Category: Poetry

We watched as they were crowded into vans, still gesturing with pouts and outstretched palms.

A porcelain cup A desk full of books A mind decorated with beauty and art A poet sitting there creating more beauty,

I feel beauty when I write, when I wear what I want, when I scream at the top of my lungs because I will not be silenced. I see beauty in others when they do the same. Beauty is letting yourself exist.

The flowers of cherry trees glowed a pulsing red. On the AM radio, a woman’s voice crossed the frequencies from a thousand miles away.

As best and often as I can, I try slow my breath and pause my mind and immerse myself in the beauty that sits in the small moments so otherwise easily missed.