Drops of Color/ …the sound of the bell

Drops of Color
…the sound of the bell

…the sound of the bell.

Wait, the sound of Bells.

The night sky fading—
a sliver of stars
returning to their quiver.

A purple blue softness magnifies
the horizon in the West
and subtle pinks and oranges
—a field of marigolds in the sky
—intermingle and prepare for
the Liturgy already begun.

We have made our way, one by one,
side by side from our straw mangers.

Now, we graze, we chomp and chew,
and stomp toward verdant pastures
—we ring bells.

Bells draped around our necks
—we herald a song
—raising antiphons and psalms.

Lyrics are written by passers-by
who stop, who listen, who genuflect 
at the Glory of Creation.

The sound of the bell
—the service never ends.

Listen…let us go ‘together’ in peace.


(Inspired by the works of Maya Angelo)

Slipping through the bars
—WAIT, I cannot get through.
Yet, my arms,
solid…built to last
—‘pull back’ the cage.

No matter how often this cage door sealed,
I sing from a perch.
The song is soft
—sometimes passionate
like a flame ignited by a 
simple whisper~~~’FLY.’

I set out.
I am a ballad which allows the
tears inside to become notes
playing tenderly,
The latch lifts.

I move effortlessly, arms raised.
A silent flutter,
 I have discovered the edge.

I leap,
The very essence of my Soul
in flight…soaring.

No destination, no settled place
to land.

I am out of the cage.
I live the melody strumming the
soft feathers carrying me
to heaven’s door-less entry.

You, Oh God,
created who it is I am.

I hear you singing back.
‘I am an image
trying to find its way.
I am made in your likeness.’

How can a caged bird not sing?

Drops of Color/Shining like the sun…

Drops of Color
Shining like the Sun

“It is a glorious destiny to be a 
member of the human race, though
it is a race dedicated to many
absurdities and one which makes
many terrible mistakes; yet, with all
that, [God] gloried in
becoming a member of the human race!
To think that such a commonplace
realization should suddenly seem
like news that one holds the winning
ticket in a cosmic sweepstake.
I have the immense joy of being a
member of a race in which
[God] became incarnate. As if 
the sorrows and stupidities of the
human condition could overwhelm
me, now I realize what we all are.
And if only everybody could realize
this!  But it cannot be explained.
There is no way of telling people that
they are all walking around shining
like the sun.”

~~~Thomas Merton

Each day

Each day

This day,
I rose in the darkness

—drops of rain pelted my window.

Pausing…yes, here I invite
you to be still upon rising…even NOW.

Let your eyes take in the hid-den
splendor…it is there in the darkness.

A storm surging outside the glass pane
…is there a storm brewing
restlessly inside me?  Inside you?

Let it reside
—don’t be quick to push it away
—there is beauty in everything!

In the not so distant distance
—a light house, a beacon
—a SILENT guide
(imagine it, hold it in your mind’s eye)

A messenger
—invite that unspoken presence to be with you.

Now breathe—
Breathe in —the waves rolling natural rhythms.
Breathe out—the crashing waves
pulling you to leave this undisturbed place.

Breathe in—the clarity of this moment.
Breathe out—all the tasks that need
to be met.

Welcome the Stillness
—No matter the turbulence
—the grief
—all the sentences that are incomplete.

Begin, in the darkness.
The Sun will rise
recognize EACH day.

You are the Sun.
Everyone of us shines
what lives inside.

Illuminate your very essence.
Be transformed by living wonder.

If we ‘all’ witnessed in each other
the gift we are…
we would never stop bowing offering thanks.

Drops of Color/ Another Harvest

Drops of Color
Another H

Here it is,
the ripened red fruit

Falling into the hands
—picked with ease
—plucked from leafy branches
waving fare-well.

The laborers are plenty.
An abundance of bushels

The succulence of juicy, delicious
apples waiting to be consumed.

By whom, you ask?

Trucks pull in,
other transport vehicles arrive.
Boats, planes, trains, bicycles,
walkers, runners.

Into the highways and byways they go,
carrying the delicate delights
into small cities, rural neighborhoods,
desert places, enormous bustling cities,
deep into the heart of the bush,
into mansions—tables of plenty,
tables without
—awaiting a ‘core’ of edible arrangements


all are fed.

This harvest,
‘imagine’ the field.

Endless persons serve as 
all are fed.

Left overs fill the baskets..

Reach Out

Reach Out

Your wings

are as wide
as the ocean…

Reach out~~~

the winds will carry you beyond
the tides.

Drops of Color/ Inside the Edge

Drops of Color

(Sketch re-created from an Unknown Artist’s Original)

Inside the Edge

One by one they came,
no sequential order.

Four corners of the Universe
unfolding like stars.

From in between spaces,
unknown, yet collectively,
they were People
walking with a Promise.

Straw once used for bricks
was braided into baskets.

Young, old, leaving their pasts
behind in Search of a Home.

They had little but their worth was
not measured in possessions.

Freedom, an uncharted path
—fruits gathered for the day
trusting tomorrow would take
care of itself.

From an ‘edge’ inside, i view…
from a privileged place i bend on both knees.

i carry, yes, even now, a weighted pack
of my own making.

Still, ‘we,’ One people,
both/AND weaving straw
into baskets
~~~gathering to share
~~~to break bread in as many
pieces as possible
~~~so all can Taste and be fed.

