Night Rider

Night Rider

Late at night
or maybe
the early morning,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Desert sands create
castles as we hover

and fireflies join the
stars lighting our ride.

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

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

I step out…
close the door.

Very few would believe…

but my night rider…

well, it also needs no keys.

Drops of Color/ Only a Dream

Drops of Color
Only a Dream

It was a dream.

Really, only a dream.

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

The tree reached itself
beyond the sky.

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


the leaves were the shape of hearts.

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

Was it the leaves?
But how?

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

I wanted to pull down a leaf
—just one.

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

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

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

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

How can I put it into words?

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

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


Yet, as I reached,
I was held back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, am I still dreaming?

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

From my heart to yours.

Grow Brightly
and let-go.

The Fall

The Fall

How it happened
I haven’t a clue…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Drops of Color/ The Poor Man

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

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

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

Yes, now I know it is You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Feast Of Francis —October 4th



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

But, I tell you—
I AM alive.

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

The brown soil~~~
my bedrock.

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

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

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

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

So, NOW,
look at me again.

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


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


Drops of Color/ Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Drops of Color

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

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

You’re Asking Me?…What Hope is?

You’re Asking Me?…What Hope is?

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

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

Drops of Color/ A Treasured Map

Drops of Color

A Treasured Map

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

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

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

Did I find the treasure
you ask?

Here is what I can tell you~~~

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

I have found
the pearl of great price.

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

Yes, once you find it—
it’s within.

Keep it there—
‘stay’ off the map.

Trust the direction guiding you

—it’s your course to journey.




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, you must sing your song
—strengthen your wings

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

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

I could not stop singing.

Drops of Color/ Please, Please, Please…

Drops of Color

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

Please, Please, Please…

This poem can 
barely      write        words
 to          breathe.

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

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


A Footstool

A Footstool

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drops of Color/ Stuffed Bear

Drops of Color

Stuffed Bear

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and You stayed beside me.

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

Truth is,
sometimes I need you
more than ever

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

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

or when I start laughing
for no reason at all.

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

A bear who listened
to every prayer the little girl

Believing some One
was listening

and still IS.



There it was—
a diving board.

Well, it looked like one.

I have lived on this 
a long while.

The views—
My ‘gaze’ held in these

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

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

Can I name it?
Its ‘timeless’ shutter
has pushed me
to leap—

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

Carried by winds,
it touches ground.

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

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

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

A galaxy of stars
enters from nowhere.

A few words drift into the presence of light.

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

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

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

Returning is not an option.

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

There are so many…

Drops of Color/ What Matters

Drops of Color

What Matters

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

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

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

Staring into the sun,
my pupils engulfed in wonder—

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

Then, some-thing

Bang        BANG       Bang
Bang       Bang

I fell to the brown earth.

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

The ‘sun’ within Jacob
still rises.

His father’s prayer,
a sung lament.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black words…

From the sun’s flames
exploding within my heart,

All I can see:


Picking Petals

Picking Petals…

Love me—
Love me not.

Love me—
Love me not.

Today, I plucked petals
and, the final One told

“Tell them…I LOVE Them.”

Drops of color/ Lady in Blue

Drops of Color

Lady in Blue

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

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

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


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

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

Yet, she appeared…

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

The Lady in Blue appeared to
indigenous people,


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


Lady in Blue
it is my heart in your hands.

The Sailing ‘Soul’

The Sailing ‘Soul’

the winds 
swept the sea.

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

A furrowed
THIS I found
myself to be.

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

THIS my soul

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

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

Hours passed
as minutes glided,

away the time’s
unknown hours.

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

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


Drops of Color/ A City on A Hill

Drops of Color
A City on A Hill

There is a city
at rest upon a hill.

Persons come from
all directions to visit
this place.

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

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

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

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

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

they would LOOK
outward and behold
inward the manifestation

of the Source of all
residing everywhere.

Yes…even upon this
City on A Hill.





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

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

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

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

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

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

How could this be?

How could it not be?

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

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

There You are
as You have always been.

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

EVERY-thing held

The stars glisten overhead
as the sun
begins to rise.


Drops of Color/ I See

Drops of Color

I See

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

Higher and higher
the wind attempting to catch-up.

I breathe~~~ ‘in.’

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

I breathe~~~ ‘out’
closing my eyes.

