By Celia Shaneyfelt

Poetry inspired by the Tao.

70

He was a whinzied scrap of a being,
nearly as gaunt as a modern fashion model,
skin darkened by sun exposure,
head shaved,
garment worn and frayed.

He sat and carved,
chisel tapping letters into flat stones.
Letters forming words,
words forming scriptures;
peace, love, honor.

On his left, 
smooth flat stones.
On his right,
stones engraved,
peace, love, honor.

I lifted my eyes from this sight,
a modern visitor to an ancient world,
striving to understand.

My eyes fell on the surrounding temples,
layers and layers of flat rocks
stacked so none could read.
Scriptures;
peace, love, honor.

81

Lady was no lady
and 
Beauty's horns were crooked.

Beauty might have been a pretty calf;
all calves are cute before they grow.
Perhaps the little girl saw the heifer 
and believed in her potential,
or pitied her ungainly limbs
and uneven spots.
However it came about,
Beauty was nothing of the kind
as the world judges beauty.
But a little girl loved her,
with her gentle puffs
on frigid winter mornings
and her patience 
as cold fingers 
skillfully worked
generous teats.

Lady stood stately,
each spot perfect,
a proper succession of calves,
and the heart of a knave.
Lady who would kick over the bucket
and step away from skilled fingers
even on a lazy summer evening.

All my life I heard their stories,
usually accompanied by 
"pretty is as pretty does"
or 
"beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
Momma was not highly educated
but she had a country kind of wisdom.
I think the world would be a better place.