Summer Morning

Voracious climbing   clustering   twisting


Newly shooting   dancing  twining  


Bursting blooming   fragrance   wafting  


Multitudes buzzing   pistils   spending


Quietly fading   singeing    heat  


 Viscerally  clicking   cloistering   containing  


A Vining   Summer   Morning







Blazing Detail

The master’s loving hand

swirling hues in dots and tiddles.

Each nimble stroke embalming

thirsty threads in forever fire.

Oh to be of such stuff;

pen vs brush,

word vs oil.

Placing thought in magestic,

glorious perfection on waiting,

empty nothingness for the

novice’s masterpiece.





“Doors in the Clouds”

Thunderheads at Dawn

On the Lord’s Day,






Not Understanding.

On the Lord’s Day,

Left behind

Left out



Running further Still,

I Looked Up

On The Lord’s Day

Clouds, Doors

Many Doors,

In the Doors


The Faces of God!

On The Lord’s Day,

“All walls are Doors”

All days are The Lord’s Day

“Latitude 27o N X 82o W”


searching hues




inching  down.









tiny spongy tokens

rooting running things

in earth’s sweet dankness

toward its Destiny


in its own


Pan, Where is Your Soul?

Pan and Shadow

Oh Pan, where is your soul?

Does it dwell within your heart?

I think not,

In your head?

I do not believe it to be true,

Within your innermost parts-unseen?

Oh no, to be sure not,

Is it in your fanciful and play full

Ability to fly and soar as a bird?

Beware to believe in this foolishness,

For what will you do when Hook has you

On The Rack

Your body stretched beyond agony?

I, your Shadow, your other half,

Can simply fly away

Leaving half of your soul behind.

Then, Pan

How will you repent, choose, Christ or Devil

Heaven or Hell?

You see, Pan,

Without me, you cannot have a soul.

We are one and the same.

Black and White.

Evil and Good.

The Soul is One.

God made it so.

Pan and His Shadow.






Tales From Pawleys Island

4th of July Parade-1988

July 4th Pawleys #1

Loved Forever


No words for them. Joy is not enough.

Wonder is not the explantion. God has broken into my world.

The heart in side me quivers. My eyes want to cry. My fingers want to play music.

This entire body wishes to express all the love it has

With all the ways possible.

They will be here soon.

What will they be like? It will not matter.

They will come into the world

Fully and Totally Loved.


Wakeful Reality and Sleeping Beauty

PawleysThe shack could not be called a home,

Nor the man a father.

Year upon year, night upon night

of fear of his body on her, inside her.

If she said it, dared to tell of her shame,

who would hear or believe or care?

I listened, finally. She did not have the words

for what had been done.

So much damage. Hurt so very deep.

After ages it seemed, she began to Trust.

She did not know or understand Trust or Truth.

Rides in my car were trusting. Over the causeway to the Island.

She was frightened! Not supposed to go there!

No black people go there, her daddy said!

She saw the ocean for the first time. Her shack was only one-half mile  away.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It seemed she had seen Mt. Everest! She ran to it!

Bare, black feet in the cold white sand. Digging her toes in.

At the landing on the river, sitting, just us two,

she, gazing in amazement at its existence in her world,

Trust and Truth became real.

All of her hurt, years of abuse, guilt, shame, treats and loneliness

came flooding out like the falling of the tide.