{"id":11658,"date":"2024-10-16T13:29:08","date_gmt":"2024-10-16T19:29:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/?p=11658"},"modified":"2024-11-09T20:01:12","modified_gmt":"2024-11-10T02:01:12","slug":"poetry-beauty","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/poetry-beauty\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry \/ Beauty"},"content":{"rendered":"

And when all else fails,<\/p>\n

I turn to poetry.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nPhilosophy and metaphysics,<\/p>\n

they only can take me that far.<\/p>\n

But poetry,<\/p>\n

she surely takes me all the way.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nI turn to my heroes,<\/p>\n

my poetry heroines:<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nMaya Angelou and Mary Oliver.<\/p>\n

And of course the usual suspects:<\/p>\n

Rumi, Kahlil Gibran, Kipling.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nAnd then Lao Tzu,<\/p>\n

and a heavy dose of Zen Koans.<\/p>\n

And then I’m as good as new again.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nSoul uplifted, hope restored,<\/p>\n

this is what poetry does for me.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When all else fails.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

~~~~~<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nBut then there is also my camera.<\/p>\n

And there is always a beautiful woman\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

Or the intricate pattern of a butterfly\u2019s wing.<\/p>\n

Or another cloud at sunset,<\/p>\n

looking like Heaven.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nToday I guess, I have been blessed by The Muse!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

~~~~~<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nIt seems that the older I get, the easier it becomes.<\/p>\n

Poems just enter my mind, naturally.<\/p>\n

Wisdom condensed into words.<\/p>\n

Words come and flow,<\/p>\n

like quicksand.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Get ready to drown in them!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

~~~~~<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I know Beauty when is see something beautyful.<\/p>\n

No thinking necessary whatsoever!<\/p>\n

No academic analysis.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nA woman\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

A cloud formation.<\/p>\n

A butterfly\u2019s colorful wings.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nThe reflection of sunlight in a dewdrop.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nI know Beauty when I see beauty.<\/p>\n

It nurtures my soul.<\/p>\n

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\nBeauty<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nIt rises quietly, like mist over a river,\u00a0<\/p>\n

soft-footed, unannounced \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

not in grand things,\u00a0<\/p>\n

but in the tilt of a white heron\u2019s neck,\u00a0<\/p>\n

the silver ripple of a fish breaking the surface.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nBeauty, I think, is the way the world\u00a0<\/p>\n

leans toward wonder,\u00a0<\/p>\n

like the sunflowers turning their faces,\u00a0<\/p>\n

or the way a Guanacaste tree carries the sky\u00a0<\/p>\n

on its broad, patient shoulders.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nIt is not something you take,\u00a0<\/p>\n

but something you notice \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

in the fragile breath of morning light,\u00a0<\/p>\n

the swirl of stars stitched into the night,\u00a0<\/p>\n

and how, in between, life unfolds,\u00a0<\/p>\n

ordinary and wild.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nIt hums in the curve of a seashell,\u00a0<\/p>\n

in the taste of ripe tomatoes,\u00a0<\/p>\n

and in the way the wind\u00a0<\/p>\n

sends leaves skittering across the ground,\u00a0<\/p>\n

as if even falling could be a kind of dance.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nBeauty is a verb, I think \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

not a thing but a motion,\u00a0<\/p>\n

the way kindness lingers in a touch,\u00a0<\/p>\n

or laughter rises from a room like birds startled into flight.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nIt\u2019s the feel of bare feet in wet grass,\u00a0<\/p>\n

the shimmer of rain on a spider\u2019s web,\u00a0<\/p>\n

and the quiet persistence of flowers,\u00a0<\/p>\n

blooming, no matter who is watching.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nBeauty is what saves us \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

the way it insists, again and again,\u00a0<\/p>\n

that this world, even in its brokenness,\u00a0<\/p>\n

is worth noticing, worth loving, worth living for.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nAnd when we let it in \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

the golden glint of a butterfly\u2019s wing,\u00a0<\/p>\n

the scent of salt on a beachside morning stroll\u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

it changes us, just a little,\u00a0<\/p>\n

making room for joy, for grace,\u00a0<\/p>\n

for the possibility that this moment,\u00a0<\/p>\n

just as it is,\u00a0<\/p>\n

is enough.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

~~~~~<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Meaning of Life<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nWhat is the meaning of life? you ask \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

and I think of mornings, soft with mist,\u00a0<\/p>\n

the grass covered with morning dew, the sky\u00a0<\/p>\n

barely awake, pale as a chicken\u2019s egg.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nMaybe it\u2019s this: the way light slips\u00a0<\/p>\n

through the trees, golden on the dark green;\u00a0<\/p>\n

the way a river knows how to move forward,\u00a0<\/p>\n

even when obstacles are in the way.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nPerhaps it\u2019s in the small things \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

the rhythm of breath, the lazy yawning of a cat,\u00a0<\/p>\n

a dog resting its head on your knee\u00a0<\/p>\n

like the weight of love, asking for nothing.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nOr maybe it is in how we stumble,\u00a0<\/p>\n

again and again, only to find\u00a0<\/p>\n

the world still waiting, still beautiful\u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

as if forgiveness was written into the soil.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nLife, I think, is more verb than noun,\u00a0<\/p>\n

not something to solve or hold in your hands,\u00a0<\/p>\n

but something to live through,\u00a0<\/p>\n

like rain on a summer day \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nyou let it drench you,\u00a0<\/p>\n

soak through your skin to your bones,\u00a0<\/p>\n

and when it passes, you stand there,\u00a0<\/p>\n

dripping, the air sweet with what remains.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nHappy.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nIsn\u2019t it enough to be here?\u00a0<\/p>\n

To watch the clouds morph across the sky,\u00a0<\/p>\n

to feel the earth hum beneath your bare feet,\u00a0<\/p>\n

to know, for a moment, you belong?\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nThe meaning, if it lives anywhere,\u00a0<\/p>\n

must live in this \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

in the way we listen for birdsong at dusk,\u00a0<\/p>\n

in the way we carry each other through the night.\u00a0<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\nSo maybe the answer isn\u2019t found in words,\u00a0<\/p>\n

but in the living itself:\u00a0<\/p>\n

this messy, luminous thing \u2014\u00a0<\/p>\n

a world always in bloom,\u00a0<\/p>\n

our heart always becoming.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

~~~~~<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The Koan of the Wind<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A monk asked, “Master, what is the meaning of life?”<\/p>\n

The master replied, “Bring the teacup.”<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

And when all else fails, I turn to poetry.   Philosophy and metaphysics, they only can take me that far. But poetry, she surely takes me all the way.   I turn to my heroes, my poetry heroines:   Maya Angelou and Mary Oliver. And of course the usual suspects: Rumi, Kahlil Gibran, Kipling.   […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":11665,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[12,10],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11658","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poesia","category-spirituality"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11658"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=11658"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11658\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/11665"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=11658"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=11658"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.crisrieder.org\/thejourney\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=11658"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}