Each distinct color made welcome
~~~a rainbow ignites the sky.

All religions, plunged into a Sea
~~~salt erasing the formality of rules
inviting the ‘vessels’ we are
to sail beside one another.

The wind does not
decide who is or is
not worthy.







Some pieces 
of art work

—have no signature

—no title

they simply wash ashore.

The beach
—a museum
—free of charge


Drops of Color/ The Artist

Drops of Color
The Artist

The artist began.

A gentle brush stroke.

A dab of water.

Dipping into pools of color…
each a sacrament
—a portrayal
—a sign.

Slowly, the image
becoming clear.

Lifting from the matte,
breathed into life
a living human being.

Trees clapped their branches.

The sky sank, for a moment
beneath the sun,
bowing in reverence.

Birds anointed the easel
with their savory swipe of feathers.

The human looked upon
the Artist

and simply  said,

‘One day, I hope to be like You!’

Hands through time

Hands through time

An acorn
lets go of the long
arm that has cradled and nurtured
the seed—until NOW.

Around and around
this cycle spins, twirls, revolves,
a wheel of time
creating, sustaining, lingering,
and discovering life—AGAIN!

Glancing upon scene after scene,
the picture, the same in its frame,
yet, it is different, changed
and grows off the edges.

The acorn,
like the wheel
circling the seasons,
plants itself through changing
—it grows, slowly.

The acorn’s becoming
forms roots
digging downward into the darkness
while its stem bursts the soil
—discovers light and rises!

The necessity of the descent,
the ascent
—the rhythmic pattern
—the rings
unseen forming inside the Oak.

An acorn
lets go
—the wheel winds
itself like hands through time.

In the blink of an eye,
we ripen

planted in the Season.



Drops of Color

The earth ‘shaking.’

At the top of a ridge,
a magnanimous display.

Millions of droplets thrust
from an edge.

The direction—
No time to waste
‘casting lots.’

Speckles of moisture
spew every which way.

Fierce, elegant,
Powerful, grace in full motion.
Tantalizing, soothing,
Life altering, washed away
hidden pools—
tiny creatures bathe.

The sound
—spill a box of pins,
you will not hear a single

rapid, swift, breathtaking.

A force, always changing,
wondrous to behold—
earth shattering, if you attempt
to defy its way.

Beauty, wonder
witnessed from a distance.

Shoes off—
standing upon ‘holy’ ground…

Drenched by ‘I Am.’

Humbly stepping on…

trusting life’s flow.

Play me…

Play me…

Pretend I’m an old
tin can.

Bring your ear close
that’s it!

Touch a key

Touch another
—play me.

Before you go
—tap the old tin can


whenever you need
a song

—lift the cap

Play me.

Drops of Color/ A Genuine Gaze

Drops of Color
A Genuine Gaze

No words necessary.
Countless couples.
My eyes privileged to behold.

I cherish the moments
—like framed photos.

Love unfolded in
a nod of a head
—flesh touching
—a gentle swipe
—skin to skin
—a glance
—a soft whinny.

—love revealing itself
in the ordinary
and most extraordinary

How genuine…Love is.

…close to ‘home’


…close to ‘home’

There are moments i feel
so close to ‘home’
i nearly touch the 
stars and then there
are ‘gaps’ where i feel
i’m millions of miles 


Note: Look closely! A plane is flying near the center of the Moon!
Behold the enormity of Wonder we are blessed to dwell within.
Let us make it last now & Forever!!!


Drops of Color/ Sky’s Landscape

Drops of Color
Sky’s Landscape

The sky,
a ‘land’scape,

splashing its image upon a body
of water.

Clouds weave into the scenery
magnifying the mirrored
scene overhead.

The sky began to laugh,
or was it the wind?
A strong gust rippled the waters
sending onto the shore
a million drops.
The landscape,
carried in tiny beaded pools.

Pausing, I realized
I was soaked.
A thousand drops
dripped from my brow,
my shirt, trousers

My boots drenched,
immersed in the sky’scape.’
I began to laugh,
the sky ‘tucked’ within me.

Hovering…each cloud
reflected back
an endless view.

The sky’s landscape.



Treasures from the Sea
That is just what

they are…treasures!

Not possessions…

Pearls of wisdom
meant to plunge
back into hid-den depths.

