What’s truly important

What’s truly important

is not what was

but what is, and

how you’re willing to thrive

within the moment.

September 14th 2020

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

My words

My words, they are carried

like a seagull clenches crab

Plucked from the water

red claws pinching mad

Then dropped from the sky

to a hot pier of gull

A days hungry flock

who will never be full

Flowers

I bought these flowers

to brighten the room.

Then watch them wither

and shrivel to gloom.

Exceptional, still

they brighten the room.

In death as in life

how they still seem to bloom.

Like Wicker Passed Round Midnight’s Mass

I dare not blame the 14 Hands

for feelings I have felt

Where midnight and I meet

the moon’s shadow can’t dispel

In daylights saving grace

I justly feel that I have felt

like wicker passed round midnight’s mass

each hand is doleful dealt

A mother cries out for her loss

It’s a shouting match, Liberty song

It all depends whose side you’re on

An 80’s flick, a telethon

The donors can’t afford

A peaceful march is a riot for

The higher ups keeping score

A father dies, a baby’s born

To a family torn apart

A mother cries out for her loss.

A brother vows vengeance.

Humanity what have we done?

Another brothers grave is dug.

It’s a quick escape, getting drunk

Do what you can, never enough

It’s a 90’s jam, a slogan sung

To another civil war

It’s a house of cards, a hand of fate

A demonstration turns to hate

It’s a feeling I just cannot shake

It takes all I’ve got to watch

Wake me up when it’s all over.

That’s no longer good enough.

It’s getting harder to be sober.

With history books full of blood.

The quietness of failure

I never had the answer

for the question in my hand

I was told you just can’t stay here

so go collect your things

It must have felt like death there

long before he chose

The quietness of failure

in a house no longer home

I never asked for this hurt to be mine

I never felt more shameful by and by

I pushed it all away like it would disappear

I never knew a stranger who

I loved more dearly when he died.