The Beauty in the Mess

ruffles macro

Within each crease, beneath each scar, and etched in every vein

Her petals form a tale alive with hope carved out of pain;

Though deeply marred, disfigured, torn, her beauty proves to me

The choice to bloom despite her wounds is what has set her free.

I read within imperfect folds a novel penned by grace,

For harshest hurts transformed, redeemed, become the very place

Where subtle hues and fragile scent, those glories forged by stress,

Release our truest, highest self – the beauty in the mess.

 

 

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The Journey

 

Boulton Bridge trail forest

Sometimes the path I walk upon

is bathed in golden sun,

Meanders through bright meadows

Where pure streams of water run.

Sometimes a fog obscures the view,

And rocks and thorns prevail,

The gradient makes progress slow,

Or rings with rain and hail.

Both are crucial to my road,

Both must have their place –

To one, I owe refreshment,

The other, strength and grace.

So whether I am stepping light

Or struggling as I roam,

I know each bend and every climb

Will bring me closer home.

So You Feel as Though You’re Only One

snowinsummer.jpg

So you feel as though

you’re only one

in earthly meadow’s millions,

two feet,

a pair of arms,

sundry assorted parts

that fail to set

your arrangement apart;

but if you chose not to bloom,

the gap where your

smiling face should

appear

would be left bare,

blank in the canvas,

one beautiful brick

short of a load –

so bloom. Take your place

proudly, stand in the gap,

and watch the whole

world  grow,

one

little

flower

at a time…

Her Imperfection

rainypeony.jpg

She let him see what others couldn’t,

opened closets

and emptied drawers

and exposed her viscera.

She fully expected him to flinch,

toss her back

(a fish out of water,

the one who got away)

but he didn’t. Instead,

his tears met hers

and formed a river, a magnificent

fountain, rivulets which thickened

like blood. She revealed her nakedness

and he, finding her soul to

be more than oxygen,

found the pearl of great price

within her imperfection.

The Superhero

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Even her loose ends are frayed.

Splintered,

unravelled,

messy –

real.

She’s finally discarded the cape

that gave her missions impetus,

along with her illusions

of  being able to save anyone but herself.

She walks with a limp,

but the scars scab over

now that they are allowed air.

Her gait,

like the end of her rope,

is damaged –

but a new authenticity lends

dignity to torn edges,

beauty to fragmented spirit.

She owns not just her strengths

but her brokenness;

its tangles are a net

spread over troubles seas,

catching unexpected graces

too numerous and astounding to be named or counted.

Chaos has lent her courage,

counted her among the genuine,

labelled her approachable,

and that makes her

a Superhero.

Snowflakes

snowflakemacro

Snowflakes soft as satin

swear solidarity,

a friendship forged on

likeness,

similarity,

hands which grip

relationship

with intent.

None are rejected

based on colour,

shape,

size;

all fall equally

under the siren-call of

gravity.

All strike earth

with a

whisper.