Poet. Writer. Photographer.
When the world is silhouette
in the darkness of new day,
and The Maker begins to add
the first colors of paint,
beginning with the sky
and blending into the sea,
as each ripple begins rippling
and the seabirds spread their wings,
my heart awaits the bristles
upon the lonely shore,
always hoping He’ll add wings
so my love can finally soar.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
Fireworks burst
in gold and green
in November
beside the sea:
Morning’s first rays
reaching Palm’s leaves,
requited love
reuniting.
Barren bay-bridge
connects like a hammock
two trunks of trees,
so I sway awhile
in the soulful respite
of Peace’s breeze.
Navigating rapids,
being battered by waves,
flailing in riptides:
for decades, the assay.
Perhaps that’s why
these ripples and reflections
call to me now
to make amends.
I let my soul be stroked
with the bristles
coating with liquid layers
in redemption, baptismal:
acquittal.
A sibyl
reinstated.
Something about this river
brings back the scribbles
on my slate.
I linger
at the trestle bridge,
toes across inverted sky, skim.
I know it is a portal
to where I have been.
I chant the rising words
to be let
in…
I only apply love,
for love is my essence;
I don’t know how
to have any other
purpose.
I try to dim
the brightness
of my aura,
but then, from within,
sprout the wild, white
flora.
Despite this gift
planted in my creation,
and all my practice,
and the best
of intentions,
I can’t seem to get
a reciprocated
connection,
which makes me think
I was misplaced
in this wrong
dimension…
In the absence of trail markers,
I find they were always there;
He’s seen where I’m headed
and steers me with care.
An arrow in morning-glory gold
and silhouetted wings
once again lead me
solo into the sunrise
in my homebound
meanderings…
I check the ground for a “safe” spot and sit beside the mound to observe awhile through my macro lens; my hand was too shaky in that squatting position. I wait and wait, camera poised at the precipice of the mountain (I’ve made again from a hill smaller than the mole’s), waiting for a leg or head to surface. Patience. Stillness. These seem to be the dying traits falling out of practice. It is the essence of my passion, ironically, as a hobbyist: I photograph. Only nature. Submersed in it. Currently, I am at an immeasurable distance far away, though only from my back door, a few paces.
For a shot, I extend my permanently-scarred leg (what they did), foot to shin, and position it too close to the enemy camp. Damn fire ants. The savages are known for swarming, stinging, inducing explicative screaming, leaving blisters, pussing, to dry and fade to red. I have wished them all dead. But now, here I am, because I am a lover, and I am drawn to developing my gift of making beauty from pain. I simply observe, get to know the supposed perpetrators, and if I get attacked again, I know it will be deserved for violating their now-known territory. Self-defense is all they have ever been guilty of really…
A stir in the grass beside my hip! What is this? So hyper-focused on my enemies, I saw not the burrowing bee. Did I sit on it, I wonder now. Oh dear, so very sorry!
I keep forgetting, I have not actually been granted the ability to shrink. Did it go underground too, for I lost it completely… I realize then, I took my eye off the threat, but then again in the Three Fates’ web, perhaps we are all clinging to the same seasonal gossamer thread.
The neighbor’s doorknob plops me back into my own dimension too suddenly, as I rise and dust off my bottom, and silently slip away
introvertedly…
Dawn gently stirs
to find her,
single wildflower.
In his softest warmth
extended,
she slowly rises,
highlighted,
and across the shadow line
sends her cheer
to the fallen,
who, in turn,
becomes one
with the earth.
“Right behind you,”
she comfortingly whispers,
as a sea bird
breaks the ray,
or was it Sun
blinking his tear
away?
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
“Whatcha doin’?” my teacher friend across the outdoor space between our classroom doors says, popping her head out.
“Just capturing poems I’ve passed by,” I say, still hunched over close to the sandy ground just before school started. “You know.”
I captured the wildflower oasis and the non-fool’s gold recently but have since discovered the plank in the magical world beneath our giant steps…
Peace of Plank
I wish I could have been afforded
the plank
instead of all the times
each “he” just yanked
my never-grounded footing
away,
the sharks
themselves.
The plank
in the desert
beneath me now,
still
symbolic of how
we can feel so nudged
toward the apparent
doom to drown,
prisoners and victims
until the spell
is unbound
and we are able to see
that the moat
was always
a mirage,
and we always
possessed
the power
to simply
step
off
into the safety of our
selves,
trusting God
would never
let us
down,
and if we ever did
get pushed into the deep,
what He personally pre-planted within us each
would be all
the buoyancy
we need.
Proverbs 3:5-6
5 Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and do not lean on your own understanding.
6 In all your ways acknowledge him,
and he will make straight your paths.
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
The sunrises are always mine,
the only ego I condone;
not only do my bones and soul
need to behold them alone,
I do believe the diurnal gift
for each witness is tailored,
different rays crafted
by Divinity’s fingers
and personally delivered,
and sometimes meant
to be received twice,
once live and another
to lift from within
when the timing is later
for an even greater purpose
right.
It resurrected again
today at three to remind
that it was always meant to be
mine.
Artificial light
will suffice
when I employ
on quiet walks
my creative devices
to make art
during heart-
survival crises
until it all naturally passes,
as all weather is designed to do;
I need to do better with storm preparations,
though He always sees ahead and sees me
through.
Tonight, to distract
with creative play,
I replace and extend
a stem with manmade
until the flower becomes a tower,
and then I ignite the beacon,
and let the moon console
a lonely orb romantic-dreaming.
I do these magnificent things
not only to take focus away from the pain
but because it gives me the control and power
as an abuse-survivor to manipulate
in a positive way.
I do it for you, but really and also
for me, selfishly,
but if you and I both need it,
how comforting it then becomes for us
to become “we.”
You’ve been here too,
I know, as I have been there,
not these same tracks
but in the aches that echo,
shared.
Laura Denise 