They remind us of our
own holiness
—hidden treasures of

Not possessions.

We are gift given
—receiving freely
—offering back

Drops of Color/ Questions

Drops of Color

Is there a rainbow
stitched into a waterfall?

Is it a waterfall
illuminated in the cusp
of a rainbow?

How do we live the questions?

Maybe, in the moments
that expand our vision
—we become
the rainbow
—we encompass every drop
of the waterfall.

We understand the questions
need no answers.

Living the questions is
the ‘breath of life’
transforming us

making all things NEW.
‘Seek the wisdom that will untie your knot.
Seek the path that demands your whole being.’

All the hairs


All the hairs


The exact number known
while a chirping 
sparrow sits upon my horns.

The sparrow’s worth
not measured here,
nor the strands
of my furrowing drapery.

Our significance,
well, I’ll not be
the judge.

It appears our place in 
this time, this space,
IS our purpose.

Why spend time ‘pulling’

It’s easy to know the sum,
even if you subtract.

And, even if you could
add a few more strands
to the weighted mass 
above your brow,

does MORE really mean
you’re ahead?

Yes, all these hairs
are counted for.



—these words
broken, fragmented,
endless run-ons!

Wild Fires
A     lo     ha
~~~the island shivering
in ash.

Praise, praise the 
natural world
wreaking havoc on the
learned, ignoring the signs.

The stock exchange
adds their numbers,

while DNA samples
—the only means
identifying the dead.

Plucking a chord on my guitar
—a vibration
fans the room
finding a way to an open window.

The music
finds its way to the devastation,
the destruction

—voices rise like incense.

Praise the mutilation
of the world,
dance in the funeral’s ballad.

Nothing is truly missing
—life has a way of passing on,

returning new in a mutilated world.

Would you try to sing a hymn of Praise?

Inspired by the Poem: Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski
Translated by Clare Cavanagh

You…in the Margins

You…in the Margins

You wanted to write a lie—
to be understood?

to fit in?
to be heard?

My powdery snow covered skin
pleads, “STOP.”

For too long, my people live at the top
of the mountain crested in packed white linen
—we have kept many persons at base camp
—countless tribes at the foot of the towering peaks.

An avalanche brought me down
—tumbling, rolling over & over.

I could share my wounds
—beyond physical

but, I do not have to
—for you bandaged
my brokenness with the balm
of your soft brown skin
rubbing itself against mine.

Looking into your eyes,
I see the sun radiating its warmth
through your dark glass pupils.

Your hymns sing to my Soul
in perfect pitch…
—raindrops joining a river adding to the flow
—dew drops draping green leaves.

The door of my heart unlocks.

Your hand in mine…my MIND silent.

I feel your breath
—the warmth of your lips
kiss my brow.

There is no longer room for lies.


Inspired by Kiese Laymon’s Novel Long Division

Drops of Color/ So Simple

Drops of Color
So Simple

For a moment,
the view, as if

held, entwined
in a frame.

Sheer and utter elegance,
mere words lack the luster
in describing you.

You are an entranceway
—a door of sorts into
a valley
fashioned like the walls of a uterus
inviting the traveler to enter.

Many seeds planted here
—by birds of the air
—animals excrement
—wind and storms.

Nothing is trimmed or hedged,
cut or tilled.

In fact, in this subtle garden,
it is so simple to dwell.



where the heart lies
—a mattress of soft soil
—crumbled leaves adding
to the ambience of 
the green canopy overhead
rooted stately branches

—lean into each other.

Really, there is 
no place like home.

Drops of Color/ Promised Lands

Drops of Color

Promised Lands

One rolled in
upon another.

Straw, the mortar
as an Exodus begun.
The Exile,
a bridge,
exposing a gap
that no longer
would give way to division.

Stone upon stone upon stone,
not a single one ‘thrown.’

Each rock, boulder, pebble
set in place,
like a dinner table prepared
to serve countless guests.

And, so, this bridge
a path
laced in stone.
Both directions.

Promised Lands—
beginning with the One 
stone first
rolling in

~~~A Corner Stone

An invisible space…

An invisible space
There is an invisible 
space between the 
moment the vessel leaves
the soft grasses
and plunges into
the body of water—


It is that moment
every prayer ever 
spoken is heard
passing, as if,
through the eye of a 

Drops of Color/ ‘body of creativity’

Drops of Color
‘body of creativity’

A broken branch
—the whittler began to carve.

A variety of paints
—the artist fashioned faces
—expressions of love.

A pattern of material
—the seamstress stitched

Extraordinary characters
put in the hands of
those with ‘no-thing’
and, for a first time, they
had a make believe friend
but, was it really make-believe?

In a Quantum Universe,
these creators joined in the collective
‘body of creativity.’

The success story
it took a community
to make a difference.

Not one, not two, but many
are there—YOU are in the midst.

