Switzerland 2022
July 11th & 12th, 2022
The mountains
spoke softly
to a solitary star
glistening above its jagged peaks.
“Come, come my friend,
rest awhile,
Let me hold you.”
The star responded,
“Here I come,
and I shall illuminate
your brilliance
under the night’s sky.”
Drops Color
Eden
A field
laid open.
Every direction
unmarked for miles.
A wisp of wind
strummed its way
through the tree
holding a center
like a point of nothingness.
Chimes rang
like a bell-tower
—a rope pulled an invisible
thread by an unnamed ‘Who.’
Each ‘gong’ set off
pairs of hidden wings
draped between the
slender stalks of lush
undisturbed grasses.
The soft scent of earth,
like incense rising,
filled one’s nostrils
—breathing in the landscape
—breathing out the gentle
vapors of a ‘self’
pooling in
the Divine culmination
of the Universe entwined
in a rapturous
service
never ceasing.
The tree lifted its limbs,
its roots holding
steadfast.
The homily sung
through draping leaves
welcoming the sun
and whispering
‘good night’ to the
slivered moon
slanting into the purple
western sky.
Here in this field,
Eden at play.
The tree stands…
We have never really
left~
Switzerland 2022
July 10th
A Bridge, A Lion and A Monastery
First, a bridge whose
history is etched into
its painted wood beams
—stories of a people
who refused to renounce
or bow down to unknown gods
—lives sacrificed.
Second, a wounded Lion.
Massive paws cradle the
shields of lives lost
—the Lion’s sorrows…
its silent roar
still heard in the
sculpted rock
And
Third, a Benedictine Monastery
founded in these mountains
some 900 years ago.
The sound of the organ’s pipes
pulls Souls ‘into’ the performance.
No one spoke.
Some bowed their heads—the music
allowing them to sway from
side to side.
Deep vibrating notes
–like an invitation from within the bowels of
the earth
—the rumble, the tempo
ignites
reaching the top of
the snow-covered peaks.
The final note
elicits applause
—a standing ovation.
The organist humbly rises and nods her head
in gratitude.
Tear-filled eyes—
Peace filled smiles.
No one prouder than her life’s
Companion.
He approaches
—a shy smile as he says,
‘The Organist, she is my wife!’
Brava!
A Bridge, a Lion and The Sound of Music
ALIVE in my every prayerful step.
Drops of Color
Miracles…
Happen ‘every’ day.
Look…really look.
Listen…quiet yourself…hush!
Touch…the invisible,
pouring itself
into your hands.
Taste…the sweet abundance
—the savory juices
even after 2000 years
—the jars filled with
the freshest wines.
The vineyards are ripe.
We are all laborers
‘faith-filled’
becoming the miracles
endlessly creating.
Switzerland 2022
July 9th, 2022
A walk in a womb
Embryonic fluids
filled the center.
The sound of its current
dangles between
enormous slabs of uterine walls
on both sides.
Walking in Oneness beside the river,
I was pushed,
pulled,
held,
let-go
time after time.
The sun shielded its face,
the rays lifted the clouds.
The waters,
a glistening blue-silver.
Within, soaring
—each step calculated
as best can be.
Magnificent pines.
Spectacular green needles
create shadow spaces
revealing learning places
stored in the cabin
of my Soul.
‘Listening,’
Becoming…here in this womb.
I am Becoming.
The question living in me
EVERY day…
Who am I?
And who are you, Lord?
This pilgrimage, like past treks
…questions asked
…answers not sought.
The pursuit is the prayer.
Taking notice
of the tributaries finding
their way ‘into’ this birthing canal,
Delivering…
drops of water, too numerous to count.
They thrust themselves from the edge of
a cliff
—the volume, uncharted
—the sound…a force not to be reckoned.
Soaked in wonder
Bathed in awe
These words cascade down the river
uniting with the drops
thrust from the waterfalls
and again,
I am born anew.
Drops of Color
And…for the next performance
Mesmerized
—waiting with wonder.
The wand…was it the wand,
its wave,
or the hand?
Was it the spell
spoken aloud?
I ‘believed’ the furry
little fluffy-tailed creature
would appear out of that hat.
So simple…so magical!
When I was a child,
I thought everything could
be solved by a wave of a
wand, the passing of a hand,
a verse spoken aloud.
Quickly, I learned
it was a staged performance.
Life is not an act
yet, our actions
allow us the ability
to choose the parts we
shall LIVE out.
Many times now, in the
growing later years of
my life,
I have drawn the curtains
—not to close out the audience,
but to invite in a
Source who bids me to
sit awhile and listen.
The hushed space is
beyond any magical
notion. All concerns sit
on the shoreline,
and I plunge into the
infinite.
All my questions become
the drops in which I swim
—an enormous ocean
I am in, I am.
When I set my feet
on land,
stillness and movement
meet—
prayer and action unite.
How can I help you,
Source of Life?
Suddenly, a creature lifted
its delicate ears.
Hearing my voice,
it was not afraid.
I watched it nibble
the lanky grasses—
green, juicy
—it took in each blade
with sheer delight.
Free
—in fellowship we live this life.
In harmony,
the community is the sun, the stars,
the trees, the rivers,
the desert sand, the Artic icebergs,
the winged-beings and four-legged
creatures, the two-legged persons…
all varieties of colors, genders,
beliefs, faith traditions.
