Beauty lies
In the present, of a future time
A home, in a foreign land
A turquoise lake, in the blue mountains
A library of lichens, on a glacial erratic.
A thicket of flowers, burning in a forest fire
Now, in then
Here, in there
Near, in far
Iron, in blood
Love, in hate
Mutations, in evolutions
Helium, in stardust
Hope, in regret
Magnesium, in geranium
Fragrance, in squalor
Guitar chords, in book markers
Beech leaves, in winter
Hail storms, in summer
Peace, in entropy.
In declamations, and proclamations
Confusions, and conclusions
In tall reeds, reaching for the old man’s beard
The black reflections, on a crimson pond
The revelations, in the revolutions
Ideals, in violence
Luftpause, in a just cause
Mountains in the mist, strangers who kissed
Migrating loons, and paddles under the full moon
Summer euphoria, and college nostalgia
Rainbow ridges, and alpine riddles.
Beauty lies
Not in the eyes, and neither in the beholder.
Beauty lies.
In the space between the words, hanging in the air.
A monologue trying to be a conversation
A holler, drowning into a lament
Arguments, conceiving justice
Answers, birthing questions
Carbon atoms, crystallizing into diamonds
Thoughts, becoming consciousness
Caterpillars, morphing into monarchs
An outlaw, becoming a poet
And a vagabond, always remaining one.
Beauty lies
Not in the eyes, and neither in the beholder.
The eye lies,
And beauty leads to the truths.
Beauty lies
In the space between the words, hanging in the air.
Between “you look beautiful, and you are beautiful”
Between now and then, here and there
Between love and hate, hope and regret
Between spring and thaw, ripe and raw
In creatures void of form, in chemical formulas with chromosomes
In the wrinkles of old skin, the creases of a dear book
In departed souls, taking one last look
In leaning closer, to hear someone better
In chewed up pencils, while writing exams
In nervous stutters, and solemn whispers
In sunlight, on spring greens
In sunlight, on dead pines
In the time to feel frostbites on fingers
Eight and a third of a minute.
“Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine.”
My forests, my dreams
My hills, my nightmares
My lakes, my gambles
My blue hour, my slumber
My rain, my geosmin
My trails, my holy grail
My light, my photosynthesis
My rose, my little prince
My lilies, my poems
My sun, my name
My land, my home.
Beauty lies.
Not in the eyes, and not in the beholder
But in the space between the words, hanging in the air
Would you let it be?
(“Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine.” – quoted from Bob Dylan’s ‘Shelter from the Storm)