Never Fully

Golden Orb so slowly burned out,
descended beyond all trace,
save for its selfless beacon beam
upon Waxing Crescent’s face

who, in turn, invited every star
with unknown name
to share the stage
for the benefit,
Hope’s Grace,

admission for all, free,
no matter the creed;
for me, I believe
the Creator of space
so lovingly handmade
a place where the light
never fully recedes,
personally for you
and for me.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

syllabic wings

the golden came
faithfully again to paint
pinetops as they gently sway
the glistening above
the reaching rays

autumn’s premonition
or southern grace
contributing to the
habitual change
of shades

just in time
as I was searching
for a place
to perch post-pain

to begin again
with syllabes
freeing my soul
to create

Save

Cliché to say
see yourself
through my eyes,
but, oh my darling,
if only you could,
these mirror irises
would turn you forever blind
to the lies…

Lie with me,
let me stroke your hair,
no goals today
save
for accepting this
safe
tender love and care.

Captive

Beneath my private canopy,
I poise my fingers to dance, to sing,
but into the world of nature, I float,
its most willing visitor captive to hold,
to stroke with soft, soothing sounds.
Single strands of silver web appear when
the intermittent breeze allows;
in and out of lines, I likewise weave myself…

I could leave now
for the day,
or in this poem
forever stay…

Curtsy

Sandpiper scurries
to and fro
with the fanciest of footwork
from tide’s leading flow,

dipping, receding,
with each orchestrated ebb,
back and forth
in time, once and again.

I raise my arms
and curtsy too
and dance
with the wind
despite the gray and
black and blue.

Stepping

Stepping from rooftop
onto the aerial ice,
fathoms deep, soul still
lights…

Poem and photo ©LauraDenise

Golden Become

Golden become the leaves
part from equinox,
not from autumn yet
but the hour before the fall.

Kaleidoscope Escape

To pause the pain,
I watch the wind
spin petaled pinwheels
as the colors blend.

I reach to turn the wild-
flower kaleidoscope,
hiding in the hues
of an alternate vision
of beauty and hope.

Perhaps I will not return
to my world of gray;
perhaps I will, but disintegrate
The Cloud with these
faith rays.

I Watch the Squirrels

I watch the squirrels
during page breaks
as the last
of day’s colors
follow the sun,
so subtly
slink away,

in silhouette now,
shockingly high in the pines,
three frolicking,
distracting me
from pains
and story line.

The scurrying subsides
as the chorus begins,
unified insects
and amphibians.

Another blood-thirsty buzz
in my ear,
but I’m mid poem
and the stars
are getting ready
to appear.

Excited for the evening chill
upon my Southern bare feet,
I hold my modest wine
to the laptop light
to check before I drink,

pajama bottoms on,
chair always reclined,
looking up,
obsessed with sky
and the divine.

Sunset, twilight,
stars, moon:
the only Friday-Night Lights
that can amuse this recluse.