In between breaths,
the silent gap.

My eyes
wide open…




How I love your
wooden pulpit…
the etchings look like living veins.

Even more, I love
your sermons.
Without words…
you sit upon your perch
surrounded by leaves.

I hear your unspoken whispers in the wind.

What’s it like
in the tree tops
to see the rising sun?
That ball of flame—
is it like the fire of your
spirit within?

At night,
do you pull the stars
down to light your domain?
Does your striped tail curl
a constellation
playing long enough to let it go?

That mask you wear…
is it so no one knows
your name?

You possess nothing
yet, you live amidst all things.

Little Preacher—
I love observing
how you praise.

You can go back inside.

I love that your services are not
held in time.

Silent Preacher

I feel your welcome.
“I’m inside.”

Drops of Color/ Who Are You?

Drops of Color

Who Are You?

you gaze at yourself
through a shattered piece of glass.

Now, that’s telling!

But what is being ‘acted?’

Are you putting on colors
or whipping them off?

Who did you make yourself
out to be?
Certainly, the world loves a clown.

there is still you.

I think you love the you that
the crowd does not know.
Who are you once the mask,
the make-up removed?

You conveniently mingle through
the crowd and no one shouts,
“Hey, that’s the clown who had us
rolling in the aisles—”
the one who gently touched the child
on chemo and the little one smiled…

The parents cried—
it was an expression of Joy.

Then with arms spread wide you
embraced a senior citizen
all alone in a nursing home.
She raised her hand touching your face…
her first movement in God knows how
long—you could hear a pin drop.

I read about a person
who ‘touched’ the crowds
and would say, “Don’t tell
anyone what I’ve done…

go show yourself to the
priests…that will suffice.”

No one listened.
They broadcast the 
acts from town to town.

There was hardly a 
place the person
could go—


Hey, Who Are You?

Are you that
same person?

Your show lives on…

I still see the
world smiling.

Your nose still has
red paint on it.

When I Despair…

When I Despair…
When I Despair…
I go out beneath
an infinite sea of blue sky
—and plunge in.

When I Despair…
my arms begin to stroke
the clouds, using them to
carry me on, and on, and on.

When I Despair…
I lie down in green meadows.
I become a ‘blade’ alongside many
—not a blade cutting
     but, one holding a drop
     on its head
—a balm for my parched
    dry lips.

When I Despair…
tears form
—white caps rush over my 
    salty cheeks.
Unstoppable, I can barely see
my breath.  I keep returning
to the surface
to take in another cup of air.

When I Despair…
I lay my head down
birds begin to sing
—their chorus, my lament.
Creatures bring gathered twigs,
pines, rocks to bury the One
whose hand I gently let-go.

Persons, near & far have reached
for me and continue to.

In my Despair…
I have never been alone.

Now, the shade
is pulling itself down.

I seek the comfort of despair
and the wisdom it imparts.

I choose to be alone
under a ceiling of stars—
my hands raised.
Despair has become a new friend…
JOY as a ‘planet’ shoots
across the sky.

Goodbye dad…
You’ll truly never be gone.
I’ll sing with you beneath 
the Moon.

You’re in Heaven~~~EVERYWHERE.
In Loving Memory of Joseph Mattucci
A Hero, A Good Man, my dad

December 24, 1931 – July 22, 2020


Drops of Color/ Kneeling

Drops of Color


Kneeling earnestly in silence
beside a bed.

No words flow.

Something seems to have lifted
a latch to a gate
and a gentle stream rushes through.

I hear the roar of a river
gripping the rapids.
White caps drench me
as I hold ‘in’ stillness.

A calm ensues
glazing the water’s surface.
I move and still my being
hovers as if held by wings.

No phrases break from
my lips.

My ears pick up the sound
of One beside me.

Audible sentences
I do not take in.

Yet, a knowing
all around me.

Reaching into the 
intimate chambers of
my beating heart,
my knees long
to remain
alongside this bed.

Only a little longer—please.

And, then…the day Begins—

although it already began
along side You.

These Houses

These Houses

These Houses

These Houses
display many colors.

Some the same hue
yet, always an appearance

pending the time
of day.

Shadows split open
the windows
and the shades lift
without a handle being

At times—
colors are not 
detected, especially
if from a distance.

