Beauty evolves, beauty grows
Beauty beckons hither
Beauty has qualities innumerable 5(x2
Beauty reflects your gaze
And as hard and inpentratable as she is
She remains a diamond
Polished by lifes tumbles and fires
Her beauty is womanly
As feminine as flowers petals
And as unique and original
As a work of natures art
Ever girlish; happy and fun
Drooping stems cant hold heavy heads for long
A game of hop skotch will do
and yet by all means
Always a lady
As wise looking as an antique vase
Without qualites to ascribe to
A thing remains that; a thing.
And there are "things" that bring us joy
A woman who is all of these things is one
But to idle English on, spur it to stop
and sputter at a moment; frozen
If one of these "noun" things is a person
place or thing
A person is not a thing; a noun.
And a person can be as much like a
map pin-point place in our lives in the
journey of our lives.
How we arrived
"there", or how we happened upon the
map is to be looking at the brochure
of the journey, and not the journey itself.
They always show the most beautiful photos in the travel
brochures. But lifes not like that. People know better.
And yet we journey to prove or disprove, always with
a sense of discovery at that which is constantly unfolding.
Before us. In this sense, neither birth nor death are beginnings
or endings but merely gasps of breath through a never ending
cosmos. As far as know and wonder and ponder, life has preceded
our arrival and life continues without us afterwards.
Everything is etched into valley walls and floors and riverbeds
and mountaintops and man made historical monuments to his
achievements. What we need are documents to cover the testament
of man and drape him with dressings of words and descriptive
passages. Words illimunitate pictures no matter how already bright,
words shine the light of truth, words dont fail in a power outage.
Words tell a story that riverbeds cant, that photographs fail
that statues dont. A word is a thing of beauty. And even the beautiful word
'beauty' it self beauty cannot sashay along side itself to render its
own existence muted by its own sight in a mirror. Its only multiplied.
How much is life reduced when beauty is limited to what one can see?
When there are beautiful tastes, beautiful aromas and smells, beautiful
feelings and sensations and sounds to throw into the mix? But when
minds meet, to further meld and multiply their sensations into
quadrants and divisions a symphonic fireworks display becomes a natural wonder
and words ultimately fail badly, amidst the echoes of roaring cannons
and dazzling pops of light and trumpets hailing spectacular vision. Words
are stumbling points instead, things to trip over, words coming to mind that induce
stuttering and temporary stupor. If this is what a thing of beauty can accomplish,
why dont we stop to ponder its usefulness to our survival more often?
Perhaps its a joy and celebration that man cant fathom.