Poet. Writer. Photographer.
I don’t mean to be ungrateful
or a first-bloom scrooge,
thankful I am for the widespread
fuchsia-imbued mood,
but purple in my pinks
are spills to me
and not enough to undam
the purity
my soul longs
to reunite with –
light brushkissing
glossed lips
white-to-white,
blush-to-blush,
never bold,
never rushed,
so I look
for those softest of hues,
the whispers
in the glare
of azalea jewels.
In the dark,
as a harbinger
of horizon’s light:
the herald’s song,
solo bird’s
opening line.
What hope floats
through my open window
to remind:
courage upon blindness
most often rides.
In the lightening mist
before the sun arrives,
the first chords inspire
the chorus to rise…
I found a pile
of moments,
once treasure,
memories preserved
in sensitive limbo,
or waiting
in purgatory,
or for surgery,
or autopsy
to know, to have
final say-so…
Is it the light and shadows
that determine
if each, or collectively,
are worthy
to keep their sweet
olfactory hold
on our soul,
or simply the decision
of a heart to cradle
or let go…?
Between brick walls,
faux stars:
still the magic
makes my dreams
flutter
in my heart.
Above the lights,
the universe:
I imagine lanterns,
launched with whispered
verse.
moon-chasing
as stars ignite
and the orb shrinks
commencing night
lone lady on boardwalk
two boats in the water
all become still
in silent homage
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
Like when I was a child
looking at the ceilings
upside down,
I still invert what’s above
to challenge the limits
of ground and touch.
Now I’m venturing
beyond the sky,
following the path
of clouds…
I wonder if I’ve always been searching
for a way
out.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
When the world is silhouette
in the darkness of new day,
and The Maker begins to add
the first colors of paint,
beginning with the sky
and blending into the sea,
as each ripple begins rippling
and the seabirds spread their wings,
my heart awaits the bristles
upon the lonely shore,
always hoping He’ll add wings
so my love can finally soar.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
Fireworks burst
in gold and green
in November
beside the sea:
Morning’s first rays
reaching Palm’s leaves,
requited love
reuniting.
Barren bay-bridge
connects like a hammock
two trunks of trees,
so I sway awhile
in the soulful respite
of Peace’s breeze.
Navigating rapids,
being battered by waves,
flailing in riptides:
for decades, the assay.
Perhaps that’s why
these ripples and reflections
call to me now
to make amends.
I let my soul be stroked
with the bristles
coating with liquid layers
in redemption, baptismal:
acquittal.
A sibyl
reinstated.
Something about this river
brings back the scribbles
on my slate.
I linger
at the trestle bridge,
toes across inverted sky, skim.
I know it is a portal
to where I have been.
I chant the rising words
to be let
in…
In the absence of trail markers,
I find they were always there;
He’s seen where I’m headed
and steers me with care.
An arrow in morning-glory gold
and silhouetted wings
once again lead me
solo into the sunrise
in my homebound
meanderings…
Laura Denise 