Beautiful music plays
while I remember—the worst—
most beautiful days.
Beautiful Days
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Isolation
It is as cold
as a steel locket,
isolation
loosely hangs
two chains from a collar,
white as bone, worn
from the hours, of nuance
carefully placed by the bedside,
waiting to be opened
polished and willing
as obligatory as peace
before, the inevitable dawn
which beckons us to
repeat, our autumnal fall
from the burdens we carry.
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.
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.
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.
Words Of An Average White Male 