My Little Friend

His eyes do not see.

My little friend drifts
toward me as I call its 
name aloud.

Swiftly, a sailing vessel,
my friend glides in the
direction of my voice.

Gently, I let the fruit
‘splash’ into the water’s
depth.

My friend’s tail sways
left then right.
Without seeing, my friend
believes the fresh fruit
awaits.

Its nose sniffs until it
touches the bobbing apple.

Sinking its teeth into
the apple’s core, my friend
casts itself in my direction…

Who is the True Seer?

Into the darkness, my
friend begins to plunge
carrying food to share
with all.

Follow your heart…
Throughout the years, a Sojourner
—preparing, reaching, wandering, waiting, striving
—aching, grieving, struggling, forgiving, receiving
—pausing, refraining, serving, praying, offering—

A path Opens…
the heart discovers it was never closed.

The unique sound of its beating, the heart
recognizes and hears that same
‘beating’ in all living things.

In this House of Worship,
the trail is all inclusive, invitational, welcoming, transforming.

It is here the heart has
found its way Home,
and the only sound heard from parted lips,

“Thank YOU.”

Ignite

Before you came to be,
as you are now,
a light was born in you.

You radiated with a splendor
set ablaze.

Nothing could hold back
your wonder
and, so you burst into
the world like a shooting
star…

This new place in which you found
yourself was new—
others carried your glow.

At times, it appeared taken
from you.
You were hidden, and
within, you knew this was 
not your destiny.

You set out and attempted
to fit into place.

Again and again, you were
cast in your own designer
shadows.

One night you stood beneath
the moon.
You pointed in its direction
and, your fingertip began to 
sparkle.

Suddenly, you were born
again, transformed,
rekindled.

The flame that is You,
set the world aglow.

Shine…only you
can cast the love you are
meant to ignite NOW.

“Preach the Gospel 
at all times.
Use words if necessary.”
                            ~~~Francis of Assisi

Let me Be Peace
(Journal Entry on the Camino St Francis/Sept. 2019)

In the heart
of a city,
lived a man whose song
plays on…

His journey was like an instrument
—One day a flute
—One day a guitar…
     and then a drum.

Birds rested on his shoulders,
and a story told how he
tamed a wolf.

Tell me why, Brother Francis,
you had to go~~~
although, I know.

One day
each of us will pass from ‘this’
place we know.

I pray, Gentle Francis, 
the traces we leave behind
be an imitation of yours.

Peace, I hope to leave
for NOW,
 is what I hope to be.

Let me be Peace…
In the silence of my being,
let there be Peace.

The Melody

The rippling sounds of the water
moving swiftly are heard 
beneath the bridge’s archways.

The chiming of the church bells
from the craggy steeple joined
in the thunderous refrain
playing itself in the
mountain’s jagged peaks.

Walking this path, the sojourner’s steps
have done this a thousand
times, if not more…

yet, today—this time,
this hour is like no other.

Changed,
a heart entrusts the 
beating within the cavern of 
a Soul seeking a new path.

A bell rings
—it is not the waters
     below the bridge
—it is not the Abbey clanging
     the newly appointed hour
—and, it is not the roaring
     of thunder tucked between
     mountains and sky.

It is the music of a Pilgrim
stepping to the melody
born within.

What of this path

that speaks of my name
and yet, of itself, it holds
no identity.
Beckoning to my Soul,
it bids me, “Come, come…”

The painted path enraptured
within wooden pillars.

Thousands of arms
eased out from all sides
adorned with green fraying
leaves
—they seem like kites
     hovering effortlessly.
Their stems, like the kite’s
     tail, connected to the
     grandeur of each tree
     woven beside this nameless
     path.

I step.  It is no longer
my name I hear.
No, it is the name
connecting each of us…
—the hawk flying overhead,
—each blade of grass standing
    with ease,
—the soft breeze caressing
    my shoulders
—and, a soft whisper
     resounding from every direction,
    “I am.”

Spring Song

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

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

Still, it did not end
here…

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

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

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

I hear it in your song.

The Cantor

The fulcrum held
—effortlessly left
—precisely right.

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

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

Then, the Cantor arrived
needing no invitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sound of Bells

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

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

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

Silently, I sit humming
a wordless refrain.

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

Inside…

a beacon of light.

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

Miles away, the casting
beams reach vessels adrift.

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

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

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

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

Inside the window of
a Soul, a fire burns.

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

Who’s There?

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

Tonight, you have picked up
your pace.

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

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

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

Chimes hanging upon the deck,
ring.

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

Wait—

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

Left Handed

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

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

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

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

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

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

Change—external,
transforming us internal.

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

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

Yes, left handed.

Let Me Flutter

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

A soft veil torn beneath skin.

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

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

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

The vessel within flutters…
flying is not in sight.

Each miniscule motion
strengthens the internal
transformation
unseen and proceeding.

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

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

Please do not rush
this process.

Do not wish it over
before it has begun.

Let me flutter.

…hold the stage

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

Your ears catch the wind like
billowing sails.

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

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

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

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

In His Eyes

Was I gazing
into my own eyes?

Laugh if you will…
I was.

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

but it was his eyes.

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

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

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

I stepped,
and he took two steps back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wept…
knowing I am no longer
the same.

You, I am.

Walking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path May/June 2019

Fashioned

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

Your feathers stretched themselves.

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

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

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

You laid down a 
feather,

a simple reminder

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

Itself

In opposite directions,
arms reach.

One end
digging deeper into the soil
grounding itself firmly.

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

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

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

lifted…

Risen in perpetual adoration.

Holy hands
united in creation

~~~the first story
begun without words.

Poetry is old…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen

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

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

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

I was drenched until the sun burst~~~

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

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

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

What did you touch today?
Delicate moss, a beautiful green blanket
stretching over the stately trees…
The moss touched me first holding on
long enough to rest…then the branches, the
limbs of the trees began to dance~~~
they held a pose.

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

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

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

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

Web of Being

You held the sun
between glimmering threads.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Version of Psalm 23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are there—
You are in EVERY~ONE.

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

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

A Place

There is a place I go to be
alone.

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

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

This place knows when to let
the light in.

Its entrance always open.

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

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

Clouds

Did you ever wonder
how a cloud moves?

Floating particles gather
in an array of forms.

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

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

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

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

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

Was it just a dream?