing
—still it fluttered.
The passage of unmarked time.

A soft veil torn beneath skin.

A gentle hand dove in
weaving torn strands
clinging to this limb.

Round and round
a cocoon formed
holding a branch clinging
to this living tree of being.

A wing, a limb, a branch,
a tree—
each separate and, yet one.

The vessel within flutters…
flying is not in sight.

Each miniscule motion
strengthens the internal
transformation
unseen and proceeding.

Rest…a sudden surge.
It is not time, it is not
time we are making.

Now are the faint moments
where accomplishing nothing
becomes the masterpiece forming.

Please do not rush
this process.

Do not wish it over
before it has begun.

Let me flutter.

Drops of Color/ A soft Howl

Drops of Color

A soft Howl

In moments
of silent meditation,
a soft howl brews
inside of me.

Then, the howl expands
on an ordinary
piece of paper.

…hold the stage

…hold the stage

You hold the center
of an endless menagerie of
wild flowers.

Your ears catch the wind like
billowing sails.

Your nose cradles the scent
of feathering grasses
brushing against the blanket of
your coarse fur.

The sun, like a spot light,
casts itself on
your delicate presence.

For a long moment,
you hold the stage
until your long lanky legs filled,
as if by the sweet hymns of insects,
praising the dawn
leap effortlessly~~~ a rhythmic dance.

I do not see your wings.
Yet, you fly with an
unwitting secret
needing no answers.

Drops of Color/ Rainbow of Puddles

Drops of Color
Rainbow of Puddles

Slender bristles
separate, yet bound together,

dangling from a wooden rod.

Each strand
seeking ‘the color’ revealing
an essence of its individual self.

Only inches away
a palette lay…a rainbow of puddles,
pooled separately.

The rod, rocking
back and forth,
not of its own making,
but that of the 
collective gathering
in the form of a brush.

The anxious thrill
to bathe oneself
in one’s color

BUT…

a pause holds
—an empty canvas waiting.

One brush, many bristles
decide to use each color
not one left out or excluded.

A prism painted,
another canvas beckoned.

When ‘all’ the colors used and fashioned
—utilizing its purpose,

the designs

Eternal.

In His Eyes

In His Eyes

Was I gazing
into my own eyes?

Laugh if you will…
I was.

There he stood,
a few feet away
on four slender posts.
They held his wobbly gait…

but it was his eyes.

Was I love struck?
Black ‘pools”
like liquid glass,
they ‘flowed’ through me…

Gently, I spoke,
he took a few tiny steps in
my direction.

The lashes of his being, like a 
broom, NOT sweeping me away,
but bringing me nearer.

I stepped,
and he took two steps back.

Together, we held a pause…
he shuffled forward—
a rhythmic dance began.

I reached out my hand.
The air held the silence.
I heard the beating of my
heart, or was it his?
Perhaps, it was ‘ours’ in this moment.

His wet nose caressed my outstretched
limb…I attempted to place my 
hand on his brow…
at first, he pulled back.

His ‘mates’ were watching,
‘Only ‘ young males resided in this
space~~~
their ‘horned’ fathers were ‘gated’
in the pasture alongside this
stretch of land.

Again, he drew nearer to my side—
my fingers extended like a
saucer to a cup.

He rolled out his velvet tongue
across my skin
draping it with wet kisses.

I patted his head, his delicate ears,
his damp muzzle.

I found in this tender creature
a glimpse of myself,
desiring this encounter never
end…

I stepped on—
we held each other’s glance.

I wept…
knowing I am no longer
the same.

You, I am.

Walking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path May/June 2019

 

 

Drops of Color/ Undecided

Drops of Color

Undecided

Do I go up the stairs
or do I walk down the stairs?

Who or what determines
where the stairs begin?
What if they never end?

Why is ascending the 
path we seemingly aspire to climb?
Do we fear the descent because at
its deepest roots we could actually
discover our unseen selves?

