The wind dances through your hair,
your steps—light, effortless air.
Have you ever seen it?
The way eyes turn—
watching you move,
watching you twirl.

You sway like a butterfly,
spreading joy as you pass by.
A vision of beauty, soft yet bright,
your presence lingers in my mind.

But did you ever realize?
Beyond the glow of worldly grace,
it’s your optimism—radiant, rare—
that makes you truly beautiful.

I lie in bed, awake and watching  
the dark night sky stretched wide,  
as stars like diamonds catch my eye.  
The hours pass in a gentle drift  
until dawn begins its colourful shift,  
as sunlight breaches the eastern rim,
it's fiery orange rays reach out and skim
and the warmth bleeds out across the dark,  
as I watch the sunrise paint its arc.  
Then the morning mist creeps in all grey,  
and clouds roll in on winds of change,
cooling the sky and dulling the blaze,  
as daylight arrives in a steely blue haze.

©️Lizzie Bevis

I was going to say...
An ugly beauty is a  beauty where one  thinks that beauty can only be found in one thing and that thing alone.

But many are not free to explore what is beautiful to them.

Some may have settled for the first thing they found beautiful because they thought they might lose it.

Or for some, they accepted that beauty because they were sure that it was all they wanted and perhaps needed.

But for those who refuse to see beauty in no other way than the way they have done before.... what can be said about them?

Trying to find an

attitude, as attitude --


staying on the side.

She just watches it

with indifference, smiling --


irritatingly.

(inspired by "Gifts of the Most High" by G Alan Johnson.)

The crows know me, and I, in their untamed glares,
and wild, accepting, onyx eyes find a solace.

No need for ID, for they’ve been watching me,
my face, yet unetched by time and life's own artistry,
is a passport for their uncivilized and predatory attention.

The corvid and I are kindred in many ways.
We've all scavenged for fortune's scraps,
shared the sting of bitter winter snaps,
and feasted on the meager leavings of the day.

In this dark pact, of watcher and watched,
a silent truth is proclaimed, that all that’s done
beneath the sun, is seen by dark, intuitive,
discerning, if not caring or humanly wise eyes.

The carrion crows know me,
and those feathered sentinels of air, mark
my coming with raucous, heralding cries.

They gather, black against the sun-kissed sky,
in councils held upon the wind's swift motions,
like children, they argue - observing still - as they play.

They causa no fear, but someday I’ll disappear,
unraveled, bit by bit, not by malice from on high,
but by beaks and claws, to caws they mantric-like cry.

Perhaps death really does have an ebonite beauty
and, like angels, his servants have wings, and pick us apart
when our time is through - and those sharp bills come due.

“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “

an early morning insertion,
says writes a love poem of
necessity, no formal request,
but as I am quiet bound to
her chest rhyming rising, falling,
she, caught between eyes closed,
but ears open, in pretense of deep
sleeping,
leaves me treading words,
“wordlessly watching, heartlessly helping “
borrowed for reuse, as waves
that have been here moments ago,
but only now just splashing me
to a place of inspiration, I look
up at the jambalaya of verses,
and declare myself satisfied,
both in love and wish this:

a completed poem that satisfies a
noisy urging~surging to tell her I
love her without disturbing her
peaceful state of drowsy and
permitting me too
(thinking pause)
to
taste a piece
of peace, so
well completed