But, when a shooting
star spills from
a Universe,
its particles of light
what no artist’s pallet
could duplicate.

The doors are always open.

These houses
hold mansions
of cascading colors

a place 
already prepared
for you.

Drops of Color/ Finding a Balance

Drops of Color

Finding a Balance

The sun held
the blue ceiling
laced in rays.

The soft green
strands of hair
rooted in earth
stood as if their
performance was

Center stage
a pink feathered
dipped, tucked,
and stood eloquently
balanced on one leg.

The sun
began its bow
the light
long enough
for the artist
to see the curtain closed,

and then flying silently
to the standing

An encore
yet, not in words.

Wings unfurled.



when I have lost

I’ve gone off searching.

Even the darkness
could not dispel my
endless quest.

Through howling winds
and crackling branches,
the ebb and flow
of a river’s 
rhythmic dance,

I lifted rocks
and splashed through

I climbed high—
descend low
and traversed in between all that is between


 there you were.
You laughed—
I joined in.

we rolled down hills slipping into
the valleys—
grass-stains painting
our knees.

You were 
and always
in every place.
I lay my every step,

most of ALL,
you are within

It’s when
I AM lost that I AM truly


Drops of Color/ Black Velvet

Drops of Color

Black Velvet

For too long

persons have split darkness
from light.

Shadows have been painted
at times, as evil.

Yet, when one is ‘blinded’
by the light, no one
speaks ill.

A galloping silhouette
casts from a beam
radiating a golden glow.

Unseen hoofs—beat.

A black velvet mane
hovers in the wind.

Light opens the path
as a tail
glazes a dawning
welcomed by night’s


With This Ring

With This Ring

I was pulled 
like a magnet.

The light, a burning flame.
My eyes could not turn away.

I was blinded,
yet, I could see
a ring around the sun.

The ring, a kaleidoscope of

My eyes blinked and blinked
like a set of windshield wiper blades
trying to clear what
was before me.

I was held in this circle.
A Gospel, without words.
A creation story revealed
EVERY day.

No beginning, no ending.
An eternal ‘I Do’ wedding me
to this life.

This life inviting me to a wedded Union
with all things Good.

Woven into this circle,
the colors fading
yet, not away.
The colors faded
‘into’ me.

I felt a wedded bliss.
The Sun inside me—
and, I was in the Sun.

‘With this ring’…

“You may now’…

Something kissed my brow.

The birds sang a Pronouncement:

“You are One with All.”

Pardon me now while I kiss
the sky.


Drops of Color/ The Wheel

Drops of Color

The Wheel

Like the Seasons,
the wheel circles

—dipping down
—drawing in
    the endless drops
    that fill the spring.

A sudden rush~~~ water swirling

—spinning the wheel
—holding barrels
   of sustenance
    for only so long.

NOW, the wheel spills like a waterfall

releasing its content
refilling once more.

The circle
—round and round it goes
    empty, full, pouring itself out…

Simple, to discover the Divine

—in a wheel
—in the water
—in the wood
     that holds long enough
     to let go
     over and over again.

A Telescope

(Excerpt from a Journal/Camino St Francis #1/September 2019)


When I was a child,
I looked out through a telescope
gazing at stars…dancing fireflies.
I tried to catch one…
didn’t work—I
tried again and again.
Trust, look at my knees.
I tumbled, fell and 
I laughed.
The stars seemed to shine more brightly
the more I looked upon them.
I still know the meaning of being ‘star’ struck.
Light beams meandering upon a velvet sea of sheer blackness.
Sometimes I imagine I’m swimming in that pool of darkness.
I pause here because something has
changed or maybe it’s the same.
I have been HERE and I AM asking who am I, and Who are YOU…

You no longer have a name and yet you are in ALL things.
What is MOST real in THIS moment is YOU
looking through the telescope at me.

Do you know who I am?  In my simple understanding, you do know who I am.
I’m setting out on a walk…AGAIN.
Silver wings will fly me across the sea and I’ll traverse a landscape where 
the Lover of creation, the poor man Francis of Assisi LIVED, until Sister Death brought him into the eternal landscape of stars—his friends.

Francis asked the same question I ask.
Did he EVER discover WHO he was?
You called him to BUILD your church.

Within, I believe it NOT a church of brick & mortar.
I trust it was a church, the church where Spirit dwells…
in that HID-DEN cave inside each of us!