I sat in the  middle of the stairs a while.
I wasn’t drawn in either direction.
Up, down…in the moment I sat
balanced.

The stairs did not crumble or fall.
I was not launched in a direction to soar
nor was I destined to plummet into
the depths of a hid-den well.

Can we meet in the middle?
Your thoughts, my ideas, your opinions,
my approaches, your style, my design…

From this middle ground—
I sit here on these stairs,

together, the stairs are endless
in ‘all’ directions.

Fashioned

Fashioned

You, fashioned by the dawn…
a musical note flowed from
your windpipe.

Your feathers stretched themselves.

From left to right
instinctively, you spread yourself wide….

The song growing inside now heard as 
you began to fan your wings.

Carried by the sun,
rising to your tune,
a new day begun.

You laid down a 
feather,

a simple reminder

you only have to carry
so much
and never let go of
your song.

Drops of Color/ Full Bloom

Drops of Color

Full Bloom

When you unfolded,
the heavens rejoiced.

The waiting—an eternity.
Now, that you arrived,
each moment that proceeded
this dawning
~~~alas, makes sense.

I don’t want to close my eyes.
The petals of your presence
have attached themselves
to my Soul.

Yes, my Soul, in full bloom.
It did not even see
the arrival.

Now, that it is here,
closing my eyes
~~~I see.

I see what could not
be timed
or planned
or predicted.

Opening, opening
to an unfolding

noticed
here, now

then gone.

Blooming season
shall ‘become’ once again.

Now, my Soul
no longer struggles
as it waits.

Itself

Itself

In opposite directions,
arms reach.

One end
digging deeper into the soil
grounding itself firmly.

The arms above spread out
in a manifestation of praise
extending an eternal reach
as if knowing
it is met and held.

Clinging to what is invisible,
its weight does not deter its
unwavering extension.

As seasons change,
as weathers re-shape
the wooden limbs,
the tree again becomes
‘itself’

lifted…

Risen in perpetual adoration.

Holy hands
united in creation

~~~the first story
begun without words.

Drops of Color/ The Interview

Drops of Color

The Interview

The interview began.
“Please, take a seat.”

Which chair do you wish me
to sit upon?
“The empty one.”

Excuse me, but…

“I’m sorry, I did not hear you.
What did you ask?”

It was nothing…I’m simply going
to sit.

“Good, good take all the time you need.”

Wait, I’m here for an interview.
I thought you were going to…

“Excuse me, did you say something?
Sometimes my mind is racing and
I’m oblivious to the sounds all around me.”

It’s alright…
I’m beginning to think this interview…

“Pardon me”

Well, this interview…there are no questions
to be answered.

“Yes”

I’ve been invited to sit and LIVE
the questions.

“Amen.”

Poetry is old…

Poetry is old…

like the soils tucked in between
the threads of my hiking boots.

I continue to trek through forests—
old manuscripts are printed in the bark
of the trees.

The sun casts its glow on the entirety
of the manuscript, but it is the moon
that drops the shadows

and, when I lay my white porcelain skin
on the brown flesh of earth,

I ask why, why am I, only now,
learning history long forgotten?
Or, history, that has been conveniently
erased, held in hid-den caves
by persons sharing the same color
as my painted flesh.

I want to roll in the mud—
covering my skin with old poems.

Human beings, not even considered persons,
were ‘hung’ like vines.
The wilderness wept seeing the bondage
—the ground shook as humans whose skin matched the color of mud
were chained, beaten, raped,

burned, hanged, sold.

Like the wind’s still soft voice,
their voices in the fields
became hymns.

Their souls rose more fervently
like evergreens spreading in a barren desert.

Together, they stood, and stand, like a poem—
old poems writing themselves new.

Juneteenth (July 19th) celebrated a first time.
It is so old, but it is new
to me.

I have removed my boots
and cannot wait for the dark earth
to paint my soles.

Weeping, my tears well from a spring unknown.
I know not its path.

I walk hand in hand with my brothers & sisters,
with earth & sky, ocean & desert,
forest and winged angels,
with city streets and four footed creatures
who ask for nothing except
that old poems be told,
be read aloud,
so that we all may peacefully breathe
the ‘spirit’ uniting us all—
forever, world without end…

Amen

(Written under the wise tutelage of June Gould, Ph. D.)

Drops of Color/ This Side

Drops of Color
This Side

There
in front of a calm stream
~~~a bridge.