I could go on and on
or maybe
I’ll take off this hat,
put down this wand splashing
ink on this page,
and I will pull a blade of
grass from its root,
place it between my lips,
and hop a while with
my community—
what a wonderful life.
Switzerland 2022
July 8th
Pause
Rays of light,
like a winnowing fan,
unfold like fingers
pointing in all directions.
I pause and offer thanks.
Luminous vapors
come together forming a
pack of puffy white cotton
candy clouds.
They hold the mountains before
floating by.
I pause, filled with gratitude.
Stepping on earth’s bed,
roots stretch out like spools
of yarn, knitted together.
My ‘soles’ cross the lingering drops
of the waterfall’s rocks.
They are washed revealing bright shades of red,
as if tanned from the flame high in
the sky’s dome,
igniting a stage whose performance
goes on and on and, I,
I pause beholden to the wonder.
A river runs freely.
Its flow knowing, showing no sign of halting and, it
has no understanding of stopping.
I hear its roar, as the boulders
held in its sway, act as if a
tambourine elicits its eternal
song.
I pause and am so very grateful.
A long day’s journey
brought me to a simple place.
Upon arriving, I hear a gentle woman calling
my name.
I enter a space.
I am washed and refreshed beneath a shower.
Outside, the heavens pour down
sweeping rains.
Earth, too, wants to be made clean.
I pause, made humble.
Invited to a table, I am greeted
by a gentle man who brings glasses from
which to drink. Soup, warm as I
touch the spoon to my lips.
Next, I’m crunching a salad with
juicy ripe tomatoes, the greenest
cucumbers, shreds of carrots.
The main entrée is set before me.
Apricot ice cream paints my pallet’s
final bite
—I pause in this holy communion.
The night moves in.
The day’s memories, a sweet
blanket, cover me.
I whisper softly, ‘good night.’
Pausing, eyes close in prayer.
…in the rubble
(Inspired by Joy Harjo’s poem: Don’t Bother the Earth Spirit)
Is there a ‘spirit’ alive in the rubble?
The quaking Earth moved with a rhythm
of a musical piece
—high pitched.
She carried the fragments of her ‘soils’
—devouring whatever lay in her path.
How long, how long did her lament last?
It was short, yet her after shocks rippled
—unseen miles.
Lives lost…she moved caressing their lifeless
brows, touching their broken places with her fingers
AND
then she listened.
Voices
—they were getting louder
AND
they were closer.
In her pit of darkness,
she held the bodies that were ALIVE.
Slithering herself through debris,
she found openings…
she gathered small stones throwing them
at the persons there
—to Search
—to Rescue
—to Recover.
Those struck by the flying objects,
braced themselves.
They thought aloud—
‘Another Quake,’
‘Another After Shock,’
but they did not turn away—
they found the openings.
‘Spirit’ whirled herself
down into the heap of darkness.
She lifted those with breath in their lungs.
The rescuers cried out,
‘We found One… ALIVE.’
The joy…the outpouring of gladness pooling
in rivers of grief
—after shocks STILL lingering.
Is this story true?
Is there a spirit alive in the rubble?
I don’t know.
Maybe years from now
loved ones who visit
the covered graveyards
will tell how she lifted them out ALIVE.
The sound of her beating HEART
—a Quake.
When will they care for my land still AWAKE?
Switzerland 2022
July 7th
May I have this dance?
Presenting itself,
well past the mid-night hour,
a ballroom became visible.
I held my position,
and observed hundreds, thousands,
no, millions of descendants.
Stars glistened in the Universe
joining hands from their
illuminated orbit.
The deep ensuing silence was the music
to which they danced.
More and more spectrums of light
joined in the cosmic dance.
Beginning to sway,
I reached.
My soles hovered momentarily
until I thought to myself,
‘this cannot be happening.’
Again, there I go…thinking again.
Silly human, am I.
A mystical light fanned the stage
allowing a quick glance
of the steepled mountains.
I did not wish to close my eyes,
but at some point,
the stardust spilled from the ballroom floor
painting my eyes closed.
Was this a dream?
A songbird begins
a morning serenade.
Opening my eyes,
My feet touch the ground.
I look.
A solitary star lingers in this
new morning
asking, ‘may I have this dance?’
Amen
Drops of Color
House of Stones
One by one
they took turns telling
stories.
Sometimes, they rolled over
one another
—they ‘crumbled’ laughing aloud.
Holding in place,
they recalled the youngsters
rushing to the river
each one discovering
what they believed to
be a perfect fit.
The women folk created a mortar
while the men folk outlined
a foundation.
Together, they began laying the
first row, the second, the third
and…
When the last row completed,
a thatched roof secured
the home.
From a distance, they looked on.
Joining hands, they admired their
collective accomplishment.
That night, tucked inside,
they set a fire and dined
around a table…each spoke
a blessing,
offered thanks.
They quieted themselves,
closing their eyes,
trusting the stars outside
were a blanket upon
their foundation.
The stones sang a lullaby.
Even today, if you listen
—they sing out.
Years of earthen ware
—standing
…what a glorious home
where we dwell.
Switzerland 2022
July 6th
Who moved the mountains?
What pulled the peaks into the
swirl of clouds expanding, hovering,
disguising the rugged silhouettes
until they reappeared and are made new
over and over again?
When, how did the colors spread themselves?
