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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In the Middle Part

story

It started well – the action’s pace

And characters behaved.

The dialogue was natural,

Each scene what reader craved.

The villain entered right on cue,

But there, the thickened plot

Unravelled all the ends at once,

Derailed your train of thought.

You turn the pages, heart in throat,

Each word spells tragedy;

The flyleaf didn’t caution you,

Predict your destiny.

The Witches charm, Deep Evil lurks,

The Wrong upsets the right;

The Bad Guys go from Worse to Foul,

And Dark absorbs all light.

Anxiety hits fevered pitch,

But each word you devour

Reveals more loathsome characters,

Or strips you of your power.

In anguish, trembling fingers clutch

The closure that’s been penned;

You must, you must, you must find out

What happens in the end.

But oh, dear reader, pause a while,

Breathe every phrase in peace;

You’re only in the middle part,

Where havoc is released.

Your anxious soul would skip this bit,

To save your heart from harm –

But if you skim this episode,

You’ll miss your story’s charm.

The overthrow of villainy,

The chains that break in time,

Heroic actions, victories

That kill each awful crime.

So slow it down and read each word,

Your story is not done;

This chapter is not you, my friend –

Your best is yet to come.

Viewed, The Obscure

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The ghost of a blade

slices arteries deep;

whispering words can

scream heart-songs to sleep;

invisible flames

scorch as well as a blaze;

impalpable fog

can extinguish sun’s rays.

The Star Inside

mallow star

 

She cradles her weakness deep,

tenderly touching places

that crisply curl past their prime;

she treasures bent blooms, broken

foliage. When petals lose

their sheen, her soul stirs, shouting

joy in exuberant notes,

song of the ancients who learned

secrets from secret sorrows.

To such spirits as hers, pain

is welcomed as Mentor, friend

whose sage presence sears blossoms

but harvests seeds. Thankful

heart, this, whose troubles have stripped

away the peripheral,

baubles which blocked her brilliance,

kept her from being a star.

 

 

The Fist

peonytip.jpg

She raises a bloodied Fist

not so much in triumph

as defiance –

 Fist brittle-caked in

a shame so thick

it bleeds in blushes.

She shakes this cupped and twisted

gauntlet at very God,

and drinks rain,

and wakes to dawn,

and grows tired of the charade.

Ambivalence rips deep –

what if the sky’s blue

is for her?

The rain, a gentle nursing?

Unleashing the Fist

into a cup to hold blessing

might undo the last thread

that pretends to hold her together.

She grits her teeth against the

laceration

and pries. one. knuckle.

from its cradle,

saying good-bye to

the Fist.