Where Beauty Sprouts

broken poppy.jpg

You hate the cracks, the places where the pain has split you through;

You don the mask, and paint the scars, and smile when spoken to –

And yet, the Dark that pinned you down, that swore you’d never win,

Forgot that all the holes, when healed, will let the Light shine in…

Set down the script, rewrite the lines, take up your truest role;

What tried to kill and steal and lie cannot destroy your soul.

Those cracks, those scars, those broken bones, those spots where pain leaked out

When warmed by sun, and earth, and rain – they’re where your beauty sprouts.

Advertisements

The Hunt

seagull egg

My heart was born,

an embryo, a pale and speckled thing;  I

painted it with childish dreams, in rainbow shades of spring.

I thought it was a masterpiece, its shell Venetian glass; I put my gift upon

display, in Easter basket grass. When no one stopped or noticed it, I gazed about

in tears; I noted how the others looked, and painted mine like theirs. But ev’ry layer

colored in just added extra weight; its overburdened, hard-boiled shell soon learned

to hibernate. One day someone gathered it and leaned in for a peep; in his haste he

scrambled it, and tossed it in a heap. Hurt, it hid, and hidden, hurt, and nursed its

deviled thoughts; broken, beaten, in despair, pain fried its yolk in knots. Gentle eyes

began a search, intent upon a quest; Hunter, restless, overlooked the paint-by-number

nests. Gentle hands with kid-glove care collected, cracks and all;  Humpty’s horses’

kingly men had no luck by his wall, but Hunter’s love was kingly glue, and whisked

the shattered shell back into its birthday state, and realigned each cell. Gentle

pressure peeled the paint, revealed its truest shade – Seeker sought and found

his prize, and put it on display. He tells me now he loves me true, though

still my cracks survive; but, incubated by his warmth,

my heart has come alive.

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.

 

 

Silver

lacy willows

They

all say

she was born

with a silver

spoon in her mouth,

and she swallowed it

until the lining leached

limp, a tarnished paste coating

her tongue with bitter mercury.

She dwindled, feeling nickel-

plated, tarnished deep beyond

redemption; should she

choose sterling strength

as treasure,

she’ll birth

gold.

Exhale

sunflower

 

Her head hangs

by a thread

eyes scanning dirt

as if to seek the soul

hidden under a crust

of regret

The burden of proof

on burdened shoulders

grips her gaze

with enough gravity

to tie her eyes to earth

but oh! humble heart,

you cannot outweigh

grace

you cannot sink

beneath it

or plod past it

or hang low enough

to mar its magnificence

So look up

set your eyes

beyond this sin-stained soil

to the air beyond

your reach

for it is here

that grace

exhales

 

Frostbite

frosty oats

Turn not this beauty from your skin,

Do not deny its wintry kiss;

This touch of trouble deep within

Has brought you to the brink’s abyss,

Where self is laid on frozen shrine,

Blowing chaff from every cell,

Sowing strength in every line,

Birthing beauty honed by hell.

 

 

Stained Am I

lilyspots.jpg

 

Stained am I, and streaked

by this palsy, pollen-spots

falling as table-scraps onto

purity’s napkin. Holy

rain, wash my hands,

my feet, my heart, that

I would bloom beauty

in shades of redemption,

where mercy meets

malfeasance with a

gown white as snow.