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
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
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.
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…
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 from rooftop
onto the aerial ice, fathoms deep, soul still lights…
Poem and photo ©LauraDenise
Golden become the leaves
part from equinox, not from autumn yet but the hour before the fall.
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.
All poems and images on this site ©LauraDenise
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.
The thing about self-love
is the condition that it be unconditional. I must be a friend to myself when I need one the most
what makes me, me, are not flaws, and in the handling of my wounds after stumbling must come the greatest care of all.
Pieces we can’t get back
and permanent scars must simply become part of the beauty of the sculpture of the heart.