Time is like a river they say.

Drifting at times, at others calm and steady,

Sometimes rushing headlong, rocks ahead, threatening,

Yet always moving at the same pace. Tick…tick…tick…

Moments caught up in white, foamy torrents lapping the banks of life,

And we are left remembering.

Looking back we may miss the next turn,

But looking forward we cannot see beyond the horizon…if that far.

Even on glassy waters inexorably forward we go, always toward something.

But what?


Answer the question. Where are you going?

Only God knows tomorrow and He isn’t always forthcoming with information.

Clear sailing, destination known, stirs the heart and whips up joy,

Yet often we peer ahead seeing only high cliffs and unending water.

Peace arrives in the middle.


Because a tock is coming. One last tock of the clock. One last second to breathe out.

One last breath.

Peace dwells in the ellipses.

In the in-between.

In the solace of faith in something beyond.

In the knowing that time is merely a construct, a means to an end,

Necessary water we fish must breathe until our wings sprout and we fly.


I fear you not.

Peace like a river flows with me.

Whatever, whenever, my tock comes…however it comes…it leads on…

To greater things.



Faded whispers race along the ceiling

Overtones left behind as the last chord

Dies away.

Notes have color. Blues and reds and greens.

Purples here and there. The odd brown. Perhaps a black.

Rarely a white. Maybe that’s why we call it white noise?

Not much call for white sounds. Colors are preferred.

Beaming from the speakers,

Resonating a rainbow,

Carrying forth imaginations composed of some part of those 12 notes.

One day, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,

Paintings will be the sheet music we play from.

Colors of sound.