While writing, I feel a star
or a slew of stars moving in me.
They are shining…yes, yes—
You see them as You LOOK through the lens.

A silence hovers over me.

What is happening, what has begun?
I am writing this page at the END of my journal because I strongly hold 
where we END we BEGIN.

So, WHO am I?
WHO are You?
What if I find out?

When I return to this side of the pond in three weeks,


I’ll have to buy you a TELESCOPE.

No—NOT to look out of, but
to allow the One inside of you to look
and look 
and see

Drops of Color/ In the Back

Drops of Color
In the Back

Is this a poem I’m beginning?
Is it a conscious moral inventory?
Black words are spilling
across a white background.
The ‘words’ are the fruit
splashing from a pen.

I’m a white woman.
Yes, a white, retired Peace (Police) Officer.
I’ve undergone countless hours of training.
Defensive tactics were taught to me and
to other brother and sister officers. Never
a choke hold was spoken of—nor role modeled!

One instructor, who taught us DWI (Driving while under the Influence) procedures,
expressed first and foremost that when someone is
intoxicated ‘we’ need to understand that the person’s 
JUDGMENT is impaired.
The responsibility befalls the officer
to handle the situation 
with great care, caution and safety for ALL—
including self.

To expect an individual to ‘follow’ verbal
commands when under the influence—
the expectation is absurd.

The Use of Force continuum
is there to protect persons…
the aggressor and the one attempting
to stop the aggressor(s).

Shots to the back.
An individual fleeing…on foot.
All information on Mr. Brooks available.
A simple warrant could have been completed.
An arrest made later.

Simple to write.
Easy to say.
I was not there.

Yet, I’m sketching
another picture of a black man.
A man whose life was taken
and the law would  decide a sentence.

There is a LARGER issue
cracking open the stained-glass
windows covering hid-den truths…
NOW, things being filmed on camera
and still questions…
maybe he/she is guilty?
A life gone too soon by the
very hands called to Protect & Serve.

I have my own story
—a knee taken to my neck (metaphorically).
A situation dismissed…
I was, according to investigators (at the top),
an oversensitive female.

But, a wise teacher (MT Winter)
guided me…
It’s not the time to make this
about my story.

This is about Rayshard Brooks, George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor
countless others and…I pray, “NO more.”

I pray, “Lord, hear the cries of your people.”

Come, Source of Life…I pray.



In the night,
I drift
and often wander.

These moments
—silence like a clap of thunder
—lightening striking an
    unseen place in my Soul.

In this dwelling place,
I reach for your hand.
I realize both of your 
arms have been waiting
—waiting to wrap themselves around me.

I close my eyes.
I can never remember
the length of the moment
held within you.

Next, we’re swinging
side by side.
The light of the silvery moon
—a Segue.

We hum—no words.
I take in your breath.
You take in mine.

Back and forth
we glide
—toes pointing
toward the sky
—the backward
regaining momentum.

Our hands let
as the sun rises.

My heart
begins to beat
another day.

Drops of Color/ In this House

Drops of Color

In this House…

there are mansions…MANY.

On the outside,
a bare wall—
you can see leakage.

A door tarnished.

An empty chair, brooms, buckets, shovel, a hose and a single pair of clogs.

She’s setting a fire
—a steaming cup of tea
placed beside her rocker.

She is in from her garden.
She’s picked the vegetables
—she’s milked the cow
and taken the creamy suds
to the family down the road.

Three small children—
Dad lost his job.
Mom diagnosed with_________.

Several persons
who await her produce
‘attempt’ to slip the woman
a coin—
she kindly smiles
—shakes her head
—closes her hand around theirs…tucking the coin
‘back’ into their possession.

Some in the 
don’t even know her name.

She prefers to remain
but, every once in awhile
someone calls her out.

“What you see in me
is in You” she whispers—

and moves on.

She walks to her home


there are many more
like her.

Persons in the most
‘unlikely’ places
changing the world.

The real saviors of
the world NOT calling
attention to themselves
yet, LIVING each day

Caring for

the earth giving her the 
bounty to share.
Loving creatures
who lovingly return
sustenance as if appreciative
of the love received.

You may vision a mansion
but, THIS tiny place
holds a treasure
the world could not afford…

With the exception of
LOVE in return.



