Poet. Writer. Photographer.
To pause the pain,
I watch the wind
spin petaled pinwheels
as the colors blend.
I reach to turn the wild-
flower kaleidoscope,
hiding in the hues
of an alternate vision
of beauty and hope.
Perhaps I will not return
to my world of gray;
perhaps I will, but disintegrate
The Cloud with these
faith rays.
All poems and images on this site ©LauraDenise
From an ancient pyramid
of faraway dreams,
a river of gold rises,
seeps into the leaves,
feeding the season
to believe.
I lift my heart
again to reach…
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
Over the years, I’ve collected
the best fragments
from the jagged breaks
of the past,
revisiting the scenes
after the immediate threats
have into ashes passed.
When the sun faithfully returns,
each ray seems to gently lead,
reflecting in intermittent beams,
to rebuild resilient dreams,
refracted off each of these
gorgeous shards of glass.
I add to these, the heartifacts
unearthed from avalanche
and dug up from old spots,
buried for protection,
washed and polished rocks
diversifying my unified vision.
In dress pockets,
I tuck into shadows
the reflections resurrected,
reunite them with the rays
as I sentimentally
deconstruct them,
assembling a mosaic
stained-glass arboretum
to grow from pains and grief
a new garden of suncatchers
and walk among the rainbows
into a new and beautiful future.
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
Today, I choose
to mute the gray,
encroaching ghosts,
and the negativity
of others attempting
to block the rays.
I turn up the colors,
the cardinal’s song,
my own showtune voice
singing along,
the sky blue,
the verdant greens,
the leaves infused with
late summer’s breeze…
Today, I choose
to mute the grays,
to focus only on
the beauty gifted
in this day.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
When the voices inside,
whether yours or theirs,
start to rise up and disguise
the lies as truths,
look to the sky
and see the ray
of light shining down
on false transparencies
refracting all the
beautiful colors
that make up you.
Don’t use artificial
looking glasses,
for the perpetrators
can too easily
hide behind them,
your doppelgänger included.
See your reflection instead
in the windows of the souls
of those who genuinely love you:
the portals will be clouded over
for only non-love pierces
with ulterior motive
and unwilling hypnosis.
The only one being used
when the truths are real
is the messenger revealing
how God sees you
as his beloved creation.
You are precisely as He
has lovingly with purpose
made you.
You are more than enough.
You are perfect in His eyes.
Don’t let unreliable narrators
convince you otherwise.
You are the story.
You are also the pen.
You are the blank page
today again.
Don’t succumb
to writer’s block
by others injected:
each day you leave
the space unmarked
is another win for them.
To be held in captivity
is only a matter of the mind:
there are no chains binding you.
However messily you need to,
just write the first line
of today.
And do it again tomorrow.
Until you remember
where it was you were headed
before getting derailed,
detoured, delayed…
You have the power
to begin
the change.
Pick up the hose
to see the rainbow;
don’t wait for the next rain.
You don’t need to search.
You are the gold.
You always have been.
Part choice, part determination
it seems to be
to avoid the extermination
while still living
caused by the loss
of feeling
when we fall
into that state
of complacency,
the dangerous hibernation
of our dreams,
the steps we take
turning our back
on the way
it could be,
should be…
It’s not easy
to keep the gray
from taking
our colors.
We fade,
part victim,
part converter;
we don’t sell
our souls,
we give them
now away
in exchange
for tickets
to nowhere
but in that gray
for longer,
forever,
to remain.
I feel the pull
of the evolution
of the devil,
the camouflaged
minions, the demons
no longer with arms
now casting spells.
I feel the brush,
the tickle of tentacle;
to kick it off
takes more than will.
Too many sleepers
not getting taken
but tricked into nonthinking
by the sweet song of sirens.
I climb the mountain
and expectedly find
the gray shadow
spreading like
turpentine.
I wrap my limbs
protectively
around my colors
and flee to find
my favorite
awake other.
Together, we embrace,
not in fear
but as survivors
thankful for
our non-superpowers.
We will not
succumb
to the non-fate
of the others
who gave freely away
one by one
each of their
colors.
We will keep painting
on life’s canvas
to preserve
hope and beauty
with each
brush of our breath,
not with fire,
but signaling
with bright hues
to the others
who may be out there still
imbued.
Ultimately, this poem originated from reading a dear WP friend’s poem and listening to a song he posted (which I shared above). (If you are not connected with Ivor Steven, then your life is not as bright as it could be because the light of his soul shines like none other.) Ivor’s poem captures, despite the melancholy mood from the song, a wonderful moment––a pastry, a poem reading, a friendly unmasked smile. Simple. Yet everything really.
In this early dawn,
I let the stillness be,
observe the lightening of dark
transforming gradually,
so subtly,
yet the colors awakening
are so softly profound,
the beauty
almost too much to behold
with the eye,
so the heart
and soul
absorb the excess,
the spilling over,
and preserve it
as a natural resource
to guide the self
back to self
and that stillness
whenever life seems too
chaotic,
and I realize,
I am
this sunrise.
This morning’s sunrise from my front yard.
Sunrise kisses brushed upon eyelids,
Quenching drops nourishing, renewing, the spirit,
Velvet petals caressing the flesh, erasing false perfections,
inner seeds in ecstasy sacrificially spilling,
Breezes always joyfully willing
to carefully carry the heart’s deepest wishes,
Lonely floating feathered silhouettes receiving comforting sunset ripples,
Faithful mutually blooming companion, a bud always returning,
Upon a pure canvas, watercolors mixing,
slowly, beautifully messily dripping,
fluid, never fully setting,
in the swirling abstract showing
what each individual soul has mourned, is yearning…
This is poetry.
And art. And music.
And, I suppose,
love.
All words and images ©LauraDenise
My heart was fragile,
tissue-paper thin.
Only you could
continuously drip
the nourishment
I needed
in a way in which
I could absorb it all
without tearing
or having my petals
fall,
and you saw
past the false
decoy colors I donned,
knew beneath,
my heart’s truest hue
was pure,
a dove,
and the peace
within myself
soon followed,
all because
you were the rain
that found me
from that cloud.
Words and images ©LauraDenise
The sun always returns,
the rain always dries,
the colors come back,
floral scents in the breeze again waft by
in time.
So, my darling, wipe those eyes.
This season is passing soon.
And another truth:
right now,
always,
there is beauty and blessings
all about you.
Sometimes poetry is love letters to the self. And when passed around, others it helps.
Laura Denise 