Vibrant green paths, soaring pines,
yellow, purple and orange wildflowers
growing from rocks…Edelweiss
patches of white snowflakes, one atop
another…the depths~~~immeasurable.
Where did the black shadows learn
to spread themselves wider and
wider until the light found gaps,
and the darkness whispered,
‘Welcome, friend.’
Oh, mystical mountains, I see ‘forms’ on
display.
I gaze upon contours, your unique
limbs, outstretched arms, soft
breasts, broad shoulders.
Mid-wife, is that you here laughing
at my wild imagination?
Yes, I see you in the formation
of an expectant girl—
A growing awareness
ALL around the birth of a new
Dawn!
I began with a question,
Who moved the mountains?
The answer is not necessary.
There is a realization that they are moving
around me, through me and
within me.
We have the ability to move mountains,
Don’t we?
Systemic
(A few drops from a Memoir)
Blue.
I wore the uniform.
I swore to protect and serve.
I pulled over a vehicle driven erratically.
I explained to the driver why he was stopped.
The auto was filled with the aroma of alcohol.
I performed standard tests before
asking the driver to step out of the vehicle.
He could barely stand.
My backup and I helped him
stay on his feet.
He was placed under arrest,
and I took him to the department
for booking.
In a matter of moments, the PD was
inundated with fire fighters
—the driver of the vehicle
one of theirs
—he drove the firetruck.
This arrest would scar his future.
I was asked not to pursue the charges—
but
I followed through with the arrest.
Blue began to fade.
Again…
an open forum. Brothers in blue gathered round.
I was harassed. The remarks rendered heard,
and the sergeant came to my side.
It lasted a moment.
I did not wish any action to be taken, yet I
wanted the ‘issue’ addressed.
In the end, I was found ‘guilty’ of being
an oversensitive female by the administrative investigative team.
The Blue diminished.
This was not the ONLY system
within which I dwelt.
I wore a pastoral garment. I served as a Chaplain
in a hospital.
The call came…
Emergency in the ER.
The patient—critical.
Family lined up in the hallway—‘waiting.’
The clergy, sporting his collar reported to
the family, ‘I gave him the sacrament,
he’s all set.’ Then, he tapped my head
and told the family, ‘This little girl will
take care of you.’ He left.
The Doctor came out into the hallway
and broke the news.
I held the broken hearted
—the raw grief
—the tears.
At the bedside, we gathered
—we prayed
—the sacrament ALIVE.
I reread these words,
and they appear trivial.
But, again, I’m beside an 80+ year old
woman, a teacher her entire life,
a faith filled church goer, single,
filled with light.
In the nursing home, she was ‘touched’/fondled
inappropriately by a clergy person
in residence. I was called to be at
the ‘side’ of both.
She ‘wept.”
I held her hand.
She cried out to God…
I wept with her.
His community offered to pay for her
Health Care if she did not go to the papers.
I went to his room.
He had nothing to share
except that he’d been to confession
—he was forgiven.
I wept again and left the room.
Now, Tyre.
Now, Tyre.
NOW, Tyre.
I want the mother’s faith.
His mother believes Tyre’s life’s purpose fulfilled.
His assignment here—complete.
Her purpose to make all things GOOD—
To evolve from death.
New life, a new way of being to be made visible.
How can anyone plead
NOT guilty…How?
Let’s look at the systems.
Let’s address the systemic imbalance
within this blessed creation wherein we dwell.
“WE’—black, white, yellow, red,
male, female, gay, straight, transgender,
Hindu, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist…
There really is only One way
when we all see each other as One…
and recognize our differences
as the uniqueness of
adding to the multiplicity of a
Universe designed to see each ‘star’
meant to shine their own brilliance.
‘You may say I’m a dreamer, but
I’m not the only One…’
Tyre,
I pray your sunset
gives rise
to images and photographic
landscapes
making life—
making all things NEW.
In memory of Tyre Nichols
(June 5, 1993- January 10, 2023)
Switzerland 2022
July 5th
What lies in this unexpected place?
So fitting has been the night
wrapped in a blanket of dreams.
The images, already fading like
the stars, tuck themselves into
dawn’s vast array of colorful petals.
Awaiting your greeting,
I pause here.
Time after endless time,
it is you awaiting my greeting.
Your patience,
Your infinite ability to hold ‘space’
and, it is not a space that is
owned by anyone
—it is a shared,
an always changing spectacle.
Unfolding like flowers, wildflowers
strewn on a mountain’s pathway.
Spectrums of color face a sky
touching what only appears
at a distance.
There is no space keeping anything
apart.
Unexpected…
The miles that bring me to these
lingering thoughts.
No matter where I am
—life blossoming
—the unknown calling out
to ‘space,’
Here I am,
Here I am,
Here I am,
as I always have been.
Drops of Color
The Curtain Sways
Waiting for an ‘image’
to appear.
Holding a timeless gaze.
Suddenly, a window
emerges.
It’s open.
You have been here
before…
Perhaps, You have been
all along?
This time the tempest
seeping through
PLAYS a new kind of song…
it begins from the ‘inside.’
Like the Pied Piper,
a solitary breath finds,
discovers, an opening
and plays through…
The curtain sways
Trusting its partner
to guide the dance.
Now, ‘outside’
every sentient being
waltzes on life’s stage
while stars glitter
igniting a Universe whispering,
“They are catching on.”
Switzerland 2022
July 4th
Prayer
Rain falling upward
as clouds loom beneath me.
