Chambers

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

Sometimes The Heavens

Sometimes the heavens
seem to shout
without a sound,
send in golden tsunamis
to knock us out
of our sacrilegious head-bows,
hunched over the false light,
oblivious to whom is beside
let alone above.
Another tidal wave of wonder
crashes against an overpopulated shore
unheard and unseen
despite its colossal reminder
that we were not meant to be
islands caught up in the streams
on screens
of mind-numbing nonsense when
the caged spirits within
continue their deafening
pleases turned to pleas and
silent screams
to be released.
Our souls see
heaven’s reach,
but our eyes and minds
are locked
in self-imposed
escapism stagnancy.
And another stair to heaven
disappears, as the case
little by little,
shrinks.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Spring Frosting

Frosted silver-blue in spring
ushers in eucalyptus dreams.
I inhale the heavenly possibilities
wafted through my senses
and altering my inner being,
frosting me with the sweet
scents of what can be
and what can never be lost,
centuries of hope long ago
and perpetually seeded
that spring up each annual season
despite the body’s expiration
sacrificed for the birthing
of eternal angel wings.
Every heart’s whisper,
every tear that ever watered,
becomes a part of me,
as I am a part of each,
all of us connected,
evidenced in these
ambrosial eucalyptus
leaves.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Return Me

Moonrise, ocean waves,
lull me awake;
wash over me
your indigo dreamscapes.

Ankle deep, the magic waters seep
up into the inner streams
of my being,
flush out the day’s impurities
until I’m cleansed of the trivial
that tries to cling.

Moonrise, ocean waves,
take me farther away:
return my form
for an hour
to mermaid.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Concrete Canvas

Concrete cannot barricade
my imagination from its escape;
especially on rainy days,
I paint with puddles
like Van Gogh and Monet –
bright colors, ocean waves,
always naturescapes,
to keep from drowning
in the daily mundane.

Concrete cannot barricade
dreams that refuse to fade to gray.

Tea With Honey Bee

Few things do I find
more peaceful
than the golden hours
I make and spend
with non-people
in those euphoric moments
I string together
between the shadows,
sitting among the bees
in neither garden
nor bramble,
a weedy yard
as proxy for the meadow
I have yet to discover
as my special
place to feel
home.

In the meantime,
longer still,
will I spend
unweaving the web
to the portal.

I watch in comforting
company each
peculiar movement
of a single honey bee
again in the perfect
light, so celestial.

I bet he’s seen
my meadow.

I strain to hear
the whispers,
the clues,
as I always do,
and add them to
my map
home.

I take into my essence
the message
of a single bee
teetering
on the webbed edge
of the dark and deep,
and I remember,
too late or in perfect timing,
that I also have and always have had
wings.

Perhaps this whole map thing
is what deceives,
keeps us stagnant
with the planning
when we simply
need to faithfully begin
the journey,
all of it too fleeting
to waste another moment
not believing
we can achieve
right now
our dreams.

We are never truly defeated,
jilted, ill-fated,
except by ourselves
when we lie down
too long
where we don’t belong,
succumbing to the sunset song of the poppies
when the field of sunny, new-day daisies
is just up ahead.

I never heard a buzz from that bee.
Funny how later and always, I will remember
the way it pollinated
these dreams.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

A Fallen Blossom At Dawn

Another fallen blossom…
like the ones before
in years passed
I photographed
and told stories for.

Each of these moves me
in such profound ways;
what’s underfoot,
what others pass,
stops me in my tracks
with the silent beauty
so profoundly displayed.

For a lifetime, I feel
I could sit and contemplate,
reflect on all the lessons
and secrets it portrays…

This is how I know
I’m different,
for off the beaten path,
tucked away,
alone in nature
is my happiest place.

The soft morning light
haloing the fallen lady
bids me pay respect
and paint legacy allegories.

Not as sad as the last one
I payed homage to,
(but of course that is influenced
by my inner untappable currents
and current surface mood,
no doubt, in turn, affected by
the recent tides and moon…)
this fallen beauty, still so poised,
fills me with bittersweet truths,

for we, the best things, this life itself…
all fleeting, all blossoms plucked by breezes
in the grand scheme of it all,
these hundred years if we are lucky
(but who’s to say that’s luck
when we know not
what’s next and beyond;
perhaps those taken early
were needed for something else,
angels only visiting
to help us with ourselves…)
nothing at all,
a blink in time,
though insignificant
nor the center
of the universe
should we feel;
we are each dearly loved,
part of the same mother tree
unseen but a morph of every variety,
the keeper of every seed and leaf
releasing us one by one
into the world
upon the breezes
in perfectly timed seasons
to root ourselves
until it’s our time
and we are called back again
like this beautiful blossom
having just detached.
I always wonder if it’s
a leap of faith or
sacrifice or circumstance.

In any event, who could not
ponder the rest of their life
happening upon

a “fallen” blossom
at dawn.

Undam Me

It is the red-flagged waves,
the storm sirens,
that wake who I’ve been
for centuries dormant;
arms by themselves stretch,
welcome, open,
remembering the calling,
my true name on the cusp
of being unspoken,
on the cusp of the crescent,
my dreams dangled,
the cusp of my heart
releasing the rush withheld,
on the cusp of my emergence
from the cocoon that protects
the self. I am not afraid!
May these waves finally break
this manmade dam
and reveal once and for all
who I am!

If Sunflowers Can

If sunflowers can
root themselves in sand
to choose the sea,
so can I
morph into myself
and choose my own
destiny.

Simply Love

The purpose of life, the meaning,
has always been crystal clear to me,
never has a non-mystery
been more obvious and accessible:

to love
is the reason
and the miracle,

to be gifted hearts and souls
to find others on the way
home.

Who will you bring?
Who will you pass over?
Remember the Savior
may be the homeless
or aborted,
the silent one
in the corner,
the one deemed
a misfit, different,
deformed.

Each created
from love,
each loved
from above,
each returned
after this
to the metamorphic,
body-molted
non-shape of
love.

The purpose of life, the meaning,
has always been laid out:
Love thy neighbor.
Love thy spouse.
Love thy enemy.
Love thy self.

May we love
the children,
first and foremost.