A bridge
with an unwritten invitation,
‘Come, crossover.’

So, cross over I did.
Now, that I was over
what I crossed
was I on another side?

If I crossed back ‘over,’
would the bank across the way
be another side…again?

Bridges do indeed
give way to
another side.

Yet, from this place
~~~from this bridge
~~~as I stood in its center,
both ‘sides’ opened my
eyes to see.

Yes, dad, you!
You crossed over~~~
yet, I see you
from this bridge.

I see you in all things.
As I gaze into the
water beneath this bridge,

I see you staring up at me
from the reflection of myself
on this side of a bridge.

I love you dad.

(In lasting memory to every man who is a father)

What did you see today?

What did you see today?
(Excerpt from a Journal/Pilgrimage along the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, Wales/ 2019)

I saw drops of rain~~~
turned-on like a faucet on high.

I was drenched until the sun burst~~~

A soft wind carried a sail boat across
the sea and it hovered around me…

I moved~~~ the sail of my being
dry…not a single seam weighed down
by this morning’s baptism.

What did you hear today?
I heard the ‘Gospel’ —echoes of silence.

What did you touch today?
Delicate moss, a beautiful green blanket

stretching over the stately trees…
The moss touched me first holding on
long enough to rest…then the branches, the
limbs of the trees began to dance~~~
they held a pose.

What did you smell today?
The scent of flowers~~~wild, unfolding
anointing this Sojourner with their
priceless fragrance.

Who did you find THIS day?
I found my friend in living colors~~~
Many friends, countless mansions…
I sought a rainbow
to feel the depths of those
who have moved on…

On the sea’s shore…
red, yellow, pink, green, purple, orange
there THEY were…

I did not have to look up~~~
THEY have been in front of me all along~~~
it has simply taken me this long
to discover.

Drops of Color/ Tear Drop

Drops of Color
Tear Drop

The form of  a 
tear drop
hangs from pines.

A choir 
bellows from
this ‘spun’ papier-mâché’ drop
~~~dangling effortlessly.

A single entrance
carved out at the bottom.

The community worked
from the sun’s rising
until the stars appeared.

Chewing upon wood fibers,
the workers blend their saliva—‘wasp spit’
creating the formation
of their castle.

Open-celled combs
~~~life being birthed from within
~~~the outside, a thick
        multi-layered shell.

Hundreds work inside this stately drop…
it serves its purpose
for a time and then remains vacant

or is removed by Autumn’s winds
or winter’s chill.

Many times the tear
shaped domain
hangs in life’s museum.

How wondrous
~~~no entrance fee!

Open your eyes
~~~beauty all around
~~~so prevalent

tear drops forming
    in my eyes.

Web of Being

Web of Being

You held the sun
between glimmering threads.

You did not capture its flame.
Instead, you allowed the impregnating
light to reveal the essence of
spun creativity.

Passing-by, had I blinked,
I would have missed this divine manifestation.

This web of being invited me
to lay back and take in
the delicate, detailed tapestry
we are knitted ‘into.’

If tomorrow, anything should
remove this holy dwelling,
trust…it is a mere illusion.

This web of being is
spun again,
and then again.

The same sun makes
its way to shine on the plains.

The dangling strands
crafted
—spaces reveal
life living in the essence
of a web
spinning,
and we revolve
held by threads
spun by
creation’s delicate
dance.

Drops of Color/ The Entrance

Drops of Color
The Entrance

The doorway
opened itself wide…releasing its hinges.