Prayer sometimes disguises itself
in the simplest treasures
a child always remembers.



there is an island—
a place surrounded
by a deep blue sea.

a soft wind
comes in on the wings
of waves.

Sitting along
the water’s edge,
feet dipping in
and out
—the rise and fall
of every breath.

Speckles of sand
swirl round and round.

Schools of fish leap
from their recesses
—they, too,
longing for a cup of air
before delving beneath
the surface of sea foam.

My hands 
form a cup.

Air filling itself
in my palm
—some slipping through the
breaks in between each finger.

I bring my hands
to my face,
but it is not my 
hands caressing
my soft flesh.

It is your hands.

I come to this island
—especially when
nothing seems to 
make any sense.

My words are barely
adequate to write
this moment.

On this island,
i am neither lost
nor found.

I know you are here
—for I am
a carving in the 
palm of 
your hand.



Drops of Color/ If only these walls could talk…

Drops of Color

If only these walls could talk…

An empty table…
Minutes ago, others stood around…
No chairs were necessary.
In a minute or so, MORE will 
come.  They will stand long enough to 

Stories, yes, that is what they shall
hear.  It is why they have arrived
here, at this table, before this

You can see the portraits of persons…
travelers.  They, being displaced,
withstood the test of time.

With courage, with hope, with faith,
they made their way.  Some would not
live, but their stories live—on…

They, the memories, told around this table
—bread broken, shared…
wine tasted and passed to another
to drink—from a simple cup.

They are coming, the next pilgrims,
to gather beside this table, this wall.

They will listen…long enough to understand
the message…”Go forth and serve.”

Yes, even the walls talk.

Drops of Color/ Come ‘play’ me

Drops of Color/ Come ‘play’ me
Come ‘play’ me…

the luring sound of the stringed
mandolin with a robust belly

—casting a spell
like a bee dipping into
the honey jar.

Sweetly, the vibration
of strings
—like melted sugar over
a red juicy apple.

One bite.
One succulent encounter.

Eyes closed—
the exquisite sounds.

Why even the sculpted statues
can be heard…

Come ‘play’ me.

Moments…in her rose garden

Moments…in her rose garden

Each year
in early Spring,
she would put on her old overalls
that rose high above her ankles.
She put on ‘his’ old night shirt…
she loved him and always longed
him to be near
even if it be his musty worn sweated scent.

She stepped outside.
The sun blurred her vison.
Still, she held her gaze.
No words spoken aloud, but the prayer
was alive.

Making her way into the garage,
she gathered all the tools necessary
for the labor already begun.

Singing an unknown tune,
she began delicately weaving herself
alongside each bush.  She tilled
the earth, raked tiny patterns
and, as the days passed,
the rose buds began to ripen.

She never stopped singing—
the roses unfolded…
sometimes she would clip a few,
place them in a vase and carry them
into the house.

He smiled, took the vase from her hand,
carried it to their room.  He, too, loved
the scent of her.  She was his rose,
a blossom he never tired gazing upon.

Is this a love poem…
the moments being written here?

I recall when she went into the garden,
and pierced herself on a thorn.
Again, she pierced herself drawing  blood.

Death came for her Lover,
and the sting was just like that thorn.

She wept,
sometimes all night long.
Soon her tears became petals—
her garden became fuller
because of the love that grew inside her.

His old shirt now draped off
her shoulders.
Death may have moved him from this world,
but love, the love she had grown and nurtured…

she would live it all over again
for this same ending.

Drops of Color/ Hid-den Saints

Drops of Color
Hid-den Saints…

they’re among us.


When the sun is at its zenith,
you attempt to stare
into its jetting rays,
but, cannot  for one moment,
capture a glance.

The Saints, they’re in the ‘unseen’ places.

In the deepest,
darkest depths of the sea,
where the reality of  ‘any’ light
appears skewed,
the Hid-den Saints

yet, present.

Their needs are simple,
and go beyond
any forms of success or 

These hid-den saints have a
single purpose:
To manifest Love in all things,
in all circumstances,
in every situation.

I hear one singing right now.
Painting by Artist: Sam Bates aka SMUG



dampened the page.

The words expanded
like a stone dropped
into a pond.

Swelling, each letter,
every consonant,
became something new
unto itself.

Unknown, these words
—a language
my Soul does not
understand. The hid-den
meaning writes itself.

You are what lies between
each ring carried upon
the surface of the pond.

So much more,
so much less
—the raindrops
magnify the meaning
until each phrase
sinks into the page.

Drops of Color/ A Poet

Drops of Color
A Poet

A Poet
meandering along 
a forest path
arrived at the foot of a
wooden Bridge.

The Bridge spoke,
for so long I have waited
for your coming.
Step upon my boards
and write me, Poet.”

