Tag Archives: Beauty

Worship

Kneeling at the altar of your beauty,
I confess my adoration:
Your perfect, symmetric asymmetry
Deserves a standing ovation,

If I could stand.

Safe Drivers and Traffic Accidents

My perfect, adored and adorable wife kissed me softly in steadfast ardor.
It’s been a perfectly adequate life, though I frequently wish for more.
And if passion, steady, can decline,
I could blame hers, but she could blame mine.
I fought the traffic and got in late, I reached for the door at the office’s entry.
My hand brushed another, hers acquiesced, mine imbued with chivalry,
And I held it open, “ladies first.”
Her full length skirt brushed by, my eyes, immersed,
In Springtime beauty: wood grain printed, slow turned gentle symmetry.
Her eyes noticed mine and I noticed hers, with mutual curiosity.
She must have seen my admiration,
Noticed reverent fear, sensed temptation.
I have been on life’s road in this direction, long enough I do not want to turn,
Says the conscience I’ve listened to for correction, my own spirit to discern.
I know the right things to do and think,
But my eyes never know when to blink.

Hot

I love the way she looks, heart so exposed,
So vulnerable when she is with me,
Her bitter sweetness, whimsy, lovely rose,
She is a work of art, blooming.  Look!  See?

Without her, I’m depressed, lonely and sad,
Dreaming of how she makes things feel so right,
Her dark, oiled surface, soft.  Ah!  Love is mad!
That beauty, perfect, blended black and white,

My heart pounds when I drink enough of her
And yet I wonder, can there be enough?
My soul says “No,” and it is true, I’m sure,
Steamy romance, whipped cream, caramel, fluff,

Soft, hot, frothed bubbles floating in the mug
My latte’s ready, like a sensual hug!

Afraid (Rictameter)

Afraid  –   Michael Johns  –  4/26/2014

Afraid.
Teen angst, growing.
Mirror! I’m not pretty?
What if my friends laugh, don’t like me?
Do they notice my stupid hair? I’m fat.
Dad says I’m beautiful. Maybe
My dad’s right. Maybe I
Don’t need to be
Afraid.

rictameter form suggested by Mary Couch

http://www.rlkirkland.com/rictameter.html

Flicker

The wick was white as purest snow,
The candle, blood scarlet,
She struck the match, certain, and slow,
Tongue touched to lips, to wet,
The sanguine wine never felt shame,
And wax began to melt,
Her fingers danced, played with the flame,
Assessing what she felt,

The tears she cried had been replaced
With resolve toward a new goal,
The pain she knew, an old friend, traced
The outline of her soul.
The molten wet pooled at the base,
And froze as it grew cold,
Now blackened thread, once soft as lace,
Turned hardened, crisp, and old.

The death inside felt dull and thick,
To abdomen and spine,
She felt used, like the wax and wick,
And sipped forgiving wine,
Burgundy peace and clarity,
The small flame, warmth and light
Now, shadows danced jovially,
The chains and pains took flight.

She wondered how she’d been so blind,
Allowed such searing grief
She left the burdens far behind,
The pen, sword of relief.
Her freedom’s proclamation, signed,
She smiled, victoriously.
Settling her heart, with dreams in mind,
“From now on is for me.”

Wabi-Sabi

He saw the pimple, she saw the scar,
She saw the fat; he, the wrinkle, the mar,
Freckles, asymmetry, spots, tatty clothes,
Too wide or narrow, imperfect nose,
Dark circles under the eyes from hard work
Thick eyebrows, thin lips, they drive you berserk
Hair out of place or gray, curly or straight,
These are our battles, the things that we hate.

Look in a mirror, you think of failure!
Makeup, hair coloring, find us a cure!
Threads, tweezers, lasers, plastic surgery
Millions of adverts say “you are ugly!”
Who told you the lie that you’re inadequate?
What qualifies them to be an advocate?
Look at their picture without photoshop.
Without correction, without their makeup.

Maybe we’re perfect the way we are made.
Why try to hide?  Why are we so afraid?
Maybe the Poem that God wrote us in,
The Author, Creator, Who saves us from sin,
“We are His workmanship,” should be trusted.
Worry makes hearts fail, grey hair, and us, dead.
The aesthetic ideal you are striving to see
Is already there in you.  See your beauty.

Ta-te-yama

The Guardian of the Land and The Sword stand tall,
Not far from the Gates of Death.
Almost as ancient as time itself, and watching over us all,
The view can take your breath.

From a distance, in winter, they blend, all united,
Barely noticing as we swiftly age
In Winter they blanket under a beautiful snow bed
With wrinkled covers, hiding backstage

They merge in our sight  and appear in our eyes,
Like a granite tidal wave,
We study the legends, sadly learn the hopeless lies,
But the truth is they cannot save,

They are beautiful, ancient, soft-rumbling rocks,
They don’t help, protect, nor defend us
Slowly changing to the ticking of their own clocks,
Just monuments to their Creator, Jesus.