Mountains moved the sky
as the sun began its search
for a doorway.
Silence played itself so longingly,
I covered my ears.
Is this real? Is this a fantasy?
Is this___________???
This is prayer…yes, it is what
words no longer invite in the moment.
The cascading waterfalls,
every pool of water~~~prayer,
living itself out loud.
No antiphon,
No refrain, no passages
—a rhapsody
—a musical unwritten
Note after note after note.
I ‘almost’ begin to cry.
To you, mid-wife, I give,
I offer
the essence of my ‘soles’ every step.
So often, stopping—I look, what’s to say?
All my words
throughout my lifetime,
have they meant anything?
If I cast them ‘into’ the subtle breeze
hovering on a hawk’s outstretched
wing…
Oh, if the majestic bird carried them all
Away…
Would I then grasp the meaning,
the fullness, the simplicity of
Prayer?
Drums begin to beat
—the vibration washes upon me like a
wave carried upon the sea.
Light imbues the space. Now,
thunder beats upon drums
not only one, or two, or three, or
I cannot see the player.
I tap my foot…is this prayer?
Yes, yes, yes,
All these words.
I’m back above the clouds.
What I no longer see below,
gives prayer permission
to come to life.
A new Gospel,
Each of us a living testament.
I now close this prayer
In silence…
Good night
Drops of Color
Poem
Hidden beneath
a quilt
—patterns of colors
warming
a poem.
Words blanketed in stitches
looking out
for unruffled moments.
A window gives way to stars.
A poem breathes
—a soft rise of blues,
greens, oranges, and yellows
fanned out
highlighting the room.
The sun found its way
adding rays
—a blending of a Universe
a simple poem
becomes…
Switzerland 2022
July 2nd & 3rd
The Doorway of Yesterday
—opens like a film.
A sequence of slides creates
windows
held in one elaborate pane
—no specific storyline being written.
Within the womb of the plane,
the descent began
—a shade lifts…a first glance.
I see a blanket of white linens.
Underneath appear points of various
sizes…there is NO order.
Shadows linger expanding the horizon’s
line while a blue sea…is it
the sky? A seamless wave rolls over
the ice crystals
—jagged peaks held in the sea of
glass offering this first revelation.
The mid-wife caresses her delicate fingers
over the soft crust of sleep’s crumbs
falling from my battered lashes.
Headfirst…the mid-wife laughs
aloud to herself.
She seems to say, ‘I knew you’d
never allow your feet to touch the
ground before you—LOOK!’
Now, I have been re-united—
joined, as if a twin-soul enters from
another womb. A companion walks
beside me, with me, as so often in
the past, our steps discover NEW meaning.
Here we are. The shattering of
time distancing us because a pandemic
now seems to gather all these cosmic
pieces together.
Everything fits.
The doorway opens. I see a window
of imperfections manifest into
a tale so beyond perfect
that the story birthing itself
starts with, ‘Once upon a time…’
I’m seated—
an altar before me.
Two angels appear…
they place bread, sparkling water,
wine,
smoked meat, laced cheese, tomatoes,
avocado, fresh mozzarella drizzled
oil and balsamic dressing before us.
The soft scent of basil lays
on the blessed dishes.
Sweet communion…savoring the
delicacies set before us…
A sharing of Gospels, each life,
speaking aloud a testament
never read before.
It becomes a part of the glass
tapestry casting this window.
We rise…the mid-wife takes
my hand. Four of us,
like legs of One table, set out
into the streets, the highways & byways
of Old Town Zurich. Thousands of
voices speaking aloud, cars & buses
—horns blaring.
There seems to be a ‘pitch’
measured and played.
Stepping to a rhythm writing
itself, we come to the river.
An array of sails holds the day’s
pleasant breeze.
There they are…the mountainous
terrain awaiting the ‘soles’
two of the four disciples gathered
in this moment.
We walked into a church—
Marc Chagall’s Windows, ALIVE.
As the sun shone, highlighting
colors entombed in glass and
Resurrecting the Cathedral of Creation,
A stained-glass window
Its only ‘break’
Which has yet to be revealed.
Drops of Color
The Sea and a Light House
The sea said to the light house,
“Cast your radiance and we
shall carry it outward upon
our waves.”
The light house said to the sea,
“You stretch beyond any
conscious reach where
light and darkness
come together and bridge
any thought of a divide.”
THIS day I begin the sharing of my Journal as I traversed the landscape of Switzerland’s Alps in 2022.
Enjoy the walk in the upcoming Thursdays of 2023…pray you’ll ‘fall’ in love with the scenery that has
planted its ‘wild’ flowers in my being.
Switzerland 2022
July 1- July 22nd, 2022
The Via Alpina
Praying
It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.
~~~Mary Oliver
July 1/Day 1
A silence hovers
so still, calm and fluid is its movement.
A new dawn rose this morning—
a solitary feathered being settled itself
in the long, thin arms of the tree’s
naked branches…
The song being played through a parted
beak~~~timeless…the refrain, lifting
the dewy grasses rising to the pastel
sky, awaits the flame of life to
usher in DAY.
The tiny bird cares not who hears
—creating what is ‘inside’ itself
cannot/will not wait. No audience
needed.
The One hovering in the Silence
pauses, breathes and sends a ripple
through my hair~~~ no other breeze
in the air.
A great heron holds a perch…
beckoning, breaching, until the pond
opens the doorway to a doe and two
soft white speckled fawns prance
at her side.