The Poet took a step,
followed by another.
Then, with her hands,
she held the smooth timber
allowing her the ability to grasp hold
as higher and higher the Poet rose
landing on the boards
laid just so for crossing.

In the Bridge’s center,
the Poet paused.

Choosing to sit down,
words splintered across the pages,
an ‘image’ took shape.

The Bridge swayed in delight.

Moments passed,
time was no longer understood
—seconds mattered not.

The descending sun lifted the Poet
from her perch, a Bridge.

Putting her tablet and pens aside,
the Poet arrived on the other side.

The Poet bowed,
and quietly whispered
a word of thanks.

The Bridge echoed back,

“Thank you Poet.
You reside in each of my steps…
Cross on.”

Tiny creatures are wondrous and plentiful

Tiny creatures are wondrous and plentiful

Often unseen

‘Some’ give persons the ‘creeps.’

Is that where the expression
creepy crawlers comes from?

There are those who would blot them out
 given the chance
—certainly not thinking
of their use, purpose or splendor.

On a summer’s night,
go out into the woods…

Give yourself time to pause
and listen…

Listen to the 
hid-den orchestra, the joyous choir
rubbing wings creating sounds
that cannot be duplicated.

There are no written sheets of music
they cling to
—they sing, they play what is
from them simply because
it IS from within them.

Simple, eloquent and yes, indeed beautiful.

The colors of some creatures ‘uncanny.’
Delicate spots, revealing stripes
and, when they gather together, they
can be the equivalent of the crowds
that gather in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

They consume fields, gardens and they desire
the sweetest essence of
the ripest fruits.

Tiny creatures—
they are wondrous

yes, plentiful
designed as

a part of the 
we call

The Universe.

Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

Who came up with the phrase
‘out of the blue’???

Why not out of the red,
yellow or green?

‘Out of the Blue???’

Why not purple, orange or pink?

Wait, ‘out of the blue’
rises a sun filling the blueness…
expanding its brilliance revealing
no boundaries whatsoever.

One tiny bird
perched on a branch
—its platform—
and sings the ‘blues.’

Each note adds to the hues
circling the burning flame
imbued in a sky of blue

as if ‘out of NOwhere!’

Drops of Color/ Edelweiss

Drops of Color

As soon as the word
spoken~~~ ‘Edelweiss,’
the song begins.

Each petal a note
alive on a suspending scale—
‘do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti do’
lifting the peaks of the mountains
folding back curtains so the
performance begun!

the morning greeting birthing
the white flowers lying atop beds of
green leaves

—so soft
—so clean
—so bright

They spread themselves like arms
ready to embrace
—so ‘happy’ to SEE thee.

This dainty pod
laced effortlessly
honor & glory
be given to its luminous design.

How simple it could be to pass it by.

Yet, might we carry its tune—Edelweiss

spreading it throughout the world

so the song be sung.

‘Bless the Earth our homeland’~~~forever.

Thankyou, Edelweiss~~~
may your blossoms become
a chorus that is never-ending.

Smoke and Clarity

Smoke and Clarity
(Inspired by Jeremy Marks’ poem “Smoke Gets in My Eyes”)

Particles dangled on leafy branches.

