Shifting

shifting sands
grains unable to be grasped
slipping through fingers
sieve of my existence
footprints vanishing
in vain trying to leave
an imprint, fingerprints
fossilizing

as I watch
sea drops dry on shells
shells of mankind
displayed non-selves
on shelves

shifting painted shapes
offer to take me away
only to lead to the next
drifting cumulous cloud
lateral when I need
to be higher
homeward bound

shifting sands
I open my hand
spread my fingers wider
I know what the answers
are not
to feel the silk
is to feel
nothing caught
but sensory strokes
the void
in the curve
of my palm
no trail found
to my entrance
into the sea

saltwater can’t sting
when the wounds
are too far beneath
the body’s surface

arms open
I invite
the above in
home-
sick
let me know
I am not

forgotten

Catapults

Internal disposition
of slipping
into loss
of direction,
contingent upon
situation, 
origin, intention,
catalyst participation,
leisurely initiated or
punitively inflicted,
meditation or conviction.
Usually welcome
as an introverted creative,
this episodic disillusion 
stripping me of all pulls
keeping me rooted
to anything… 

The void.

Loss of hearing
among the noise.

Galaxies inside.

Gravity denied. 

Lifetimes paused,
unable to decide

anything at all.
Desirous of a

f
a
l
l,

anything to move the air
to revivify my trackable pulse,
the beat of my heart
back on the radar
to be found again,
though I am not

lost.
I’m right here. 
The voice,
gone.

Why did I wander
so far 
from home?

The fall,
granted:
my return,

a

c
o
m
e
t

flung from
catapult. 

This will hurt
us all… 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Broken Blind(ers)

Always broken blinds,
dirty window panes,
I listen for a message
in the language of The Rains.

Hours pass by as I lie
in honesty – open, transfixed,
determined to encourage
Revelation to visit.

On my island where I desire
the silence to shatter
the chaos swirling, chanting,
withholding the answers.

Sun returns
prematurely.
Cross-breeze through screens:
I listen for the whispers
to reveal what I plea, need,
to know

in my bones,
in my soul.

1/6/22

Glimpses

I thought I saw a glimpse
of angel wings

with one tear clinging, 

or maybe it was my imagination 
or my dream

realized, or so I thought, 
for in that fleeting brush
and drop,

a celestial 
crystal ball 
of truths; 

after all, 
I write 
my own future, 

and sometimes the signs
are only meant to be

clues

only detectable 
in the listening 
of the vision 

within 
that flutters
when the white wings 
whisper, pay

a visit,
ironically when I turn 
quickly, 

situationally maybe
when I come to find

I am 
the gift

yet to be
collected.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

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. 

img_0583

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. 

img_9736
Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Barricades and Gates

Don’t count the days
you’ve been apart
or all the fissures
that keep forming
in your heart.

Don’t count at all
except to count on the reunion.
Sometimes it’s necessary
to future-focus in those moments. 

Close your eyes
and let that vision in;
the light of faith
makes the best stitches. 

Stop red-exing. Green circle
all the days left in this life.
Keep hope open and
into each moment invited. 

Don’t count the tears that drop
in the seemingly endless flood. 
Count on His greater plan.
Lift your face to the Son. 

Pray for the courage to take the wheel
as the angels give directions. 
Sometimes we have to wait longer;
sometimes we need to take action. 

Sometimes it’s up to them;
sometimes it’s not determined by fate
but by every action 
we don’t and do make. 

Dead ends are the Devil.
Detours, angel interventions. 
The first, avalanches suffocating.
The latter, breathways to salvation. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Tea With Honey Bee

Few things do I find
more peaceful 
than the golden hours
I make and spend 
with non-people
in those euphoric moments
I string together
between the shadows, 
sitting among the bees
in neither garden
nor bramble,
a weedy yard 
as proxy for the meadow
I have yet to discover
as my special 
place to feel 
home. 

In the meantime, 
longer still, 
will I spend 
unweaving the web
to the portal. 

I watch in comforting
company each
peculiar movement
of a single honey bee
again in the perfect
light, so celestial. 

I bet he’s seen
my meadow. 

I strain to hear
the whispers, 
the clues, 
as I always do,
and add them to
my map
home. 

I take into my essence
the message 
of a single bee
teetering
on the webbed edge
of the dark and deep, 
and I remember, 
too late or in perfect timing, 
that I also have and always have had
wings. 

Perhaps this whole map thing
is what deceives, 
keeps us stagnant 
with the planning
when we simply
need to faithfully begin
the journey, 
all of it too fleeting
to waste another moment
not believing
we can achieve
right now
our dreams. 

We are never truly defeated, 
jilted, ill-fated, 
except by ourselves
when we lie down
too long 
where we don’t belong,
succumbing to the sunset song of the poppies
when the field of sunny, new-day daisies
is just up ahead. 

I never heard a buzz from that bee. 
Funny how later and always, I will remember
the way it pollinated
these dreams. 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Everything Passes

everything passes
the good and the bad
time keeps nudging
us forward
with or without
what we once had

we can only carry
so much
in a heart, in a mind
some things we cling to
time tries to help us
leave behind

sometimes what we
strive for
simply cannot be
reached
glass divides
sound and touch
mirrors reflect
incongruities

for reasons we may
not be privy to
for certain people
may only be
meant to be
crosspathing through

to serve
but one purpose
which is not to stay
but to nudge us again
in internal direction
pitfalls propelling us
alternate ways

everything passes
including the pain waves
time keeps nudging
us forward
with or without
permission
every moment
of every day

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Petals Along the Path

Just another golden bloom
beneath the golden rays,
just another petal in the path
to my heart’s hearth
at the end of the day

where you’ll find me always
and just the same,
as faithful as sun & moon
taking turns to
light individual ways,

but you know the direction home
by the scent of the dream,
and you make your way 
off trail through the fields
to me;

the wildflowers whisper,
familiar with us both,
and excitedly sway, tickled by
our love’s natural growth.

In the distance, 
your soul espies 
its shared light source:
love of your life
predictably hunched over
wildflowers beyond the garden. 

Inside your chest,
a million daffodils
spring up,
your silhouette 
against the setting sun, 
itself, like hers, 
haloed in the golden, 

and the gods gently shake
with a smile
the sacred snow globe of love,
officially changing the season,
and all of creation again
wakes up…

Poem and image ©LauraDenise