Miraculous People

What I saw that day, my mind insisted were people,

running back and forth—silhouettes—they were equal.

What I saw that day, I just couldn’t conceal

their shape was mine, it almost didn’t seem real.

See original thought comes before the prequel,

because the love we’re born with exists before evil.

What I saw that day, sure I know they were people,

while my beginner’s mind worked, I couldn’t help but feel

—their heart’s skip beats—my heart was healed,

by what I saw that day on a beach filled to equal:

coexistence at birth, we’re miraculous people.

A kick in the head!

I will always be curious

and allergic to cats.

Ain’t that a kick in the head!

Portrait of my own Unique Beauty

If what you see in the mirror is ugly, then consider this: chances are you’re comparing your own unique beauty to what, for your entire life, you’ve been programmed to believe is beautiful.

And what is beauty anyways?

Margaret Wolfe Hungerford said, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

And isn’t that true? Yes or no, in more instances than not beauty is subjective. In fact, I’d go even further to say that beauty manifests itself in infinite ways other than what the eye can see.

As a photographer with a fond admiration for women and men alike I can honestly say that I have taken countless photographs and manipulated them to appeal to the mass collective of what is to be considered quote on quote “beautiful.”

Hypocrite. No, I think not. I never claimed they were beautiful but simply did my job in a way that my superior agreed was aesthetically pleasing.

A wrinkle here, a crows foot there, deleted.

Nobody has ever died from a portrayal of beauty, right?

Wrong. Though I’m not an extremist so there are many factors to consider, all of which yes, I agree, may seem like a bit of a cop out or excuse not to hold oneself accountable for taking what is and transforming it into something less natural.

But this isn’t about my career choice or eye in which I behold.

This is about you and that “ugly” reflection in the mirror.

You are not ugly, you simply aren’t. You are you, and you are beautiful.

Those who claim to seek perfection, well, they’re only trying to fill a void. And it’s a bottomless pit because like beauty, perfection is ultimately subjective.

While I sit here and delve deeper into thought, I watch a mother and daughter walk by my window. The mother is flapping her arms as graceful as she can. The child looks to her mother and understands she is trying her best.

In the end all that we can do is try our best to love ourselves enough to fully accept the unique beauty of another.

Any other judgement is of which we have been programmed to believe.

It’s taken a very long while to believe in myself and I willingly admit that each day is a slow progression to further acceptance of my own unique beauty.

If someone tells you you’re not beautiful, that’s their loss.

And I hope the next mirror that you face looks back in your direction as the child looks with grace and marvels at the perfection of her mother’s love.

Portrait of my own Unique Beauty, September 8, 2020

Wild Beauty

She watched him rage

with the rapid tide

like an oil painting

left to dry,

each stroke was wild

beauty, behind

him boats full throttle

calm as the horizon.

California September 2020

a beautiful life

It is one of youth’s greatest gifts to be

confused and curious and dangerous.

It is also one of maturity’s great gifts to be

dangerous and curious and confused.

So consider me curious as to why

those dangerous days, strung out and confused

could seem so simple to me now?

Here in the arms of infinite light

you will see that darkness soon enough

and I hope you’ll identify it as: a beautiful life.

Seven months & Two days since

Seven months &

Two days

since…

Nothing really makes sense,

does it? Didn’t then,

doesn’t now!

Life just goes on until it doesn’t.

Like the envy of a caterpillar

for the beauty of a butterfly.

Memories are

Memories

are brutal

in their infancy,

much more

beautiful in

their adolescence,

yet quite more

honest

in their maturity

are memories

bound to our being

like shadows cast

on a garden wall

where a rose bush

bent, stands crutched

to a stake of wood,

delicate are it’s thorns

our memories

they too are.

her face

Under her face

somewhere under there

was her face, though

she didn’t show it often

I’d seen it before

in the morning light

before the sun skewed

her senses and

she’d cover it up with lies

littered with freckles

hard jaw and subtle age lines

as if two crows took a tango

on the corners of her brown eyes

and when she’d turn

away from the mirror, falling

effortlessly into my arms

I could barely hold her up

for she was far more strong

than any weight I could bear

and her face made that clear

as she’d slowly cover up

everything that made

her beautiful.

a beautiful life.

At the end of this life

if you can say

I did some things

I really, really enjoyed

and helped some people

along the way

all the while

laboring loves labyrinth

then that

I’d say

is a beautiful life.

all the beautiful ways

She let herself go

in all the beautiful ways

she was destined to

As I sunk deeper under bedsheet

wanting nothing more than to disappear

alone in the darkness

She was painting all her daydreams

in pale blue watercolor

twirling her brush between strokes

Like I had watched her do

so many countless nights before

like the time she painted me nude

And I watched her beauty unfold

like a single blooming lotus flower

adrift on a swamp at dawn