When a small breeze pushed through,
the particles ‘gathered’
~~~smoke clouds puffing through a 
dense forest.

Walking, wiping my eyes
from particles? from tears?  both!

Laying on the ground
dampened by dew,
the grass—green.
A sudden sense of clarity
I could SEE!

Why rise?
I could stay here.
I cannot stay. I have to go back
into the smoke.

I see him…95 years old.
The particles of his being dissolving.
Some are gathering, readying themselves
to move on from here…
the smoke doesn’t matter to him.
He’s seeing quite clearly.
I touch his hand.

She’s 103…took a fall.
Her hip hurts and she doesn’t want anything done.
She goes to the Chapel
to sit quietly in prayer.
They say she has dementia.
She’s not seeing smoke—her clarity?
I’ll not be a judge.
I kiss her cheek.

The love of his life…the chapters closed.
One last kiss…he’s not pretending it
doesn’t hurt.
A broken heart.  Love does that and he’d
Love all over again…Clarity?  Absolutely!
The only smoke…the illusion of
life without suffering.
The realization of bliss when love holds a heart.

New case of COVID…
relapses even after vaccines.
Brain fog, memory loss, quarantine. AGAIN!

Swelling on the brain…is that COVID?
Smokey here, yet clarity is______________

Particles appear and fade away.
They’ll return— How?   unclear, but
they’ll return
and, too, clarity.

Soon to be 88.
Diabetes, glaucoma…the rising sun~~~
she no longer SEES, yet she feels
the warmth, its touch.  She misses words
so I share stories.  It’s smoky, yet
when she touches my face ALL the 
smoke fades.

A Kindred Soul, in remission, lymphedema
weighs her legs down
drowning her mobility.
She keeps kicking, swimming in smoke, metaphorically.

Lifting herself above the surface,
she whispers aloud each day, in perfect clarity,
“Thank you, thank you for another day.”

A storm breaks
torrential rains.
Smoke WASHED away.
I look out.   Before my eyes,
a bow in the sky, and another.

I rush outside…each color filling the
empty spaces with peace.

I watch it fade—

In everything,
a sense of Pride
the Rainbow IS

—all the colors
washing my eyes dry.

Drops of Color/ A ‘Sweet’ Bed

Drops of Color
A ‘Sweet’ Bed

Often times
a vessel comes to shore…

fastening itself deep ‘into’ the sands.

The floating phoenix rests its feathers
—flowing sails bed themselves down.

Sometimes ‘repairs’ are made
—a gentle wash from the
salty sea, and endless mollusks
that latch themselves on for a ride.

The sun’s rising and setting
—the view, different from this position.
The cradle of the water’s rock
the boat like a newborn babe
—the ‘trust’
—no matter the tide’s ebb & flow
—carried in darkness & light.

Ashore, the laborer rests.
The nets carrying an abundance
of fishes let-go.

So many arrive in this space
for communion.

Fed on the water’s sumptuous delights
—a banquet.

The tide calls from a 
full moon waning on the waters.

Soon, it is time
once again
to set sail.

The sands—a sweet bed—
each speck
a reprieve
drizzling from the vessel
plunging back into the sea.



Wrestling with a pen,
an instrument, willing to splash ink…

Matters not upon what, or for whom.

The hand that holds the pen
perceives this time as inopportune.

Sudden events
—tragic, inconsequential, unexplained.

One following another…
the phone rings…I wish not to answer.

The messages received

slowly, they sift through the

I tip it over and over again.

What is changing?

Thoughts no longer wrap themselves
around my mind.

If anything
—a blanket, a comforter, 
a crocheted afghan wraps around my heart.

I need the warmth to allow the
‘beating,’ to find its soft
charted rhythm.

The pen rests now on a page.
I hear the sound of silence
splashing all over my Soul…not ink,

but You, blotting the messages
in between each line…

so much unwritten.

Perhaps, that is where you dwell?

Drops of Color/ See it?

Drops of Color

See it?


There in the water!

See it?

Can you see…that?

It is so beautiful
—beyond words.

I am uncertain if I have
ever seen anything
so wondrous.

A timely breeze set in
lapping the water,
creating a crackling sound,
as if, melting over the rocks,


I heard
—I listened to the water speaking
—each drop proclaimed,

“Oh, trees,
you have finally discovered




When I lay me down,
when the sails of my ‘vessel’
—the vessel I am
tucked in,

I relive the patterns…
I see the ‘wakes’ lingering…
I recall the choppy waters.

The waves that rocked me
side to side
are caught in ‘helpless’ abandon
—carried by wind
—guided by the sun
—spoken to by albatross
whose wings lift me to soar.

Often, I don’t know where I’m
going…I know not who I am.
Still, at day’s end,
the moon a solitary curl overhead
—I tuck myself in
this simple vessel I am
 You are at my side.

Drops of Color/ On my Way…

Drops of Color
On my Way…

said the Pilgrim to the Mountain.

The Summit packed with snowfall
—countless feet in thickness.

Like goose down feathers
stuffed into a pillowcase…
the mountain stands.

The clouds encompassed her in the
early dawn of the day
but, as light rose
—the clouds moved in unison
like dancers whose performance
leaving the stage.

A Pilgrim traversed a narrow path,
at times the direction unclear.

In those moments,
the mountain spoke to the Pilgrim…

‘On my Way’

Together, they were not two
—they were twin peaks

summiting a World
of abundance beyond words.

Holding Hands with Time

Holding Hands with Time

Does time really change things?
Or do we change as time ticks on by?

Do seasons really change?
Or does change turn the season’s 
landscape from a blanket