Look above
~~~a cornfield of blue flowers 
laced with delicate linen designs.
The artist weaves a needle
and the sky is fashioned.

Look below
~~~a shaggy rug
each strand lifting as if greeting
a long awaited friend.
Embracing affectionately, they become
fashioned to one another
~~~they roll in the cushioned earth
of green grasses
~~~brown roots hold them in the 
The artist dips the brush…

Look ahead
~~~rolling wheels.
They move with a rhythm.
The artist winds the brush
like a watch that runs
beyond time.
White spray—
flocks of seagulls form
~~~waves rise then fall
~~~the tide in, then suddenly out,
driven by an unseen hand
cresting the moon until it is
The wheels of the ocean’s waves
Yes, here is where the artist
dips the brush.

Oh, Look
and feel
~~~a soft whisper rising
like a stampede of wild horses
~~~dust filling an open landscape
~~~a top spiraling
gathering everything in its path.
The artist lets-go.
Everything created changed.
The design unsettled.

A quiet hush,
colors melted
—the scene invisible.

there is the artist
~~~walking, so it seems,
into what appears to be
a scene of pillars dressed in
green leaves
~~~birds singing
~~~forest creatures have come out
of their hid-den places.
A pencil in the artist’s hand…
shadows etched.

See all the portraits?
Each day creation’s ‘creators’
You, me~~~
fashion the designs we are
meant to bring to life
and the One who brings us
to life

“I AM looking upon the work
of your hands.
I See… it is all that matters.

Well done…
Well done.”

Drops of Color/ A Few Stones

Drops of Color

A Few Stones

There were a few stones
in the sack.

always in place
in case…

in case a predator
seized upon
one of the woolly lambs.

This time—
there was a Giant.

A large ‘flock’
needed protection.

A few precious stones
pulled from a pouch

and launched~~~

A Giant fell.

A hush could be heard
for miles and the ground

A shepherd—
the one no one even gave
an account for—

He is
still remembered
as a king.
And even he—fell.

He stood back on his feet—


Be mindful if you gather

and how you might
be called to 
use them.

Do you know Her?

Do you know Her?

Recognize her?
You think she’s homeless–

We don’t want the 
likes of her in our neighborhood.
She is not allowed where we live~~~
her ‘likes’ don’t give off 
positive energy.

Well, I decided to 
follow her…
From a distance.

When she rose
from her bed of rock,
she pulled back a small
crust of bread.
The expression on her face
was that of an angel
and, NOW she was surrounded
by endless wings.
She fed the feathered creatures
as if a liturgy had begun.

She draped her
shawl, her vestment…
around her shoulders.
She gathered the ‘host’
of belongings
lying beside her.

She ceremoniously proceeded
through the streets.

As she walked by
the bakery,
she lifted a bag left for her.

The owner of the coffee stand
filled her a paper cup—
her chalice of morning

The butcher
left some slices of
meat and cheese curds
and off she went…

—beneath the bridges

—into the alleyways
—behind dumpsters.

She went ‘into’ the
‘hid-den’ crawl spaces.

She knew her congregation.

She shared communion.

She saw me
and pulled herself
to my side.

She didn’t say anything…
She did not have to.

I’m trying to follow.

I have so much
to let-go!


A humble, heartfelt ‘Thank you‘ to ‘all’ who responded to the last post: “I Can’t Breathe.”

I wept and honestly can say I am breathing a little more easily because of the enormous acts of LOVE ‘spreading’ across the globe…even amidst so much unrest.

Many of you asked permission to share the ‘post.’
By all means—please feel free to share these seeds of love I ‘tend’ and plant.

If you’re moved to share…please invite persons to go directly to:
and join the garden of the many community members.
One can Unsubscribe at anytime.

Let’s plant fertile ground in THIS Garden of Life we have been blessed to dwell ‘within’ and to care & nurture.


Drops of Color/ I Can’t Breathe

Drops of Color

I Can’t Breathe…

As I write these three words,
I keep hearing the sounds of 
the hammer driving three
nails into the flesh of an
innocent man.

I hang my head—my lament so raw.
Unraveling the words, my white, feminine flesh
spills black ink from a pen.
I do not know how to
frame the cry within me, choking me.
I must write, but what?

I sought the words of a Dreamer…

“…Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
     Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain Tennessee.
     Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
