Beauty Is

Beauty is

as beauty does,

so much more than just the hours 

spent tête à tête before the mirror

making up and curling hair

all the while wondering 

who might be the fairest of the fair.

Beauty is

as beauty does,

a kind smile flashed to a stranger,

the tintinnabultation of her laughter, 

the soft kiss on the bruised knee of a child

who looks at her forever after

like she's the beginning and end of miracles.

Beauty is

as beauty does,

the heart and the hope

she offers up time and again,

waiting for a love who sees

her skin is made of glass

and it is not only her feet that dance.

Beauty is

as beauty does,

as beauty does unto others,

as beauty does unto itself.

What beauty does unto the world

defines beauty, 

breaks the mold. 

When She Smiles

She's pretty when she smiles

it's not the make up 

that makes her light up

not the diet that draws the eye

She's lovely when she smiles

it's not the low cut

shirt that makes her perk up

not the short skirt that makes her bright

Tell me, what did it cost you for that frown

the one you're wearing like an iron crown

what toll did you pay that brought you down

If you like I'll sit and listen for a while

make you laugh, I'll clown around

cause there's nothing more precious

nothing more priceless 

than your smile

She's radiant when she smiles

it's not the heels that 

define her beauty

it's not the hart that wins the heart

She's charming when she smiles

it's not the workout

that makes her stand out

not physique that's so unique

Tell me, what did it cost you for that frown

the one you're wearing like an iron crown

what toll did you pay that brought you down

If you like I'll sit and listen for a while

make you laugh, I'll clown around

cause there's nothing more precious

nothing more priceless 

than your smile

Castaway

Castaway

It's said, no man is an island

yet from where I stand

all I see is shoreline

crashing waves and foam

lapping at my toes

no matter how high I climb

these breathless peaks of quenched fire

mine's the only road

passing by below

Sometimes from the summit

I see white wings on the horizon

always too far to tell

if they're the feathers of an angel

or the canvas of a sail

and though I set fire to a beacon

it never does much more

than warm me for the night

I guess the smoke that I send rising

toward the moon's soft argent light

loses its way among the clouds

fades behind their shroud

When it's quiet and the fire's crackle

at last dies to an ember,

the last memory of its flame

I lay back alone and listen

to the gentle humming of the world

to the subtle strain its playing

over the snare-whisk of the waves

the soft, strumming promise of her coming

an angel, a star as yet unnamed

I close my eyes to listen

feel her crescendo in the earth-song

her heartbeat pounding in my veins

and I know that with her arrival

my island will never be the same

I wake at the tide's insistence

shrug away the dream

wash off the sands of night

in the salt of the lonely sea

roll all my hopes before me

to my post upon the peaks

and when I spy another feathered sail

somewhere out to sea

I let my dreams tumble down again

to my signal on the beach.

Vulnerable

It's strange how much easier it is to open up to strangers than it is our friends, and then, only if they don't get too close. We let people in until they reach a comfortable orbit, then hold them there with our gravity, keeping them drawn in and close so they don't spin off into the empty void, but never close enough that they might flash through the atmosphere that guards us. We so rarely let true seeds of life settle in. And yet, we broadcast ourselves out into the nether, into the open maw of virtual words and shout in a voice so loud it would shame thunder, yet are barely heard, the space is so vast. But those stars out there, who listen, our secrets seem so safe with them, so open and yet, still tiny pinpricks of light in our lives and our loneliness. And the secrets! The words! Tiny vessels soaring into the universe full of our emotions, colonizing worlds far beyond sight, traveling so fast it may as well be the speed of thought. How good if feels to put them out there, to stand open and naked in front of the galaxy around us, to bathe in the Milky Way. How fast we withdraw, call ourselves home and cover ourselves as if our darknesses embarrassed us. As if the curves of our hearts and the contours leading toward their soft beating required the modesty of a Puritan dressed for winter.

We withdraw in fear, the dread enemy that we cower from as someone passes too close, so close they might see so deep into us that they may see things, good things, bad things, that we may never see for lacking their perspective. There's the fear that we're not good enough. The fear that if we draw too close, the moons we've gathered will break free from our orbit and their beauty lost to sight. Fear that for once, we'll get exactly what we want. . . and it won't be what we wanted after all.

This adventure is hard, it is frightening, but courage isn't a lack of fear, but standing in its face and saying, "Here I am, explore me, be close. This is who I am, stay or go as you will. I will allow you to be one of the dark gods that come into the tiny clearing that is my soul, my life. May I have the courage to let you come and go. And how, oh, how, I would come and go from yours."

Sourire

I spent the Sunday evening before last with a ridiculous smile plastered across my face. The music was good. The movement was the same as it always is, pure joy, perfect in moments, awkward in others. Conversation after conversation after conversation, one woman after the next, then back to the first. I fell in love with a smile, for the night. I do that. I notice her shoes, the rise of her hip, the valley of her waist, the curve of her breast, the line of her shoulder as it rises to a neck, and get caught in that final facet, where the light shines most. Her smile, the upturned corners of her mouth that soften even the hardest lines, and like the lights slowly brought up on a dark stage, stretches almost miraculously into her eyes. It’s hypnotic, that smile, and I feel myself falling into that trance, that 3-minute long love at first dance. Sometimes, the smile laughs, sometimes it simply is in love with the moment, like I am. Whatever it is in me that is drawn to a woman before I come to know her adds up all the pieces, sets her smile as a crown, the final brushstroke of a masterpiece and I fall. Beauty is magnified exponentially in an honest smile.