of fluffy white snowflakes
to tiny green buds
exploding into colors like the ones
found on an artist’s pallet
only to fade
waiting for the clock to strike

Does time begin again?

Sitting quietly, holding time by its hands
or is time grasping my hands?

For a first, sitting mesmerized, I see the
curl of every joint moving over the
paper like a wave following
its natural progression.

These words written as time plays forward.
They, too, have become natural.


Here, holding hands with time,
my fingers strum the strings
of a guitar…a G chord, then a C

they etch a drawing unraveling on
a blank page—time seems to have

But, has it?

I am holding hands with time.
Was it always this simple?

What seemed so painfilled…
why, those moments sealed time
long enough to ache.  The love
I thought I knew,
now, holding hands with time.

Love is more than mere thought—
it is beyond a feeling—

it is love

found in a pair of hands
touching time
trusting in between
each second
when time stops

—a hand will grasp
mine and…

Drops of Color/ …brougtht to the Bridge

Drops of Color

…brought to the Bridge

Many ‘things’ I have learned
over the years
and, I, brought all those
‘things’ to the bridge
and tossed them over into
the waters below.

And… as i gazed over the edge,
I saw the reflection of
all those ‘things’…
thoughts, beliefs, understandings, etc.

and I moved on
OVER the bridge
thankful and ready

to trust the flow
and the ‘unknown’
lying ahead.

Monet’s Brush

Monet’s Brush

It was night,

and a sea of clouds
hung like a marina of vessels
bedded down, held in place.

Yet, it would not be so.

The wind struck a tune.
It gave a sequence of trumpeted ‘blasts’
until each anchored cloud
gave way.

And, drawing back,
there she hung,
nothing could out shine her—

the moon’s purpose
not to compete.

Instead, the curl of her essence
blessed the night.

The stars, like boats,
launched themselves

painting night’s ocean
with a brush as fine
as Monet’s.

Drops of Color/ A Simple Flower

Drops of Color
A Simple Flower

I picked a single flower
from a meadow laced
with buttercups.

One vibrant yellow flower—
I placed it in a jar
—for you.

I was going to pluck another
and make it two,
but the scope of the jar’s
circumference became the sun.

The beams of light
‘cupped’ the flower.
The buttercup glowed,

and like a sky of endless stars,
it was my gift of Love
for you.

This flower became each
who loved you
as I love you.

This flower holds love
on a slender stem.

Can you see
all that IS in
a single flower
I have picked for you?

Journal/ Day 19 and 20 Switzerland Via Alpina

Thank you for walking with my ‘words’ through the vast country side of Switzerland.
My wings are preparing for another flight, a NEW Pilgrimage.
I will connect when I land again on home shores.
Till then…
‘Ring the Bell that still can ring,
there is a crack, a crack in everything—that’s how the LIGHT gets in.’ 

                                                                                                                                                            Leonard Cohen


Switzerland 2022

July 19th, 2022

It doesn’t have to be the Alps.
It could be the flutter of a
butterfly’s wings decorating
an array of pastel colored
the continuous flow
of the water fountain in town
after town where
—the children splash & play
—the adults dip their hands in
lifting the cool refreshing
drops to their brows


The Pilgrim, pausing,
refills a water bottle.

The sound of the Steeple bells
announce a new hour
while ‘clanging’ bells chime through the
endless minutes in a day
draped around cows grazing
throughout the hillside…

such peace.

July 20th, 2022

“You are part of the Great Oneness
and what you do affects the whole…

You are a voice in the chorus,
a string on the Beloved’s guitar.
When you change your note,
you change the whole chord.

                           ~~~Steve Garnaas-Holmes

Over mountains.
Dancing above clouds.
Step after step after step…

Final destination—
a lake of glass.
Its ‘blue’ shades dip
into the sky.

My mind ‘jumped’ in…
No longer was I
one single drop in this sea.

I am the sea in every drop.


Drops of Color/ Sculpted Swans

Drops of Color
Sculpted Swans

The night sky
was a sea of black twisting licorice
draped with clouds like crepe paper.

A wrinkle formed, another followed,
and the moon revealed itself
—the light within her
beamed from her hid-den craters.

Below, chiseled swans stood
balanced on a bed of green grasses
—slivers of fine threads
—a dazzling quilt.

When the stage lit
by the moon’s orbiting
—glittered swatches of
the stones  began to crumble
from the sculptures.

Feathers fluttered
fanning  the night
—stars drizzled down
and a dance ensued.

As the dawn drew near,
each swan turned
taking a bow.

The stars followed their path
—the crepe clouds
covered the moon.

When morning arrived,
the ground was blanketed with feathers.

The stones cried out,
and sculpted wings
were carried by a 
still small breeze.

Journal/ Day 17 and 18 Switzerland Via Alpina

Switzerland 2022
July 17th, 2022

Wallbach Gorge

A storm found its way
into the gorge
—it left an aftermath
of damage.

What does this mean?

Simply…YOU create your
own path.

One never ‘leaves’ the path…
life’s lessons have opened
doorways and NEW doorways
as a result of a whirlwind
of changes throwing ‘everything’
out of proportion!

Mid-wife, are you here?
Naturally, you always are.

You’re the voice
reminding me
of the loving place the womb IS!
Inside…we’re warm, held,
comforted, nourished…unconscious of
