The Rooms of My Life


I did not stay in the room long,

Just enough to see all the furniture,

See if I liked it enough to make it home for a while.

But it was not adequate to stop me.


So I moved on the next room, my favorite room

which was not a room at all, but a corridor.


The rooms became bigger, with more furnishings,

Better décor, pictures on the walls of the previous rooms.

Each one larger, but more crowded.

Strangely noticed after many rooms even though full

they were empty.

I was the only one there. And yet still, I did not visit long.


So now, I find myself, outside the house, no more rooms,

just the garden and a big empty house, a distant vision,

traveled through quickly.


And on the lawn is everyone I ever met waits patiently for me.


The Elm tree is Dead

When I was young the tree provided shelter when it rained,

kept me cool in the summer sun.

Tall and handsome, each year I could rely on the tree to

be there for me.


Soaring, protective, he lured me towards him,

and the other elm trees.

To stay with them, living every day in confidence

to base my life around loving branches.


Then the disease came, gradual at first.

A change of color, attitude, leaves not as bright,

then eventually nothing.

No leaves for cover, from the sun or the rain,

Kindling for branches, would break if I slipped.


Alone, I am wet, when it rains.

cold when it snows.

Hot in the summer’s sun.

Yet you are still there. Planted but now inert.



Revelation is a doorway to another,

And another, and another.

Each one deeper in an unending labyrinth, leading to new rooms,

with different colors, furniture or purpose.


Some are banquets,

others are sanctuaries for quiet prayer,

sleeping quarters,

family gatherings to eat and share.

Each one needing a different key,

which needs to fit perfectly,

before the door will open.


Divine Mercy Sunday – St. Faustina quotations

“Love is flooding my soul; I am plunged into an ocean of love. I feel that I am swooning and becoming completely lost in Him.”


“His presence penetrates me to my very depths and fills me with peace, joy and amazement. After such moments of prayer, I am filled with strength and an extraordinary courage to suffer and struggle.”

“She will be as if dead, not understood by the world and not understanding the world.” (Instructions given for the rule of her Order)


“and He covered Me with a red cloak like the one He was clothed with during His Passion”


From the diary of St. Faustina



I see a reflection around me, many thoughts,

Projecting their will on me, what I want me to see,

What others want me to see,

What others want me to be … to them.


This carnival tent where I live,

distorted with mirrors of many shapes and sizes,

illuminated and dark, big and small,

surrounding me with illusions of what is my life.

Or am I over thinking it?


What it this is not real at all?

Just a figment, The Truman Show,

total fakeness, and I am dreaming of what I AM,

And what others think of me.


Hang on, these reflections are real, but only an instant,

like a photograph, only a snapshot,

when what I really need a movie camera.

Maybe the illusion is the illusion.


These random thoughts, 20,000 a day,

make up only the distraction of a mind,

and who wants to control it.

Make me dress, react, smile, get angry

according to their will.


But these illusions are distractions,

or most of them are.

Thoughts of the world, the mind,

not of my soul.


For my soul is where reality lives. Eternally.

Dimly, through all the mirrors, fog, mist, shouting voices,

I suddenly see what matters.

The thoughts seen with the eyes of my heart,

where only love is the filter,

the receptor, the open arms,

the kiss that is God loving me. Always.


This is reality, through the mirrors.



The still of the night is not quiet,
But noisy, unsoothing.
A presence is obvious by its absence,
Space filled by something which is not nothing.


All seems to irritate and agitate,
like a coffee without crème,
something is always missing from all.
Calls to fulfill remain unheard.

As if I have a voice that cannot travel.

Good Friday

What does Easter bring to me?
Memories of Lent and giving up something;
those wonderful eggs on Sunday morning,
hoping relatives remembered me in time.

As the Easter Bunny comes but once a year.

There is another remembrance,
One of the death of death,
the death of sin,
life everlasting.

This day, Good Friday, is a day of remembrance of suffering and love.

Spanish in the Woods

Spanish in the Woods

Walking in the woods I recite the words in preparation

for my real el Camino de Santiago,

learning “welcome, goodbyes and ¡holas” whispered gently,

by a seductive voice in my ear.


Meanwhile, footprints are left behind,

with little trace of my presence,

as muscles build endurance,

at the price of physical wearinessness.


But my mind becomes more peaceful with each step.


Now, hours later, exhaustion and thirst begins,

as my mind remembers times of relaxation and love in my life,

and respectfully asks for a break.

Somehow the words from the earpiece are hollow now,

each one conjures up dreams of refreshing, cool water from a mountain stream,

or a Sunday morning sleep in with spouse and child cuddled in rhapsody.


I turn the lesson off and listen to the silence of my own breadth,

now panting and a little constricted, as airways sometimes become in Springtime.

The language lesson switched to a channel oft turned off.

One where my heart talks to my mind and intellect,

in simple and universal terms.


The language of Peace and Love.











Just a simple word can do it.
Doubt. Concern. Questioning.
Loyalty is not just a word,
it is love with intention, depth and feelings.
A full and complete communion with others.

But only before you react.


Gospel of Matthew
“He who has dipped his hand into the dish with me
is the one who will betray me.”


The old farmhouse lay atop the hill,

exposed to elements, unused and seemingly unloved.

Crumbling walls and peeling paint told a story of different times,

of winter fires in the evening, and family storytelling,

early, noisy, happy breakfasts,

whilst cows await their milking in the meadow below.


Now just a shell remains.


But perhaps these times, sitting in amongst their memorials,

are just a pause button;

where the house awaits its new housekeeper,

with this beautiful young wife and children,

to once again bring merriment and love to the rooms within.


And to fill the farmhouse with love again.