     From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

    And when this happens, and when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it
    ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city,
    we will be able to speed up that day when ALL of God’s children, black
    and white, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to
    join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

    Free at last!  Free at last!

    Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

                                                                                                                                                                                             ~~~Martin Luther King, Jr.
                                                                                                                                                                                              28th August 1963

I wish to sing, but my tears flood my
wind pipe…I’m choking.
Mr. Floyd, the simplicity of my words
are an attempt to BREATHE for you.

Was this your life’s purpose…to ignite a flame?
Your purpose so much more!
Across the country, from Minneapolis, to Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Illinois, Utah and—
cries are heard.

Systemic shifts are caving in
amidst a pandemic.
Lives are being lost.
The Earth is quaking.

Will we all perish in our inability
to see we’re all FREE…we are all created equal?

God Almighty, how you weep now with us.

  You breathed life into the dust of this landscape, brown soils, creating humankind…
my heart is not able to reckon what we are
living in NOW
this was/is not a part of your Design.

Come to our assistance—
Come, if ONLY, to embrace our sorrows.
Let us sit for a while in these ashes.
Let us bathe in the folly of all 
our unknowing.

May the loss of George Floyd’s life simply not be a moment we look back upon and ‘recall’.

Let freedom ring
and ring
and ring
until God Almighty we are all Free at last.

I pray my ‘eyes’ behold the Dream Come True
before I take my last breath.

Forgive me while I still breathe.
I cannot keep silent.



He arrived—
as if out of Nowhere.

In a ‘way,’ we summoned someone to drive around the bend to transport us to the location we originally sought.  We walked in the opposite direction~~~through forests and orchards of horse chestnuts, tobacco fields, grape vines, peach trees.

Our sole purpose~~~ to visit what I would name, ‘Oxen,’ in order to purchase the cheese made from their luscious milk.

The Red Fiat turned the bend and stopped.
Our guide approached.  He wore a classic straw hat,  a long sleeve blue shirt, tucked in…pants held by suspenders.  He responded to our request.  Four women invited into this man’s small auto.  He spoke Italian— Emese and Deanna understood. Wendy and I looked and listened.  Each day he drives to the top of the hill where there is a small cemetery.  His wife died almost 2 months ago~~~they were married 50 years.  Tears fill his eyes.  When he makes his way from the cemetery, he seeks ‘pilgrims’ on their way to Assisi…any WAY he can HELP, assist, offer presence.  He was our Angel and he told us we were his miracle. 

He drove us to the entrance doors—to the store.  He wished to drive us back, but we graciously declined—yet, not before an embrace… a kiss first on one cheek, then the other.

A simple word  packed with MORE feelings than one can explain…”Thank You.”

Did we meet Francis of Assisi?  Yes!

Did we meet Christ?  Yes!

Was this man and angel?  Yes!

His name, Leonardo.

Today, I AM no longer the same having joined the path called Life~~~with him.

(Excerpt from a Journal on the Camino St Francis/Italy)

“If the only prayer you ever utter is ‘thank you’…it is enough!”     Meister Eckhart


Drops of Color/ Built on Water

Drops of Color

Built on Water

The house
was not built upon sand…

Nor did ‘rock’
hold the weight of an
array of limbs and twigs.

The branches were laced, intertwined,
woven together
on a bed of water.

Yes, this house built
upon a weightless
stream running slowly
—rushing effortlessly down yonder.

The builder,
out in the early hours of dawn
chopped trees 
like a pecking of a chisel

Yet, no sound heard
except the pounce of
the wood caressing the ground
and then the mighty branch
being hulled by a tug boat.

But, this boat
has no motor.

An enormous tail works
the water like a shutter
—swift movements
—a thrust forward then back
finally arriving at home base.

The builder tugged,