time, the months developing, stretching,
forming and growing


the space NO longer conducive to dwell.
Does every fiber of life hold out until
those final moments and, like a
storm, break through the gorge of
the uterus delivering life—
a new opportunity to expand
and encounter the path that

This day, a new path before us.

Conscious, mindful, and aware of
the unknown, we step
filled with gratitude.

There are guides keeping watch over us
—they have been with us
all along.

So Grateful.

July 18th, 2022

“Every moment in our life is a new
departure, an end and a beginning,
a joining of the threads and a

                                            Yehudi Menuhin                    

Very fine threads
have placed themselves
on the path trod each day.
The threads have also been
encountered in a variety of

A look back
—what a carpet ride it has been.
Yes, a magical carpet ride
with today and tomorrow
extending their finest

Already, I can feel pieces of
SELF becoming frayed…
—my steps move with ease
—my limbs strong and agile.
My eyes hold the
dazzlement and wonder
in and through everything
the Soul
still mindful that this doorway
is drawing to a close.
I will not have a reservation or
hesitation to lift the latch
a final time and close this
chapter of a life, my life’s
Never-ending story.

I know tears shall spill into the
lake, the final place of rest
from which I depart.

This pilgrimage holds many encounters,
reflections that shall return me home.
Lessons will reveal themselves.
Choices made will give way
to how my ‘senses’
—such faithful guides
took me across a countryside
traveling like the rising sun each day
lifting this body in the East
and stepping West to each day’s

Thank you




(Inspired by Dave Smith:  “The Spring Poem”)

Beneath all sediments,
in theory,
I’m a poet.

So this piece is 
Spring in all
its hidden verities
coming to blossom.

I have lived through a 
lifetime of Springs
not one was 
ever the same.

THIS Springtime
—before its arrival
—I was a naked branch
attached to a vine.
I suckled upon its juices
…a new born babe wrapped in
swaddling clothes.

In the long winter
months, I was fed
beyond any other season.
No-thing visible
—still I took ROOT.

The crippling cold
broke me in places.
 I’m different, reshaped, transformed
yet, still the same.

Ready to burst
—the flowers, buds, fruits of these words:

Yellow daffodils
lifting through brown
damp soil strewn in Autumn’s leaves

Blue skies holding the 
stars blotted out by
a fiery orange ball
—an endless flame
—an inferno.

Green grasses that look like
slender stilt walkers
sway across
the landscape as the 
soft winds ramble and weave
their delicate dance.

—red birds sing a melody
bringing me to my knees.
A chorus of insects, microscopic bugs,
larger than the Mormon Tabernacle Choir
—bellow refrain after refrain
while the Owl pulls the 
moon out into the darkness.

A black sea
—Heaven’s Dome
littered with diamonds.
The Milky Way
—her essence revealed
—she becomes Light.


I’m a poet…

what do I know?

Journal/ Day 16 Switzerland Via Alpina

Switzerland 2022

Dearest Mid-wife,

I greet you with warmth, kindness,
tender affection and ALWAYS gratitude.
When first my pen touched these pages,
‘YOU were.’
Lines ‘mentioned’ your presence.
You were the ‘ink’ flowing from the
tool allowing consonants and vowels
to open doorways.

As each day rose like the sun,
it closed with the stars.
I did not specify You in
a literal sense, and still,
‘YOU were.’
Weeks have passed.
I write this piece for YOU.

The journey westward is moving away from
the high passes
—movement into the meadows and
valleys lay ahead.

Wildflowers, clanging cow bells,
and dancing butterflies
ruffling the fur coats of marmots,
bathe in the light of new dawnings.
Some-thing NEW has begun
in me!  What does this mean?

Honestly, I cannot say
what I have witnessed!

My ‘soles’ allowed me
to cross over the terrain.

Evergreens…the towering pines
reaching skyward nestled below
the mountains that dwell in
the sky.
That glorious dome above my head
—how the blue sky filled with
cotton ball clouds creates patterns on
the ground and ignites the vibrancy
of color stretching on and on.
When the purple shades of dusk
appear and shadows bring out
the watchers of night,
I have sat waiting, watching for
that first star.

Mid-wife I thank you that
‘YOU are.’


To what might I liken this pilgrimage?
The immediate ‘image’ coming to
mind is a playground.

Why, might you ask?

Well, let’s first play on a slide.
Before the SWOOSH down,
there is the climb—
one step followed by another.
At times, both feet step on the
same landing…
other times it’s left foot first,
right foot ascending past the left.
The climb is filled with effort.
One holds the sides or, better yet,
‘poles’ to keep a ‘balance.’
The views from the TOP
have taken away my breath
time and again.
The ‘slide’ down…slow and steady.
Before you know it, you’ve
reached the bottom and you are sitting
in a bed of wildflowers.

The second adventure in the playground
…the swing.
For countless moments, I have felt as if
my feet never touched the ground.
Soft breezes pushed me forward.
I lifted my arms soaring with the hawks
When my feet finally touched the gravel
path, I lurched toward the ropes.

The third playful item on these ‘grounds’…ropes!
On the ropes you never feel,
‘I have this!’
Each step, exactly where it is meant
to be AND each step filled with
purpose and hidden anticipation.

This playground…a pilgrimage.
When it ends,
then it truly will have begun.