Upon a quiet, humble street,

where coastal breezes blow,

A sanctuary opens wide to catch the evening glow.

In Santa Monica, she stands,

   a hearth of wood and grace,

Where doors and hearts fling open,

    to become a holy place.​

​ Like frequencies of ancient nights

​ from old forgotten songs,

It broadcasts out the human soul, 

   its tragedy, love gotten wrong.

Part century-old dance hall, 

   where the ghostly waltzers spun,

Part community garden, 

  coaxing life toward the sun;

It is a loom of kindredship, of antidote and art,

​ Weaving the frayed and lonely threads 

     back to a central heart.

For three decades, a guiding light, 

    an angel at  the gate, Pamela, 

the great purveyor, 

    standing deliberate and straight.

She has carved a persistent Nexus space

  out of the rushing air,

A sanctuary for the starved, the rich, 

  the seekers of prayer.

With quiet, fierce devotion, 

     she has held the swinging door,

Inviting all to be enriched, 

to ask the world for more.

Within this room, the timelines blur, 

    the sacred echoes rise,

We celebrate the ones who walk beneath 

   these present skies.

And just as sweet, we celebrate the spirits 

   who have passed,

Whose laughter lingers in the beams, 

  whose shadows anchored fast.

Through poetry and wild, 

   deep song, the boundaries dissolve,

And round this sudden, spinning hub, 

   our weary worlds revolve.​

​

No traveler is left behind, 

  no vanished voice undone,

The living and the lifted souls

    are gathered into one.

For in this place of gathering, 

   the heavy shadows lift,

And every story told becomes a universal gift.

We sing the dark into the light, 

  we claim the sacred ground,

For no one is forgotten 

   where the voices rise unbound.