pulled, lifted
and sewed the wood
into the foundation.

Protected from the weathers
—inside, one dry elegant room.

A family gathers.
Day has begun
—hidden they remain,
until the first star appears.

The lumberers sharpen
their teeth
as off to work
they paddle.

Their house on 
the water
and fashioned
with care.

A Perfect Contradiction

A Perfect Contradiction

Once a seed
held in a bed
of dark, liquorice soils—
you ‘broke.’

You, already ALIVE
pulsing, surging,
taking in sustenance.
You pushed softly,
until your delicate
burst from Earth’s womb.

Inhaling life,
—you stretched
—you reached
—you expanded.

Enveloping the sky,
you bathed in the light of the sun.
You wrapped yourself in
the crescent moon
and glistening stars.

your rings unfolded.
Your task in this world
if, it be termed a task—
to Grow.

Each day
you trust what is
needed to allow you to be.

Season upon season,
you have been bent,
reshaped, broken by storms,
healed by soaking rain.
You rested while snowflakes
gathered around you
until you burst with buds
painting the world
green beneath a sky,
blue as an ocean.

Waves of clouds
gathered to greet you—
welcoming you to
THIS time.

A cycle of perfect
You stand…

Life, death and rising
again and again
in a fashion
unduplicated by a human hand.

Drops of Color/ Red Shovel

Drops of Color

Red Shovel

There it was
lying on the path—
a price-tag dangling from its handle.

Who lost this treasure?
A simple red sand shovel…
it held the potential
to go ‘deep’ into the sand.
Oh, what ‘one’ could create
with this ‘toy.

Reaching down,
I held it by its neck…
placing it in my pack so that it 
was visible…why?

Days passed—
the red shovel
stepped with me,
but it began to weigh down
my being.
“Let me dig,” it seemed
to say.

I was not about to stop,
and then
in front of me,
a clear path—

flowers strewn on both sides…
scented walls greener than green
cascading with blossoms…
a pond of fresh lilies to my left
—they held my gaze
I heard the fall!

She was five maybe six—
she was on the ground.
She was hurt,
she wanted to cry.
A little hole was in her pant leg—
her tiny hands cupped her tiny knee.

As she rose,
her father grasped her hand.
As she rose,
the little red shovel in my 
bag climbed out.

As I handed her the shovel,
a curve in her lips turned
a smile revealed.

“You, took a fall~~~
now you can use this shovel
to dig for treasures…
share with your brother.”

I glanced at the father
and then the mother—
their eyes spoke words
that were not echoed aloud.

Then, the little girl
holding the ‘toy’ in both hands,
said without prompt,
“Thank you!”

I walked on.
I discovered the buried treasure.

(Excerpt from a Journal in Wales/Pembrokeshire Coast Path)

Grow in Splendor

Grow in Splendor

Wake up!
Throw on whatever garment
adorns your closet of hangers.

Splash your face.
Forget wiping off the fresh scent
of water drops trickling down
your neck.

Grab a pair of shoes—
better yet, go barefoot.

Thrust yourself out the door of your dwelling
and allow the ‘dwelling place’
within you to immerse itself
in the depths of a million blades of grass.

Grasses which rise
without command—they stand
because this is their splendor.

Glance around you.
Look at the trees—
their branches extend
holding rays of light.
Their leafy coats capture the wind
—they carry the birds’ songs
in Spring’s timeless birthing.

Oh, the clouds, they too, grow like a sea
of parachutes, hovering for a time,
casting shadows upon mountain tops.

They carry rain into desert places
and dissolve without worry IF they
left their mark in the world.

The splendors of creation
—my feet bathed in mud.
I stumble ‘in’ this moment purposefully
dropping to my knees.

Before me flowering without assistance
yet, birthed by a Holy Unseen Mother…
her whispered voice
impregnates the Universe birthing
what grows into Fullness without worry.

It need not ask, “Who am I?”
Already, it knows…

It is the Incarnation meant
to be at this moment of Life.

It is your turn—do not even give it a 

Grow in Splendor.
Become the FACE of God ‘already’
alive in you.

Gaze at the blossoming flowers—
allow the petals of your being to
draw back

revealing the LIGHT
shining through you.

Drops of Color/The Font

Drops of Color

The Font

One by one
they flew in.

First, they appeared to
dip their wings.

Second, they dunked their
heads coming up for air
before a full immersion.

A baptism of fluttering
and the community
gathered around
the ‘font.’

They welcomed everyone
before taking flight

even those without

