We all want to be beautiful, Liza

beneath some argent moon in her fullness,

at daybreak with its pink-lined clouds and sky

pure as mountain springs, bright as topaz

and us waking from dreams of golden streets . . .

Liza, paradise is deep within, resides

here within the placid soul, the restful mind.

Each of us is beautiful in the right light,

which is the light of the beholder, shone

forth from this paradisal mind to reflect

self in self, dispelling the great lie of Other.

Liza, I want to be that beauty, your beauty,

my beauty—I want to dispel that illusion,

but life has mesmerized me, captivated

my eyes, spoken harsh ideals of hate and race

and otherness which I cannot see but

manifest among fellows who are not me . . .

I was never much better a Buddhist

than I was a Christian, and know far less

about it. But in more Zen moments, found

Christ in satori and not Western prayers.

And, Liza, still I find more beauty in

Narcissus nodding than in the prattle

of old men reading scripture and mobs singing

hymns they barely comprehend, bleating sheep

penned together of an hour Sunday morning.

It seems strange, Liza, to have gotten here

from want of being beautiful, but this

is the wonder of morning: possibility

born from heaven’s savage pink portal.

David M Pitchford