Drifting

Blue skies seem sometimes
behind us too far,
and when the oasis of nearness
dissipates into illusion
yet again,
we dangerously tire,

as the colors of hope
fade
like sidewalk chalk
in the rain,
and we drift
without care
into the storm.

But as long as there are
forks and bends
in the paths and roads,
what-ifs and depends,
Fate can only temporarily take
hostages,

for choice and circumstance
and weather will permit
the opportunities
to change direction
over and over again;
only lack of faith
can lead to the
false perception
of dead-ends.

Sometimes when we are
too weary to drive,
another takes the wheel:
sometimes God,
sometimes Satan,
sometimes someone
who loves you still.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Simply Introverted

She fans silken petals,
the softest of shells,
not to be coy, just discreetly
distancing herself,

comfortable cocooned,
guilty of pretense,
privacy preferred
over others’ presence,

never unfriendliness,
just not social;
passions and interests
captivate most when alone.

Tending to her own tendrils,
internal biodome,
nirvana nurtured,
nature, home.

She shows the sides
she chooses;
do not assume
that’s all there is.

No longer fear-restrained:
for the first time,
she fully lives.

She fans silken petals,
simply introverted,
but continuously gifts
translucent colors and
serenity’s scent.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Wishes and Prayers

When I pray,
I always add the addendum,
“…if it is in accordance with Your plan,”
for more than what I plea for,
superseded, I wish for us to remain
always in His hands.

I trust whatever may happen,
although I may not understand,
will come with a needed lesson,
a necessary occurrence in the process
of the destiny in becoming once again

who I am.

I was reminded of this
when a partial wishie lent
further wisdom for reflection.

Sometimes the biggest wishes
should not be spent, eyes closed,
all at once, in one breath and direction

but patiently
spaced out in seeds,
part self-initiated action,
part angel-breath breezes.

Sometimes what we desire most
needs time to germinate to non-perfection
and be released in parts for better chances
of fruitful multiplication.

I am always careful
in what I wish and pray for:
I don’t want to get in the way
of what He has in store.

I try not to be too cautious
in taking action with soulful instinct,
for the surest way to get lost
is to pass up what He hands me.

I do close my eyes
to bring up a whisper
from my soul
that launches another
seed of hope…

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Rooted to Trees

Tree-hugger for as long as I can remember
(my favorite nature companions),
known sky-and-cloud obsesser
to those who discover a drop of who I am.

I write of the sea
because I have been living by the beach,
and if my writing you currently read,
you know mountains aren’t my thing.

Wildflowers, especially white ones,
have become infused into my self-journey,
but if I could only keep just one,
I’d have to keep the trees.

In the national forest,
I seek the inner grove,
the largest sequoias I can find
so I can visit my soul’s home.

A hand, a hug, upon the giants
fills my heart, and my authentic
smile naturally shows.

Some and Me

Some were built for height,
some false with imitation bark,
some ill-fated by others’ fires,
some have witnessed the sparks.

The dark, the light,
rotates and falls
upon each equally.
Some were meant to
sky-reach.
Some use the sun’s love
to bloom in delicate
and fleeting beauty.

At the feet of giant trees,
with whom I have always
felt most rooted,
in white lace and ray’s kiss
still fresh on my crown,
I have never been so at peace
with who I’ve found
I’ve always been.

Wherever I go now,
it is me who I am.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

The Little Things

Something there is
in a soul’s composition
that personalizes light
from the connecting threads;

in the weave of mine,
part my art and part divine,
seems to be for the grandiose
some kind of rare blindness
in the mainstream sense,
for I only find it
in the minute and steeped in
mindfulness,

the larger picture
always blurred and muted,
unacceptably-by-society
dismissing sweeping views;

upon deaf eyes, the waterfalls,
for my soul only hones in on single drops,
the silhouette of an insect’s wings
even beyond the forefront flowering.

Too far away are the large and obvious;
I slip into the inconspicuous,
secret portals and nooks
that scan my soul
and recognize me in my
slow and scenic way home.

Don’t take me to the lookout point;
take me to the mountain where I can climb
to admire all the wonder along the trail.
The view at the top can never be the peak:
for me it can only be

in the little things.

You can hike with me
if you have the patience,
for a mile in nature
won’t get you fit,
but if you’d like to sit
awhile beside me,
I wouldn’t mind
the company,

but no attention would I be able to give you
when the sun sets on a solitary bee upon a pink bloom…

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

I Look for the Broken

I look for the “broken,”
the torn, the cracked,
the light-and-shadow’s
silent dance,

the intimate,
the unvoiced stories,
for in these lie
no greater beauty
nor still me
with more reverie.

Parallels and metaphors,
all nature reminds
and shares with us
what we are here for.

Leaf veins and light
extend into me
and connect you,
God’s creation
intended to sustain us all
in love
and see us through.

Maiden in White

She seemed to float
in flowing gown of white
through the gardens
in the misty morning light.

With gentle hands,
her fingers brushed,
skimmed over the blossoms
with celestial touch;

the blooms self-muted their hues
as if infused with her purity
until all the world resembled heaven
for a moment but affording
a glimpse of eternity,

and as she departed,
long, fair hair slow-dancing
into the horizon,
the flowers returned
to their former colors
and the breeze dissipated.

No witness but I.
No photograph taken.
The maiden in white,
in my mind’s eye,
eternally painted.

I wish I had noticed at the time
the one single rose who refused to revert;
I could have at least penned a poem
to gift the hope to others.

Wind and Wings

I will bend to please,
for I put first others’ needs;
overempathy makes me weak.

Forceful winds,
whether intended or not,
push with invisible pressure
until my insides knot.

In opposite direction
of secret desires,
the flight I am put on
with unpurchased ticket
takes me higher

but farther
on false wings
to where I wished to be;
nonetheless, I relentlessly
look for the positives
in my surroundings.

Rock, boulder,
my anchor,
my center,
my stationary:
I move the mountains
with the strength
of my unshakable faith
in the Almighty.

Bent tree.
Flight path.
Criss-crossing trajectories.
I will bend back.
I will disembark.
And wherever that leaves me,
I will find where
the wildflowers are.
And if you pluck them all,
I will water the seeds
in my heart.

I will persevere as me,
no matter how many rounds
I smartly, politely, or wearily
concede.
Each of those fertilize
bloom potentiality.

I will grow my own
wildflower fields
until they rise
out of me.

The Language of Wildflowers

I have always been drawn to intimacy,
that of the petal, the shell, the bee.
Grand, sweeping panoramic views
have trouble impressing me.
Everyone else lines up though to see,
so I release the guilt to the benevolent breeze
while I sneak away from my party
after posing in their pictures
to get low upon the mountain surface
to hear the gentle, pink, silky whispers.

My first two vacation poems of the same subject,
the world-renowned postcard as a blurred backdrop.
You can take a body to a different location,
but you cannot take control of a soul’s vocation,
especially when it is spiritually connected
more so to the underfoot details overlooked and neglected.

The stories of nature that fit in the palm of my hand
speak to me more profoundly than the grandest canyon.
I have never been one to follow the crowds.
The bold mountaintop bloom whispers another route.

I cannot take it now: my father is guiding this tour.
But I will never forget the brief shared encounter

with the single wildflower

that found me in the clouds
and allowed me to recenter myself.