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.

The Novelist

Princess Purple

Hers is a beauty of eloquent pen,

Trilogies etched with a holy amen;

Fragile and humble, she offers her soul,

Teardrops her parchment, resilience her scroll.

And She Wrote

new chapter

She cracked the spine

and reflected upon

its glaring whiteness

with accelerated pulse,

intruder in paradise.

*

Frowning, she discarded

several nibs, stuttering

chicken scratch on

hotel stationery before

selecting an instrument

suited to her purpose,

ink which swelled

like forever tides on a shore

of sea-spun glass.

*

Pen paused over paper,

footfall unwilling to mar

the perfection of powdered sugar,

undisturbed beach

sweet in its virginal rest.

*

But her story begged,

cajoled,

dictated an ending –

and she began in a tremble

to add the denouement

*

with strokes grown firm

as words poured, splashed,

filled page

after page

after page,

deliberately crossed t’s

and dotted i’s lapping,

emboldened tidal waves,

characters

and plots and twists

painting her legacy

on sandy canvas.

*

And still she wrote,

late into the night,

knowing that every error

could be edited out,

every encounter

re-worked to melt

seamlessly, sunset into sea,

a story only she

could write.

*

And she wrote.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hook, Line and Sinker

fishing

 

He used to cast his words indifferently,

random forays into random pools in

hopes of a nibble. Now, he selects

his bait with care – a metaphorical

jig, an alliterative spoon, a methodically

tied fly well-placed into the heart of

the brook. There, he sets the hook

with practised hand, reeling in

a string of gleaming tales

to recount at tomorrow’s camp-fire.

 

 

Let Nature Speak

keyboardfrog.jpg

 

Let Nature speak –

in syllables untypable,

nuances not uttered in

words so much as living

letters which etch life into the

living. Let Nature

write –  phrases

one breeze-breadth

long, one sunset soliloquy

wide, one pollen-laced

paragraph high.

She prints her poem

onto recycled papyrus,

onto hearts grown green –

who will read it to our

children? Who will

translate her manuscript

without editing out her soul?

Dangling

haskapflowers.jpg

 

You let it all hang out,

nouns, idioms,

dangling participles,

taking a chance on

.

the conventions of language

to underscore your point.

Your openness spills ink

onto life’s crumpled

.

pages. Your transparency

builds a story line,

romantic innuendoes

of historical significance

.

which weave complexities,

nuances of tone and metaphor,

smudges of graphite

on lines yet un-penned.