who dipped 
mere fingers into the waters
for a blessing.

An Umbrella

An Umbrella

Something said,
“Leave the Umbrella.”

But, “It’s pouring.”

Again, “Leave the Umbrella.”

Who said that?

Clicking the button,
the sails folded in upon
It leaned itself
into the wall.

An umbrella cannot speak?!

Stepping out,
I glanced back.
No, I was not turned into 
a pillar of salt.

My right foot
was in a puddle.
Makes perfect sense
an umbrella would NOT 
have allowed this 
present situation
to dry-out.

The left foot,
not particularly cued
into the puddle its pal was in,
unknowingly ‘plunged in.’

Heavy drops of rain
began to wash over me.
My ‘soles’ were soaked,
why not my Soul?

I stepped from the 
pool I was in,
and I heard this

It was a pleasant
The ‘waters’ in my shoes
drenched my shirt,
my pants,
my hair, my—


became a song!

I began to dance.

Now something said,
“Get the Umbrella.”

“What, NOW?”
For Whaaaaa…

But, I got it.
I reached for the
umbrella…No, I did not
open its drape.
Instead, we clung to
each other.

We danced.
My sails opened
and the umbrella laughed.

“Don’t you love a rainy day?”

Still believe umbrellas don’t talk?

Drops of Color/ This Coat

Drops of Color
This Coat

“This” coat
stitched in love.
The garment which I 
refer to IS the piece
‘inside’ the fabric.

One person
responsible for THIS
design is my mother.
(amongst  a host of others)
She used various ‘strands,’
pieces, designer rags
to form me.
At times, in moments of her own
sacred stitching,
she would tear ‘patches’
of me.
in my small mind, I knew—
I simply saw her brokenness.

Without SEEING—
my world became FULL
of colors…
deep reds
soft blues
gatherings of yellows
blankets of greens
rays of orange
black like an empty kettle
and white stars
without fading.

All the shades ‘fit’ me.
I have attempted
through the years,
to ‘invite’ others
to embrace
the many colors
of their coats.

Oh, the tapestries
we are~~~
The forms
holding our shapes.

Each of us fits
this Universe.

Without YOU,
this coat
of creation
would be less
than whole
and that pattern
never was
without you.

You are part of the
threading life
without end.



A quiet room,
an invisible altar,
a solitary being.

She understands silence
and even ‘welcomes’ it.

A glowing candle
ignites a hymn.

Underlying conditions
do not deter the rise and fall
of her beating heart.

A host of guides
daily ‘enter’ her dwelling space.
Their labored arms
give birth to love.

A soft bell chimes
through the halls.
She opens the door of her
hid-den cathedral.

With extended hands,
She ‘receives.’

She dials the phone—
I answer…
Her proclamation:
“The Body of Christ!”

I simply respond, “Amen.”

Emphatically, before she hangs up,
she whispers
“I Love You!”
The candle flickers.

The sweetest ‘communion’
I have EVER tasted.

Drops of Color/ Reminding US

Drops of Color
Reminding US

Each one of us
—a vessel.

Our sails
—how they love the wind.

The ride changes
from day to day.

There is ‘something’ about
moving with the current.

Moments can push us beyond
the movement of the water’s flow.

Tossed off course,
we discover a resolve
within to find the path.

To accept the course

Sudden wakes
the bow
into clear waters.

Gentle waves
tickle the sides of
our vessel.

Lifting our head,
—Sails extended.

The wind blows—

“Divine Spirit”
a presence
reminding us

“I’m here
     I’m here
        I’m here.”

Climbing into the mast
—looking outward

No land
in sight—




There you were…
Your yellow shutters opened wide—
The slender green houses
growing beside you
were like a frame
accentuating your gentle presence.

There you stood
The blue sky above you
tipped its hat.
Puffy white clouds
cast shadows all around
you…your beauty

A mountain of stone appeared as a
backdrop…if one LOOKED
closely enough,
your soft color
painted the rock.

I almost passed you by
—So tiny
—So dainty
—So unnoticed.
All that mattered was YOU.

You spread yourself—arms extended.

Your invitation
for ALL


Look often THIS day.

Life is speaking its glory.

While words are attempting to bring
this reality to light,

Your lack of written expression
FILLS the page.

Drops of Color/ Come

Drops of Color

Come pick a lovely
flower from my basket.

Find the color
or colors that pick you.

Please, don’t leave any coins—
these flowers are my
gift (for you…)

Their beauty—behold.
Their soft scent—take in.
Touch their petals—their skin.
Hold their stem—fragile, yet firm.

Tend your bouquet of flowers
even it be one or two.

Treasure the flowers
picked this day
just for you.