The Heron ushers in its becoming One
with the presiding unknown
presence.
Who, who is it joining me here
now~~~
It has been years since I’ve boarded
the silver falcon with a million
frosted feathers.
Across the ‘pond,’ I will be carried.
Beside me, a host of others
find their way to who knows
where.
I’m in a womb.
The silent presence has become
a mid-wife. She’s been beside me
before I was conceived.
She does not pull me or push me.
Never has she prodded or tugged.
She hears me when I do not hear
or understand myself
and, she says, ‘This is Good.’
You, she speaks to my Soul, “You
have come upon a new doorway.
I’m going to show you things you have
never seen and, yes, reveal things you
have bore witness to. Yet, your gaze
Shall be made new.”
“It is only hours away…
You will be birthed in the mountains.
The Swiss Alps…
Hidden and revealed, you must wait.”
The latch on the door lifted.
Streams of water will be heard…do I hear them now?
Winds and thunder, creatures will speak.
Winged angels shall appear,
and ancestors past and present
shall speak…LISTEN.
My heart is beating like a harp
whose strings ring out, ‘play me,
play me, play me.’
Don’t worry about the sound.
Like this morning’s songbird
the dew’s grasses rise,
like the flame illuminating this day.
‘We’ are not burned by such wondrous
Light. Like the Heroin perched on its
pulpit letting the congregation know
new life has joined the community
—small fawns, like children leap
and experience everything a first time.
She hovers…
She whispers. This is a first time
and, your ending will bring you back to
face the NEWNESS for the child in you
to be reborn and begin again.
Drops of Color
The Wild…
A soft ‘yip’
met with a cajoling purr
—so nurturing, far from fierce.
Her paws, their tender pads
—the size of a catcher’s glove.
She nudges, prods, cradles
the kit closer and closer.
She draws her into the delicate
blanket of her laced
orange fur.
Mother and child
so affectionate
—come near her youngster
THIS ‘image’ changes immensely.
What would the wild teach us
regarding care for ‘our’ young?
Perhaps, the One who brought
all things into being
has placed a cushioned
padding around our Souls.
Protecting, guarding, always loving…
yet not eliminating hardships.
Life holds risks as we venture
from our ‘dens’…
The wild has many lessons
to teach the tame Soul.
Strange Moments
Strange, the moments
—that cling to us
—that lure us like bait dangling
from a hook, ‘come, taste, it is
right here.’
Seeing, yet not seeing
—something, someone approaches.
Hearing a subtle bending of leaves
—A crisp cackle followed by
a calming silence.
Rising like smoke from a fire,
a stately being appears
dressed in soft fur.
Through parted nostrils
—vapors from her breath
join spirit and matter
enveloping her created self
bringing to life
this moment.
Our intimate connection
—creature and human.
Nature nurturing a
solemn moment.
She is a prayer
needing no words.
Drops of Color
Open Heart
Page after page,
words placed like canned goods
on shelves.
You choose the aisle
filled with chapters
delighting your appetite.
At times…a certain shelf
holds a paragraph.
It becomes a sheet of music
—You listen for a sound.
You read the sentences
over and over again.
Now, like a song,
you cannot get out of
your head,
verses enter your heart
open to a tune
longing to be heard.
There’s a poem in this place—
I cannot find it!
Please, help me discover where it has gone!
It has vanished
like a magician running a wand
over this empty page.
Abracadabra—
How did I lose the words?
How did they slip from this paper
waiting, waiting, waiting
to be filled?
The ink drained from this writing
instrument
—empty, it falls cascading into an
endless abyss.
I attempt to capture a word, only one word
—my mind, my thoughts erased.
I’m plunging into another world…
Why now?
Why have you left me in this
no-man’s land?
I reach, both my arms extended…
help me Fly!
“NO”—deeper & deeper
I’m falling
like Alice in Wonderland
twirling down a rabbit hole…
It is so dark I cannot see.
My ears are absent to the sounds
all around me.
I touch the page, but feel nothing—
this space ‘hollow.’
Where are you, poem?
How can I write you without?
How can I write you without?
Without what?
Maybe this is a prayer?
The absence of words
trying to make sense of what no
longer rhymes? I do not need a reason
to write.
I write for the very reason
that leaves me in utter silence.
Can I hold, can I breathe life
into a poetic space
that right NOW remains—Absent?
Hush—
be still.
There’s a poem in this place.
Be quiet—
Be quiet—
the night is approaching.
For NOW—maybe, BE, the poem that
envelopes this place—
the poem, I have discovered in
each of You.
Drops of Color
…to Love
Opening
like a drawbridge,
a lever releases a chain.
Each timely guarded notch
pulls to lift the mighty arms
of its structure
‘open.’
A lowly vessel below
begins to make its way.
The flow of the waters
lead…
A door,
like a bridge—‘opens.’
Hinges allow a sway
like the magic of butterfly
wings.
Listening, the sound
of a heart beats.
The pumping, artistic pulse
of muscle sustains
life.
Love remains open.
At night I hunt the sea for you…
Quietly, I creep down to the shoreline—
my footsteps meeting the incoming tide.
On the dock, my vessel, ready to set sail—
the water is a black sheet of glass.
I paddle out, caressing the waters…
my oars, like lips, softly kissing
the sea.
Do you hear me coming for you?
I know you wait.
