Single Yellow Bloom

Standing bold and bright
before the woods,
a single yellow bloom…
the contrast stops my shadow;
what a story we’ve stumbled into!

The single yellow bloom
seems larger than the sun
when all alone beaming
against a backdrop
of humdrum.

No other bloom around, 
just towering matchstick pines;
the only flame, though, ignited 
from a heart of gold
cocooned inside

brave enough
to shine.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Gripping Sand

Sometimes we must firmly
grip the sand
instead of merely wishing
to be carried to shore.

Sometimes it is best
to escape through the window
rather than open
either door.

Sometimes when the photo album
has so many empty pages,
it’s time coloring the sickness yellow
since it can’t fade non-faces.

Sometimes in the dark wood
instead of striking tear-soaked matches,
we must look up for the beacon
of light through the branches.

Sometimes from the cliff of depression
instead of digging our nails in,
we must be willing to release our grip
and reach for the offered hand.

Sometimes for a while longer,
it’s good to remain on our knees,
but He cannot help us rise
if we let lie His gifted bravery.

Sometimes when we grip the sand
and claw our way to beach,
we complain it’s the wrong island
and forget we were just
drowning in the deep.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

The Past In Your Palm

Natural beach tangleballs
messily woven with care;
the tides tidy the past,
clean up the yesteryears,

least-cherished experiences
ready for burial but not at sea,
rejected from the ocean
to keep the present clean.

From the depths, the debris
from storms and dune erosion
get collected and rolled like snowballs
and returned to the shores,

sand burial for these non-treasures
heavy in the chest
that successfully sunk
but then resurrected.

Inspect it, if you can,
at this time of the future,
the mess and the once unbearable
now so compacted,

once thrashed about
then captured by the dark and deep,
now in your palm, non-crystal ball
looking back controlledly–

the imagined lines and ropes
and exoskeletons of past selves shed,
the stench of rotten wounds
and splinters of the shipwrecks,

all detailed in
the collection of symbols,
the litter of your old life
ready for respectful burial. 

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Dig the hole
in sand or dirt,
and if so desired,
place a marker on it,

then walk back to the water
and submerge yourself:
the present is clear,
and blissful is this
new soothing swell. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Ladies in White

Pinks, reds, yellows, purples…
take me to where the ivory unfurls

petals reminiscent of celestial wings,
angel-whispers of the purest things,

stories of strength derived from faith,
and tales of troubles confronted with grace.

Bold colors burst forth in the celebration of spring,
but I find myself frozen, soul keenly listening

to the ladies in white, swaying silently;
they draw me in, they speak of peace,

they still my center, and the serenity seeps
through my pores and seeds in me. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Roots and Blooms

With a single spark
from my wild heart,
I sneakily reseed
a little yellow cheer
and carry on
my solo way,
planting the
little flames
to light the way
back to
love.

So if you see
the floral light,
pass it on
randomly,
be kind
to a stranger,
let’s try
to string
smiles,
no matter
how fleeting,
for the winter is
receding,
and the birds sing
of forgiveness,
of burying,
of remembering,

for in the decay
of leaves,
we can fertilize
the best parts
of memories,
and visit
the rest
at the graveyard
of past seasons;
the reasons
you cling to
that poison 
your roots,
leave by the wayside
and mark the route.
Visit respectfully
but do not carry it
with you;
seeds were meant 
for detaching,
and rebirthing
where they land
new blooms.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Sea Dance

Barefoot atop the deep waters,
white dress and wild tresses flowing,
sunken-ship cemetery of the past beneath,
I twirl in this present moment. 

The sea is mine
as my dance floor,
and I skim across 
to my pick of shores;
I explore, I vacation, 
not searching, just jubilation
of losing
worries and fears,
exaltation of the lightness
of the lifting of those stormy years,
each moment an eternity
to get to the next,
each stepping stone
sinking with each vine grasped,
no beanstalk discovered
to bring me to the clouds,
only faith each day
for decades
of a better tomorrow.

That tomorrow is today,

hence the head-raised dance
in the sun and in the rain,
embracing with wide-opened arms
the achievement of having started
upon this horizon
I only viewed from the beach.

The stepping stones still sink.
I just realized the only missing factor
was to fully 

believe.

They were never needed. 
Self-love was the only key.

I was always worth it. 
Eventually, I fought
for me
and this
dream.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Befriending Bumblebees

Befriending bumblebees,
watching cloud-shapes come to life,
making majestic the flowering weeds,
the peace around me seeps in when I am outside.

(See the bumblebee?)

Time may tick, but no manmade clock
interrupts Laura’s la-la land thoughts.
I am one of them, the nature alive in the yard,
no language needed when you are birthed from the stars,
though I do whistle in response to the birds;
in another life, I learned the wordless verses.

Sunlight dances with my frizzy tresses;
soon I will waltz with the summer wind in sundresses. 
I don’t need to go far; just don’t make me go in.
I wish to stay longer as princess in this magical kingdom. 

Poem and backyard images taken today ©LauraDenise

Parking Lot Thoughts

Turn not a blind eye upon
the beauty that surrounds;
sometimes you simply must
expend a bit of effort to

seek it out.

There is never a beauty drought.
Look about! 

In a grocery store parking lot,
for you, I frame this bouquet,

non-bought, 

to send you a wordless reminder
of my love, 

to remind you are dearly
thought of,

desiring that the white-petaled hope
could be a moment that lingers in
cheering you up.

I will never stop
sowing in you these seeds
of my love

in eternal spring,
whispering 
for your dimples again to

blossom. 

Poem and images and love by Laura

See Past Shells

You are not broken.

We all have our chips,
scabs and scars,
stories hidden,

the search and strive
for perfect,
itself a myth;

you are perfect
as is,

each soul a treasure,
measured not by appearance
or the illusion of wholeness,

for we are equally complete
when love washes over us

for no shell is enclosed,
though we shrink within,

open and in rotation,
vulnerable hearts
search for a fit.

The ocean knows
and sings the wisdom:

each of us beautiful,
not just enough,
but the only one for another
and in God’s hands, cupped. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise