Chain Links

Withering weed
behind chain-link fence
produces the illusion
of being defenseless,

unable to escape
to freedom,
but the thing
about dandelions
is the way God made them,

for big are the dreams
they are charged with,
but it is in their breaking apart
into pieces that launches

these seeds of more
to be rebirthed elsewhere,
carried protectively upon benevolent breeze
and prayer

in different directions
better for us,
for when dead ends surround,
the ways are through
or up,

toward The Light,
and wing-bathed in hope,
blind-ride flight right through
the wide-open holes,

or one cracked window…

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Well Mirage

By clinging together,
raindrops resist
at the edge 
of the cliff, 
the abyss,

at the border between
life 
and the cracking brown
that begs for tears
to re-quench
what has already been
drowned:

concrete, manmade.
How futile it is to keep
watering the pain.

Green and blue
reflect and infuse,
ever so gently pull
toward better use:

decide instead
to feed growth
and desert these looping
barren roads.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Torches

Raindrops at rest,
blown glass upon glass,
aglow from a torch on the lawn
and in my chest,

I willfully enter
the abstract enchantment,
slow dance
with the gentle benevolence,
in and out of the past and present,
flickers as glimpses
of truths, dreams,
and premonitions,
possible directions,

barefoot in the wet,
around the fire,
awake in the trance
of extinguishment and desire.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Reverie

These illusions and pitfalls along the way
in which my heart, so sure, unveils to stay
only to have to again prove my strength,
revive the beat from buried and scathed,

I hope again are changing
to sojourns not so painful.

In the aftermaths and in-betweens,
the shrapnel in me remains indelibly inked
and paroxysmally bleeds,
keeps me still from seeing
any heavenly reasoning.

Still, I must keep faithfully believing
in His thaumaturgic design of feelings,
love and all my deaths
in the pursuit of requitedness.

Again, I am clinging
as a raindrop to a moment inevitably fleeting.

Covenant

Single glistening gossamer thread
catching and releasing rays with wind,
perhaps a bridge
between the yellow and white
wildflowers aglow with golden morning light.

I sit transfixed
by its intermittent existence…

Shadows have yet to be filled in
by Sun still half in bed,
and my ataractic trance
is interrupted by silhouettes:

two “mourning” doves,
omen of good fortune in love

or celestial messengers
like yesterday’s hummingbird
letting me know He’s been present all along,
and this is the amaranthine after-(last)storm calm.