The stars overhead shine like beacons—
they, too, in search of you.
They wish you would come back, stay
in your place,
but they know you are lying in wait for me!
You were never one to stay in one
place—the apple does not fall far
from the tree.
You know I need you to bring me out
into these depths.
I have no fears, for I know you are
with me.
Still, you ask me to search, to find you.
How long, how long have I been rowing?
It matters not…I pull in the oars.
Closing my eyes, the little boat begins
to rock.
There is no wind—
It’s you.
I cast a line,
I need no bait.
You reach for the hook,
you tug and tug again.
I reel in, you pull back.
I reel in again, you pull back.
I hear laughing.
It’s you, you never simply allowed
me to make the catch.
The dance went on—
further and further you pulled me out.
The line broke.
I put the oars back into the water,
A bright star beamed
over the shoreline.
I’m on my way, papa.
Drops of Color
The Center
Kwanza
Hanukkah
Christmas
AND
from this post
holding this center,
each celebration
moving within
its own
direction,
—tradition…
The gift
—when we all
return
back to
the center,
realizing
we are ALL
One…
Blessed Holidays
A Litany of Survival
For those of us, each of us…
In your ‘image’—we designed.
Fashioned from clay,
You the Potter…turn the wheel
—“we,” the work of your hands.
Look upon what you
have made.
If we break, gather the pieces
—make us new again & again.
“We,” the work of your hands.
Set a table,
prepare a feast,
invite the homeless one
in whom, you dwell,
the one passed by
—“we,” all, the work of your hands.
To the ones who do not
‘want,’
who ‘take’ the wheel from your hands,
You do not resist…clay crumbles.
You let-go…weeping—
“we,” the work of your hands.
Fashion, for those of us, each and every One
—our arms, so they reach for the lost
—lengthen our stride so we might dance
and be glad
—open our lips so we might sing
this song
“we, the work of your hands.”
Soften our hearts
so that, who we are in You,
always changing, never the same
“we, the work of your hands.”
Oh, Gentle Potter,
promise you will stay, even beyond the
survival of our lives.
Make, for our children, and their children’s
children,
a Promised Land
“we, the work of your hands.”
Drops of Color
Painting Faces
How is it we choose
the colors we do?
Perhaps, the colors choose us?
When I dab
a drop of blue,
I become the sky
—eternal my reach, like wings
spread east to west.
An array of red hues
becomes cardinals
—their song gliding
with each stroke of the brush.
Soft shades of brown
—I am earth
breathed out of soil.
Suddenly, ‘green’ sprouts all
around
—bushes, trees
bloom like a kaleidoscope
twirling themselves—
changing, becoming always NEW.
Yellow bursts of daffodils,
I become.
Purple violets paint a scene
within, a face
orange—a flame,
yet unconsumed
rising from its center.
All the colors painting faces.
Black, the splendor
which all things began
—a void,
and the dark made room to
fulfill a spectrum
of colors—LIGHT.
I see faces
in every color.
Most of all
I see You
—the designer
—who places in my hand
the instrument to create
the You
who dwells
in me
AND
in every puddle of
paint
whose circle widens
with one single drop.
IS this prayer?
Word
made flesh
Alive on this
page…prayer forming
like sweet incense
engulfing
the vowels
leaving only
consonants
resounding
through
lips parting.
THEN
A phrase
dabbed
speckles of ink
splashing like
drops of rain
drenching my hair.
I shiver not
because I’m cold.
You
pour Yourself
from the well of my being.
There is an
unfathomable
bottom.
Drop a stone—
you will not
hear the sound.
Might this,
IS this prayer?
In the hid-den depths,
You dwell.
You reside
here, in this House
with no walls.
The door always
open. You slip in
and out like a match lit
then blown out.
Finding a way,
this pilgrim
in love with the darkness of You.
A glimmer of light from celestial stars
paints the shadows of a soul
walking
wide awake
upon a path uncharted.
The markers—
Trees speaking to me
the seasons…
branches pointing in every direction
like a compass
recognizing
TRUE NORTH…
a magnetic pull
guiding me
to wander
believing nothing FALSE
except the steps
not taken.
The song birds prepare
a chant,
a litany
welcoming the rising,
the birthing of
a new day dawning.
The Ocean’s ebb & flow
meets the sand.
The waves roll
over and over
like lovers who
cannot withhold their
pleasure
one from the other
touching,
curling under,
coming up for air,
kissing again
wondering,
—praying the moments never end
Word
made flesh—
Amen
Drops of Color
“If…I only had a heart“
I would lift the window
inviting you into the ‘room’
where its soft essence
rhythmically drums.
I’d ask, gently of course,
for you to ‘Please, lift the latch,
crack open the pane
of your treasure chest’—
I’d whisper
a prayer.
‘Please accept this invitation’
so we might combine the song
—the sound of our hearts
beating together holding each measure…
not a single note off beat!’
If I only had a heart, I
could stop searching and be at
rest.
‘If…I only had a brain’
I could unload a treasure trove
of words. I would write love letters
signed with x’s and o’s.
You would know them, they were
from me, because,
well, because I did not seal
the envelope
—so much love enclosed
—a seal could not, would not hold.
If I only had a brain,
I’d write eternally—YOURS.
‘If only I had courage…’
I’d descend into the abyss of
clouded thoughts
where NO light dares to shine.