The architecture surrounding
its space
was strong like bar bells
secure like a knot in a rope
and held a delicate design…
like petals lapped around a flower.

The wood dipped in varnish
darkened like a pool

beneath a mid-night sky.

The stone-cut, shaped
smooth like the feel
of melted wax.

Stepping through,
a silent pause taken.
I was neither inside its chiseled arch
or outside its course frame.

The way, suffice it to say,
depends what you choose.
Will you enter
or believe yourself unworthy?

You , you are the image and likeness
of the One knocking in the doorway
of your being,

“Come In, Come In
why are you waiting?
Welcome.”

The entrance is narrow
and it is open
for ALL.

Another Version of Psalm 23

Another Version of Psalm 23

How can I be glad
   when I hear you weeping?
You, who have been my Shepherd,
   I want to dry your tears.
How I wish to allow you to lie down
   instead of wondering if another shot will be fired.
I live in green pastures,
   and I want to bring you to still waters.
You cry out, ‘I cannot breathe.’
   Your lifeless body pulled from a vehicle after countless bullet wounds.
How do I help restore your Soul?
   When can I go back to the path leading to you?
How can your name be heard without
   a war breaking out?

Do I fear your death,
   again, by those who say you are only
here to save those who would strike down
   another in your Holy name?

I’ll set a table for you
   in the company of those who would laugh at my words.
I hold your cup
   and fill it until it overflows.
Goodness, kindness I give back to you.
   You can return to your house
and open your door.

Then, and only then,
can I be glad.
Written under the wise tutelage of June Gould Ph.D.

Drops of Color/ This View

Drops of Color

This View

From here
—the view appears
     eternal.

Time seems to 
     hold its hands
—each tic
     every toc
     ECHOES.

Beyond the valley,
     the mountains 
     ‘catch’ the refrain
     launching it skyward.

Softly, the 
     sounds drizzle
     back down
     to the green
     grasses
—to the soil bed
    of the earth’s stage.

This performance
never closes
its curtain.

From this view,
the show lives on.

Words keep getting in the way…

Words keep getting in the way…
(A Journal Entry walking the Camino St Francis/September 2019)

What do you say
when words keep getting in the way
to describe You?

You are more than a feeling—
You are beyond all thought—
You are NO-thing—
You are EVERYTHING…

Along a path,
a tiny flower grows
from a crevice in a rock
split from dipping dew.

A hawk above my head—
its wings stretched from east to west
soars beneath the clouds
and it, too, calls for You.

A gentle breeze ensues
while the sun remains to shine
yet, there in the distance a storm
approaching.

Even though it has not yet arrived,
I am soaked in wonder
and laugh at all these words
and hold a pause.

Suddenly, I am dancing~~~my arms,
my legs
turn into paint brushes.
I begin to sway, then slowly dip.
I dab an easel filled with
colors and waltz across a canvas—
a picture painting itself before
my eyes.

It is You…
You are in EVERYTHING
and I am a part of all
Your beauty.

Before I move on from here,
I look back at the page
and, I glance at endless persons
going by.

You are there—
You are in EVERY~ONE.

All these words—
Oh, they keep getting in the way
attempting to create You…
and so, for NOW,
I slip from the page
and You catch me,
I close my eyes
wishing THIS moment never dies
and then I rise.
I rise.

‘We’ go on
back to the familiar.
Yet, no-thing is ever the same.
EVERY-thing continues
Becoming YOU
while these words of mine
keep getting in the way.

Drops of Color/ Up, Up and away in my beautiful balloon…

Drops of Color
“Up, up and away in my beautiful balloon…”

Sailing higher
into clouds,
my imagination
out of reach to find words.

My eyes look turning to the
East.  The sun joining this 
ride…igniting the 
balloon’s colors, the 
airborne vessel does not
burn…instead it joins
the Sun…two lights
beholden in the sky.

The wind catches us
launching us North—
towering mountain tops,
their peaks reaching to
‘touch’…jagged, rugged
places undiscovered nor
traversed by the likes of
humankind and still, the
mountains maintain their
recognition…they stand
unchiseled—created by an
unseen hand.  Mountain goats stand
on peaks, balanced like ballerinas…
they join in the flight.

Soft vapors
bath me, one drop after
another.  Descending
South, the current
pulls this flying bubble
swaying steadily as if the 
sky were an ocean.
We float looking
down upon rolling waves
as dolphins lead us along
as if pulling us in play.

The hours have passed.
Beds of green grass, rolling
like a million fingers waving,
waving, waving…

Persons stand together.
Yes, hundreds, thousands stand
upon the landscape.
Brown, black, yellow, red and white—
their heads joined in unity.

The balloon bows
and veers Westward.
A purple sky reveals the beginning
of dusk.
Before this day ends,
I begin to sing…

“Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon?”

 

A Place

A Place

There is a place I go to be
alone.

It is sturdy, and it has been
here well beyond the years
I know of its actual existence.

I pray it will be here
long after I have passed,
and another might
seek its solace,
its comfort, and its wonder.

This place knows when to let
the light in.

Its entrance always open.

Darkness is a welcomed guest
—the stars rest here
     for moments to give the 
      shadows time to play.

This place I go
needs no windows
because you would not wish
 a sheet of glass
to separate you
from this haven
—this place I come
     to be alone
—and where I am
    met again and again
    by the One who
    lowers the ladder.

Drops of Color/ Design

Drops of Color

Design

Who designed your outer wear?
What makes up your daily uniform
defining what you do,
who you are,
how you ‘attempt’ to present yourself?

Does the outer design hold many colors?
Is the fabric a solid shade
imitating crayola?

When the garment of your outer self
removed
and your nakedness appears—

Do you ask
in the quiet space of yourself,
now disrobed from any form of titles:

Who am I?

Silently, behold what is You.
‘Stop’ looking so hard.
Pause from ‘thinking.’
Close your eyes and when the soft
light finds its way
into your internal gaze,

bathe in the color or countless colors
of the creation that is extraordinarily you.

You light the world…
you’re the ONLY design which
casts~~~ You!

 

“Even after all this time,
The Sun never says to the
Earth, you owe me, look
what happens with a love
like that, it lights the whole world.”
                                                              Hafiz

Clouds

Clouds

Did you ever wonder
how a cloud moves?

Floating particles gather
in an array of forms.

Sometimes, I imagine
I see a family of porpoises
gliding in the sea of blue.

Other times,
the clouds are a marching band.
Stringed instruments roll on by
while a series of drums and
buglers float on.

Today, I watched
as a small winged bird
entered the film.
It was, in fact, a tiny swallow,
gathering the clouds in its beak
pulling it through the sky,
inviting the others of its kind
to bring on the next display.

Was I actually seeing this take place
or had I fallen 
asleep dreaming
of clouds, and birds,
and musical instruments,
and an ocean of 
porpoises?

Take some time to
gaze at the clouds…
if you see a set of
wings pulling them,
you tell me.

Was it just a dream?

Drops of Color/ For Brian

Drops of Color
For Brian

When he saw them…

Immediately, he knew
—their white button down shirts
—their black tapered suits
—their ‘fine’ beaks
    tipped so,
    so that every morsel of sustenance
    filled the little ones beside
    their patent leather boots.

He fell in love with these
feathered arctic penguins.

Like tiny toy soldiers
at attention, they lovingly stand
facing harsh winters in creches.

Taking turns amongst millions,
stepping outside to be a barrier
from blustery winds,
they step back ‘in’ to warm
long enough to go back ‘out’
combating the elements.

The ‘sound’ of their nestling heard
amidst shrieks of thousands—
the parents know their own chick.

My friend—
He draws them
and draws them again.

I love him…
So Brian—this is for You!

Tulips

Tulips

You cannot 
look at a tulip
and walk on by…

Can you?

Look, look at its
vestments…the finest
tailor could not replicate.

Soft pinks, glamorous yellows,
striking reds and passionate purples
dazzle us in this season of Spring.

Short-lived
yet, each year we
welcome their arrival.

The tulip bursting from
earth’s womb…

Littering life with loveliness.

Awe, if the tulips were the only trash
we needed to collect
to care for this garden
from which we, too, burst forth.

Drops of Color/ Beneath the Boardwalk

Drops of Color
Beneath the Boardwalk

The boardwalk beckoned—
instead, I dove below.

Surfacing, I heard the 
footsteps overhead,
and suddenly the soft echo
of surf chimed in.

Beneath the boardwalk,
a sort of amphitheater ensued.
The sound played
a soft ballad.

Several sailing vessels passed-by.
A few fish swam at a distance.
They blew bubbles
that rose to the water’s surface.
They dipped down quickly as 
a gull ‘sneaked’ in~~~unannounced
—no shadow revealed here.

Slowly, I tread
and came out from beneath
the boardwalk.

The sun was bright
and glided across the unknown
boardwalk of hid-den depths
living below.

Buoys

Buoys

Plunging into a sea
~~~green feathered stalks stood
swaying in the ebb and flow of
a balmy breeze.

Slowly treading water
around me
in every direction,
yellow buoys broke the surface.
They appeared like a million
faces lit by the sun…

Overhead, the skyscape
~~~a blue canopy
holds patches of seabirds,
their wings casting endless expressions.

This body ‘alive’
~~~the hues
being born again unto themselves.

Drops of Color/ The Arch

Drops of Color
The Arch

From the window, twelve sealed frames.
All who enter the arch below
or exit beneath its halo
are made visible.

The arch—
what is seen
from within its held space
—endless stories
—legends told
—myths created
—truths held
—footprints vanished
—timeless trails blazed.

There is an unknown element
that cannot be defined
or made manifest.

Its mystery is known to those
who pass—
those who do so
are unaware of the thresholds
by which they traverse.

At the time of ripening,
life’s unfolding happens as we
live life simply.

The thin veil
will open itself
and, in a moment unknown,
you’ll know you have
made your way through.

It’s Time

It’s Time

Clearly, it’s time.

Perhaps, I knew
a long time ago…it was clear then,
but I was not ready to say, ‘Good-bye.’

I learned a lot from you.
I’m grateful
even to this day.

Yet, my path is different
so I’ll ask you to excuse me.
If you cannot, that’s o.k.
‘Cause it’s time to say, ‘Good-bye.’

Please don’t use that book of
yours and preach
the verses you’ve memorized.
Go ahead, hold it up.
Bless you for the truth you hold.

I’m not judging you
so I ask you, ‘Just remember me.’

Good-bye…you left things in my hands.
Important things—
I’ve done my best.
You have your photos, ‘images’
—illusions of the truth.

I’m going now.
I wish you well.

Truth is
I’ll never stop 
loving you.

Good-bye—
it’s finally time.

Drops of Color/ What If…

Drops of Color
What if…

What if the colors
in these windows
are the words resting upon the sills?

Fly

Fly

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

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

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

The wind calls—
it is this moment

NOW

I rise flying in what appears
the opposite direction.

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

Even if pushed back,

even if I fall to my ending,

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

Drops of Color/ The Scenery

Drops of Color

The Scenery

You held the ‘oar’—

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

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

I paused…

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

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

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

THE SCENERY.

I was held in beauty

and asked to

BEHOLD.

Together, we sailed on.

He said, ‘Follow me.’

He said, ‘Follow me.’

And, so I have.
I try each day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AND

he was sent back empty for he
was corrupt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is who I choose
to follow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Want to follow?

The only burden—
if you say, ‘No.’

Drops of Color/ A Window

Drops of Color

A Window

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Will these people…

Will these people…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So many already
taken too soon.

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

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

“Will these people ever
understand.”