In Between




“The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep.”
― Rumi



between the shadow of night
and the light of dawn,
exists a place of
A doorway
into the beginning,
and a path
into the end,

A bird sings just as sweetly
at the sun’s coming
as it does
at the twilight of the day.
They are the gate-keepers
of the in between.
A harbinger of
the moment in balance.

Sit quietly
in that moment,
or walk the pathway
into the fading light.
Let bird-song
and shadows
take your awareness
to the places
that are most tender
in your heart,
and pour light
into your wounds.

Here, live the countries
of your imagination.
No longer a fairy tale
but a true place of knowing.
Your heart space,
a dimension in itself,
is present where the
azure shadow
meets the
golden light.







Divine Poetry


“Do you know what you are?
You are a manuscript oƒ a divine letter.
You are a mirror reflecting a noble face.
This universe is not outside of you.
Look inside yourself;
everything that you want,
you are already that.”
― Rumi

How many times in my life have I struggled with communicating with the divine?
How many nights have I sat in meditation and stillness with the prayer to open my heart wider, and wider still?

Then the light inside my heart reminds me that, for myself, poems are the codes to the vast universe. They are the very key to unlocking each and every door in my heart.
There are so many poets who hold the sacred keys; too many for me to list and touch upon. I will share these:
Alice Walker is the language of the earth, her words like honey and soil glowing in the southern California sun.
John Keats is the realm of the imagination, a fairy’s child spinning webs of pure beauty and innocent adoration.
Pablo Neruda is the sultry essence of the body, tactile and trembling, an erotic dance of passion and loss.
Whitman’s poems are the cries of the human spirit, echoing in the darkness for love, for freedom, for the right of self!
And Rumi’s poems are the very voice of the prophet. The gold and silver light woven into the tapestry of the cosmos. Always touching the face of spirit with a trembling hand, he carries the message back to us with poems of ecstatic joy.

Reading Rumi
I am always
that the gift of 
is the language of