Poet. Writer. Photographer.
When the hurt floods in
and your traumas
drain your green
and starve to death
your newly-sprouted dream,
when the cobwebs reappear
and re-chain you
to faulty self-beliefs,
when you bow your head
and turn with shame from me,
know that I
will always remain
to break the cycle
of love leaving you again.
I will lend my green
and yellow and light,
and whisper that I love you
still and more and despite
like you have done for me
in this beautiful, mutual growing
of self-love.
Perhaps true love is not
long-lost soulmates reunited
or two hearts shaped
puzzle-piece- or locket-and-key-like;
perhaps it’s not just one
but any two who
can fit just right
if each only trades in
fears for freedom
to rise as shared light,
and in that lift,
opposite of fall,
that is when hearts
are melted and forged
into the fitting pieces
or key and lock
to open the chest
and remember
what is love,
and what if love’s touch is not
a lightning spark but the hearth
that holds the flame’s warmth
long into the darkest hours,
or the faithful embers
staying aglow
for the return of air
to ignite the soul.
I am still faithfully following
petals as paths
with my soul’s whispered directions
to where you are at,
the one to reciprocate
all this love I have,
and along the way,
I’ve grown to love
the way
I am.
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
Dangerous to dream, I know.
Foolish to fly in a bubble!
Either could burst
without notice,
drop you fast in a plummet
to the hard reality surface.
But what if…
the trajectory was directed
by angels’ breaths
and the bubble made impenetrable,
a shield only able to be
forged from the past,
and you were gently lowered
precisely as intended
by the benevolence
of your higher power
assisting you in the navigation
toward your heart’s
deepest and purest desire?
What if the bubble
met passion’s fire?
And in the ashes
two phoenixes rose
and began new life
and left behind
all the rainbows
found in bubbles?
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
Some chambers
of the heart
cannot be revived,
but somehow, in time,
the others manage
to thrive,
filling in with extra
color and light,
like fall delicately
preserved despite
the returning of spring,
some things
simply adapt inside,
like a damaged heart
that syncs
to another’s beat,
incapable of replacing
or restoring that part
but giving new life
to a deserved and beautiful
heart.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
I don’t usually like to know the scientific facts about the subjects I find and photograph in nature, even basic identification. It spoils the wonder and mystery to me, the thrill of all my imagination hatches, the magic, the mysticism, the fantasy, the tales, the divine creation we think we know all about. These are my discoveries; I am the first explorer to ever lay eyes on the new species. Instead of sketching them in my diary, I photograph them; I am both from the future and the past.
I couldn’t resist though peeking into the portal of cyberspace regarding this spectacular mushroom variety I haven’t seen before (I don’t think…). “Puffballs” they are, supposedly common. And of course, as reading when you are a born lifelong reader tends to go, I read a bit more… They have a poisonous “Death Cap” doppelgänger, well imposter anyway, being the most interesting fact to me.
These I spotted underfoot between my car and classroom back door going into work the other day. To photograph them meant anyone could be watching and definitely would wonder even more about me. Of course, I risked it all and got down low and took the shot. It was too intriguing in and of itself but also because they were paired and the morning light and shadows were beautiful. I love couplets of anything in nature because I am a romantic. I also champion the overlooked or undervalued in nature, especially weeds and fungi.
Where to begin with what I could spin from this encounter and image souvenir?…
Two as one
connected,
shadows merging,
agreed to be
shared,
to increase
the surface area
so the darkness
lightens
in lichen-like
dual-stabilization:
paired.
One absorbs
more sun
than the other
but feeds
its partner
the light
not so directly;
at times
they reverse roles
when the other
needs
to shrink
into safety
awhile
and be protected
temporarily.
The world passes by,
so many times before
both cruelly and unknowingly
treading upon them;
others of their kind
turned poisonous,
but these two
remain true
to themselves
and their commitment,
not letting others’
judgement affect
their joy
or quality of life
and above all
love,
testament to
there being someone
for everyone
and such a connection
vital,
to feel that touch,
to trust…
or maybe I am seeing
too much
in these balls
of mushroom puffs
I stumbled upon
on my way
to work
this morn.
The journey, they say,
is in itself the key;
I’ve been down
every wrong road
multiple times
it seemed,
but to surface,
I wish I could say unscathed,
with the treasure of me
in this mirror
now held
sacred,
I’m hesitant
to lay blame
on my past,
for who I am
was definitely shaped
by every shadowed,
obstacle-strewn
path,
and the key
that ended up being me
fits perfectly
into the lock
around your heart;
I look forward
to every step
we now get to take
together,
journeying to meet our Matchmaker,
hand in hand,
to that eternal
start.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
Out of body, I float through time,
hover unaccompanied, no ghost as guide;
nonetheless, through windows I peer,
Dickens-paned, layered veneers.
Yet in them, in those moments,
the mise-en-scènes are still amiss–
a faraway look, a laugh insincere,
a single, silent unwitnessed tear–
not necessarily sad, just adrift;
have I never settled into my prints?
My soul, a gypsy, but wishing to barter–
tent for cabin, canoe for harbor.
My life does not flash before my eyes,
for this person, I barely recognize;
experiences play out, acts with multitudes of ends,
the quilt more mishappen-patched than threaded.
So many past lives I’ve lived and died within this one,
so many false dawns that made me suspect the sun,
yet through it all, in this saga of my non-selves,
I walk the beaches of my past and collect the treasures
beneath and between the shells
and place them on the sunny sills of my present,
the true dawn of the genesis of me
that began when you kissed me into living
and finally led me home into my awaited dreams.
Bare branches adorned with clouds
make tree less bleak, the sky less vast;
puffy, comforting non-down fill in
where leaves have flown the nest.
Barrenness need not feel the wintry sting
even in the coldest seasons;
in another’s soul may soothingly burn
the warmth for the hearth needed.
Valley to valley,
shapeshifting sands,
mountains slipping down
and through my hands,
peak mirages
yet they block my view,
do not permit ascent
from the shadows
to vistas of truth,
yet I knew
beyond the traps and setbacks,
somewhere out there
was a billowing mast
and endless skies of blue
and a sail or cloud or both
to take me away to where I knew
my hopes as harbingers
had successfully found
the place where all my dreams
come true.
Laura Denise 