I would light a match—
the flickering flame would set
off sparks setting aglow
caverns of Souls believed
themselves ‘unworthy.’
To each i would hand a candle,
eyes would OPEN.
We all would recognize the light
each of us is in one another.
Courage, yes, we all would rise
—darkness would fold itself back.
Our shadows would be like stars.
If only I had courage,
I would whisper aloud,
‘SEE, the reign of heaven
is EVERYWHERE.’
Unravel
Woven in place
and, when the time
be ‘ripe,’
they will unravel
setting sail
into the unknown.
Drops of Color
Tight Rope
Slender pole
in hand.
A sliver of a thread
called a rope
holding feet.
Movement, S L O W—
precise.
Wind burst
pushing the walker.
Slanting into the wind,
not looking down
nor up.
The elongated toothpick
gripped by fingers
—knuckles white holding life.
Balanced.
This is NOT an ACT.
Life is walking a tight rope.
Falling, oh, yes slipping from the rope
IS a reality.
Courage…
holding, reaching out for
the resources in hand
AND
getting up again and again
trusting an Unknown presence
holding the narrowed line at
both ends
—offering, guiding
and leading you
—to step
and walk the path
—designed for your soles
to discover and live out
one solitary step at a time.
In Thanksgiving
It was a banquet
—the plastic table cloth
festive with colors.
Underneath, painted boards
—a ‘dining’ room table.
Dirt floors
steadied the plastic chairs.
The walls painted in gold
—the window nailed shut to
hold back the cold.
The meal served
—hot from a brick outdoor oven
—the food set on the table
before us
—food that would offer
a month’s worth of sustenance.
They shared it
offering thanks
after every bite taken.
A lasting Supper.
Drops of Color
What’s next?
What, what about Rascals?
Little?
Oh, the Little Rascals:
Spanky, Buckwheat, Alfalfa, Darla,
Froggy…’Petey.’
The ‘He man Women-Haters Club.’
Memories…how a gang of kids
brought ‘out’ life’s moments.
Spanky…Leader, coordinator: he was trusted.
Buckwheat…always welcomed. Although
inflicted with a slight speech impediment,
he was able to get his
point across.
Alfalfa…dashing romantic. He sang (off-key)
but, he was destined for
Broadway as long as…
Darla…the ‘girl’ outside the club,
never ceased to be a part.
She had her own talent and
she filled Alfalfa with inspiration.
Froggy…well, if you recall his voice,
there’s no further explanation.
Butch…why, well…there’s always a
Bully. Butch unsettled the group,
came between the boy and his
favorite girl. YET, he caused the
gang to recognize how they
were significant
—one to another.
FINALLY,
Petey…
the pup with a circle
naturally woven around one
of his eyes.
The all seeing ‘eye’ that
stayed ‘in’ the gang.
Wagging his tail, pulling
at pant legs, hoisting ‘goodies’
away.
Maybe, this is not a poem
—a bit too Rascally.
Then again,
a glance back
beside a sketch of characters
What’s next?
Maybe recalling
some GOOD ole’ days.
Mirror
You really are
the reflection
of yourself
staring back
from the MIRROR
Drops of Color
The Amusement Park
—ALIVE—
then suddenly STOPS…
Hovering above the magical ‘landscape’
—a scene.
Held in place,
beholden to countless ACTS,
performers, attendees…
like a stage packed with whirling
dervishes
in harmony
—life enjoying the dance
—the merriment.
Could it be this way
for all? Glancing in this moment of pause,
silent meditation…in an Amusement Park.
IMAGINE?!
‘Each’ of us given a ‘ticket’
to enter this LIFE…
Reflecting:
No price tag for entry.
No conditions placed based on
race, color, creed, gender, religion etc.
No passport
—Citizenship: Heaven.
Alive, within the Reign of Heaven,
We all EXIST.
It is how we choose to LIVE it out!
How we dwell in this
amusement-park together…
A light flashes…three, two, one.
Hands raised in the air—
Trust the ride.
Live it to the fullest!
Running out of room…
alas, I tumbled off the page.
I found myself splashing
rather delightfully
until I arrived at a shore.
Wiping my eyes,
liquid pools of droplets
dangled from each lash.
I beheld a woodland.
The most astonishing trees
were woven into place
—they reached skyward
inviting me to do the same.
From a hidden perch
swooping down upon me,
shadowing my small self,
I reached, grabbing hold of
its talons. The bird allowed
me to find a soft place in its
feathers and suddenly we were
gliding to the Sun.
“Would we reach the ends of the world?”
I thought.
“Would this ‘place’ I was in
run out of room?”
The moon swirled into this
landscape of timeless pages,
and I wrote
trusting there is no end.
Drops of Color
That’s why
Walking across a bridge
back and forth,
then back AGAIN!
Why?
History, painted in boards,
stain after stain
after bloodied stains!
Why write about the past?
Why speak out?
Why invoke the memories?
So that they no longer repeat
themselves…that’s why!
Seems we have to cross bridges
AGAIN and again and again.
Together, let us keep crossing
the bridges until we realize
everyone is free to cross.
No matter your race.
No matter your religion.
No matter your gender.
What matters is: YOU are!
We are…One.
Cross the bridge—
help the ones who cannot
get across!
Let us carry one another.
No One is too heavy.
We are all Sisters & Brothers.
We are all welcome
to dwell in
‘A Promised Land.’
It’s time.
We cannot give up trying.
