Regarding the Fabrications and Facades of Beauty:

Innocent little girls
Play dress-up, and make-up
Beauty shop Barbie
and sets of glittery blush
because they learn
That imperfection is not tolerated
in this lopsided world.

Confidence is dead.
We have been deceived
into thinking perfection
is the only thing worth taking pride in.

when you look in the mirror,
what do you notice first?
Your flaws?
Or your beauty?

[How about your beautiful flaws?]
Beauty smells sour.
Brittle frames attached to skin.
Magazines tell girls:
How to look, how to dress, how to talk,
how to be "slim, chic, and sexy,"
how to touch and be touched,
how to love and be loved.

Their covers beaconing insecurity.
"Just 6 weeks to a slimmer you!"
"Look pretty NOW!"
"7 things guys notice instantly!"
"Perfect skin forever!"

Who are they to me how to be me?
I refuse to be bruised by the apparition
that beauty is defined as
double zeros, flawless tans, and stiletto heels.
I will not be the refection of some girl in a magazine.
A model will not be my mirror image.
I'm a genuine individual, and so are you.
That's my definition of beauty.

You Owe Me

Two Ways To Write

The pencil grasps the hand
And passion flows out
Creating beauty; your piece is alive.

You force the pen into your hand.
And state facts,
Creating nonsense; your piece is not dead.
It never existed.

The Absence of Color

The dormant stage of beauty,
Where you can feel the piercing coldness,
Of nature’s loss of color;
As if it were sick,

The fresh-fallen snow intertwines
Within the weeping maple branches,
Where vibrant leaves once were.

The ice encases the glamour
Of the anticipated violets,
Erupting with color
And pungent with fragrance.

Remember that winter is not the death
Of nature’s color,
But it’s merely resting,
And will return with an unrelenting flourish,
Of every child of the rainbow.

Fine Art

When I was 6 “Fine Art” meant;
Finger-painting every Tuesday with Ms. Neimus,
But I mostly got it on my smock.

It meant glitter
imbedded in my living room carpet,
With a spectrum of Crayola markers,
Scattered about.

It meant running home from school
With a roll-up poster board
Clenched within little hands,
“Mommy look what I made!”
And “Oh Ayla! I’m so proud of you,
But what exactly is it?”

I drew people without shoulders,
And lollipop trees.
The sun?
Always a yellow circle
With orange squiggly lines,
And a pair of dark sunglasses.

I mixed every color
of play dough together,
And stuck it in the couch cushions.

Although my creations
Were far from masterpieces,
They were “Fine Art” to me.

From My World and My People

I am from Saturday wagon rides down the winding lake roads.
“Faster, Daddy! Faster!” as my dad struggled to catch his breath.

From bringing home wild frogs and minnows from the lake and keeping them captive in my mom’s Tupperware.

Climbing the pine trees with Eddie next door.
“I bet I can climb higher than you!”
As I scrounged up the courage to climb one branch higher,
Letting my problems drip down the tree trunk with the sticky sap.

From putting my terrified rabbit in that beloved Radio Flyer wagon,
And pushing it down the hill,
All the while believing my rabbit loved “the thrill of it all”
Just like me.

Brisk October days reading on the dock by the still lake,
The autumn tinted leaves painted the setting before me.

From long winding bike rides through the silent woods.
Nature was my most understanding friend,
As the trees embraced my every emotion.

Sinking my feet into the soft, mushy bottom of the lake,
Looking for mussels in what seemed and felt
Like my mom’s homemade applesauce.

From hiding my sister’s clothes in the snow for absolutely no reason at all,
Except to see if it would make her mad.

Then fishing with her until the warm rays of the sun sunk down in front of us,
Not catching anything but our silent apologies and casting out our rivaling past.

From those precious moments,
My dad and I shared skipping stones and soaking our feet in the brook,
Savoring the sweetness of bonding.

From the words, the prayers, the hugs, the kisses
The world I’ve grown to cherish,
And the people I’ve grown to love
For they have made me who I am.

Bad Embroidery

00, 0, 1
“the perfect size”
Our self-esteem embroidered on the tag.
We make believe our beauty,
Is stitched within the seams of denim-
Not within our hearts.

Playing in Accord

The music of friendship
Sounds like a high school band:
We try our best to improve,
But it’s never perfect.
Sometimes in friendships, we play the wrong notes,
And often get lost.
Usually, it’s not perfectly in tune.
Some of us are a little of beat,
And we all are playing at a different tempo.
Oftentimes, we miss our cues.
But it does sound so beautiful,
When we all keep in time,
And listen to one another.