It is hard to maintain interest in dancing with women who don’t smile or smiles that don’t dance well. Both are castles in the sand built too close to the rushing tide. If I had to choose, though, I’d chose a patient smile who was willing to learn. 

Home

I'm just searching

for someone to call home

I'll go anywhere

look for her high, look for her low

sit on a beach shaping castles in the sand

hoping the tide brings her to me

to sit beside me on my sandy throne

It won't take bricks to build our life

won't take a hundred years of quarried stone

to create a cathedral from this clay

this temple of mine was born with its arches

its altar softly beating for her

and all I need for stained glass

is the deep blue of my eyes

I'm just wandering

til I find someone to call home

I'll go anywhere

dive into oceans, climb mountains

chase stars off beyond the horizon

through thick forests lit only by lanterns

to curl up by her fire, finally warm

It won't take gold to make us rich

won't take the gems of a dragon's hoard

to give us wings on which to fly

over the width and breadth of worlds

When the time comes to weigh our souls

against that old Egyptian feather, we'll be buoyant

for we will have measured our wealth in joy

I'm just passing time

til I find someone to call home

I’ll go anywhere

drive down long highways, sail the wild seas

stroll down all the roads less travelled by

until I happen on heroine headed the same way

with a little room left in her story

Two Roads Diverged

While I haven’t written here in a while, the truth is I have been writing a lot recently. My life is taking a shape more familiar, as though I have finally begun to settle back into that part of my bed that knows my form and habits. Questions I knew the answers to but needed to hear aloud were asked of the people who held them and answered to my expectations. The only reason I hadn’t sought them before is because I had no interest in doing so, there was no road less traveled by more interesting than the one I was on. So I took my time, enjoyed the sights until I came to the next fork. And here, down that next leafy, untrodden path there seemed to be something worth exploring. So I stopped and asked the crossroads my questions, knowing that the road I had been walking would soon been declared under construction, indefinitely. I had already started to turn, so there was no slamming of metaphorical brakes, no curse of surprise at this change in direction. I was simply walking, without an intended destination, simply seeing where the path might lead. So I turn again and walk on, a new piece of the same journey.

It begins where all my best journeys begin, with that deep-rooted love of movement, with dance. That’s the first familiar shape, one that brings great contentment, yet only seems to ever whet my appetite for more. Last week, from Sunday to Saturday, I danced four times. It was much earlier, however, when this crossroads first came into view, though barely recognizable in the distance at the time. Dancing became words, words became letters, emails, messages, texts. This new friend and I have three separate, unique conversations going on in three mediums and have exchanged well over 40,000 words. At this point, that’s an understatement, we were nigh that when I sated my curiosity and checked 5 days ago. So far the only thing we’ve discussed that we don’t see eye to eye on is cheesecake. Her disappointment almost ended a blossoming friendship (I jest), but I diplomatically pointed out that it would make us better friends, for we would never argue over the last piece and at any party where they served cheesecake, she would never have to feel guilty about taking a second piece; she could just have mine. Thus I soothed the savage beast. There are other differences, but as she and I haven’t approached them in our discussions, neither shall I here.

Needless to say, I am intrigued by this new path, which I am slowly strolling along. For now, a friend to walk beside who loves the same books, movies, music, poetry, the beauty of the outdoors, hours spent in coffee shops, dance. She lives about an hour and a half away, which fosters the written contact that we are both enjoying. It is rather Zen, this road less traveled by, so far just a being (gerund, not noun), of mutual respect and interest in sharing our thoughts. I look forward to spending time with her in person off the dance floor, as we have yet to do so for more than a passing moment to catch our breath. I don’t attend dances to converse. The future is unwritten, the past irrevocable. 

As I mentioned briefly, this return to familiarity and comfort as well as the new direction of my attention stems from a return to dance. Since the workshop that renewed my interest, I have made it to “the city” to dance three times, making it once every other week. A week ago Sunday was a West Coast Swing dance in Spokane; Tuesday I taught my class, as I do weekly; Friday I invited a student to come dance with me on my lunch break, something we’re going to do weekly, on Thursdays; and Saturday we had our community monthly ballroom dance, with a much more satisfying and well-balanced turn out than we have had in ages. If things go as planned I will be dancing at least twice a week with a trip to dance in Spokane no less than once a month and likely twice, as well as attending the monthly dance. It will mean a difference from dancing 4-5 times a month to dancing at least 11. I would prefer more, but it’s a vast improvement. Twice a week I will continue to spend more time teaching than dancing, but that is equally something I enjoy doing. The one on one lessons/dancing on Thursdays will be the most rewarding, as I have the opportunity to really focus and teach a student to be the kind of dancer I’m used to and enjoy dancing with, something that I have as yet been unable to do or find in this town. There is no romantic interest there, simply teacher/student and love of dance. That’s a hard thing to explain to people outside the culture, as dancing with someone frequently is often mistaken as romance.

In other news, work on The West Wind continues and hopefully will prove fruitful once I release and market it, providing a means to move on to doing more of what I love and less of this corporate white collar labor that leaves my soul aching. I’m still aiming for the stars. Can’t hit what you don’t aim for.