CROSS
let’s cross
until no one is left
behind.
The Growing of a Soul
I have walked this path
a thousand times.
The Seasons have changed their
face as well as mine.
I have labored here as
I placed one foot in front
of the other.
At times, I backtracked.
Something, someone catching
my eye.
I lingered, reflecting on
the past…days held in the sun
and, yes, even the storms
that taught my ‘limbs’ to move
about in wondrous ways.
Yes, I have walked this path,
times too numerous to number,
and the most profound change,
although unseen, is the change
within.
I talk with stones, with trees
and forest creatures.
Most of the time I refrain from
speech and listen to the stars,
the first rays of sunshine
and the fullness of the moon
on a chilled haunting night.
This path has grown my Soul.
Each day I arrive,
I begin again.
I circle while dawn
rises and a purple
western sky fades into blackness.
The shadows hold tender
places until the light
finds a way to transform
itself welcoming
and letting-go.
No matter how many
moments that have
brought me here, now…
I continue to ask, ‘who am I,
and who are you, Lord?’
I hold a leaf in my
hands that the wind
has pulled from a branch.
A hawk screeches over head…
such an extraordinary song,
and I walk on.
The sound of my soles
touch this earth,
and I hear my breath
while my heart beats inside
—a Soul birthing another
Season.
Drops of Color
Here Again…asking the same Question
Chewy, rich, gooey
savory, chocolaty
seeping with delight.
One wrapper removed
—ingesting the tiny piece of candy.
Treats…no tricks.
Ahhh, unwrapping another
—it only gets better.
The gourd seems to smile
filled with pleasures.
Is this season really here…AGAIN?
Seems only yesterday I wondered,
“What shall I be?”
Did I pack away the costume?
Funny, each year
I ask the same question
—deep down really asking,
“Who am I
after removing
all the wrappers?”
Painting a fence post…
why it is quite
natural
—no planning
required
—only the ability to
wait and behold
the ordinary
in all its
extraordinariness.
Drops of Color
Jump In
That’s right!
Take a few steps back.
Catch your breath.
On your mark, get set…Go!
Before you…
a pile lifting to the sky.
Red, yellow, orange fading leaves
wait for You.
Leap from the ground,
dive in
‘crunch, crack, crunch.’
A smattering of leaves fills the
air, and you
lay upon a leafy bed.
Autumn’s golden moments.
Jump in before
the winds arrive
carrying the world
into another wonder.
Moving On…
is there really
anything more
to say?
Drops of Color
The Bridge
A long trail
through the woods…
Hours passed, the color
became ever more vibrant
as the sun reached its zenith.
An opening drew back the trees,
and a bridge suddenly
visible…it appeared as
an opened hand
reaching out,
“Come, Come and Cross.’
I stepped before realizing
my feet already in motion.
Wooden boards, giant oaks, formed a cover.
In the bridge’s center,
‘all’ the light—out.
In the darkness, I held my place,
for how long—unknown.
The darkness revealed messages
—unwritten realities expressing
the beginning of all things.
The black shadows hid-den
within this bridge held the void.
The ‘hand’ nudging me through—to another side.
The deep shades made way for
the pastel paintings of life— good.
It is all GOOD.
I walked, glancing back
—the bridge held the full moon
in its hand.
Becoming
I am moving in the
direction of
becoming the miracle
I already am.
Drops of Color
This Glass
It was a small glass making
its way around the room.
A smattering of ‘lip’ gloss appeared
along its edge.
Yes, a sip was had
by one, then another
and another.
Still,
the succulent juice
did not run dry.
Instead, it ran over
pouring itself
on those who
chose to
drink from its contents.
The lives of those who drank
changed.
They could not stop serving.
Rings
As the seasons spin
like the wheels of a cycle,
As planets revolve
around the sun,
This writer pens
familiar words
like rings forming ‘inside’
the towering oak.
Yes, the seasons
reshape its form.
Yes, the sun touches its bark
warming its core against all
pervading elements.
New rings circle around & around,
the writer
ever the same and expanding.
Drops of Color
A Story Book…
with only two pages,
soft, translucent.
Across the ocean, its ‘binding’
secure, while the weightless orange
sheets fan precisely
and hold
hovering long enough to glide with
the sea’s breeze.
The story book takes on several
days of travel.
When land in sight, a
soft clover begins a new paragraph.
The last sentence…
the pages take flight
seeking a place where
the story will begin again!
Listen to the story—
its power turns
the tides.
Grief & Gratitude
One wing is
the finest feathers of gratitude.
The other wing,
a meticulous pattern.
The same feathers
lying side by side
of grief.
One side is NOT divided
from the other.
Gratitude and Grief,
when drawn together,
give One the grace
to fly.
Drops of Color
This Garden
I am
dwelling in a garden
from which no one is banned
except in fairy tales.
Tasting of its fruit daily,
I am invited to bite into
the succulence of life.
Revealed is the essence
of goodness filling
and satisfying the Soul
—no one blamed for
having eaten.
A still small voice
says,
‘share, offer and let everyone consume and be filled.’
Open the eyes of the heart
and see
—find a way back
‘into’ a garden never really having left
—no more ‘mea culpa’
—no more beating the breast
of unworthiness.
Take in a land flowing
with milk and honey.
Let us care for this Garden.
She’ll take care of herself
if we falter to see all her
original blessings.
All invited to the table
in this Garden of Abundance.