
I gently lay
my heart to rest
upon a sea-oat-
suspended hammock
and let my Maker
tenderly sway
through the breeze
my cradled malaise,
and after this dose
of soaking wounds in warm gold,
I’ll convert this sling
to sail boat…Â
Poet. Writer. Photographer.

I gently lay
my heart to rest
upon a sea-oat-
suspended hammock
and let my Maker
tenderly sway
through the breeze
my cradled malaise,
and after this dose
of soaking wounds in warm gold,
I’ll convert this sling
to sail boat…Â
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.
Sometimes miracles happen
in one downpour
of the heavens,
and sometimes it may be
we need to learn
that last lesson…
Tucked within,
regardless,
I have come to believe,
are the nudges and nuggets
that to the origin
of our Created selves
lead and rebirthe
free.

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


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…


The sunrises are always mine,
the only ego I condone;
not only do my bones and soul
need to behold them alone,
I do believe the diurnal gift
for each witness is tailored,
different rays crafted
by Divinity’s fingers
and personally delivered,
and sometimes meant
to be received twice,
once live and another
to lift from within
when the timing is later
for an even greater purpose
right.
It resurrected again
today at three to remind
that it was always meant to be
mine.
Artificial light
will suffice
when I employ
on quiet walks
my creative devices
to make art
during heart-
survival crises
until it all naturally passes,
as all weather is designed to do;
I need to do better with storm preparations,
though He always sees ahead and sees me
through.

Tonight, to distract
with creative play,
I replace and extend
a stem with manmade
until the flower becomes a tower,
and then I ignite the beacon,
and let the moon console
a lonely orb romantic-dreaming.

I do these magnificent things
not only to take focus away from the pain
but because it gives me the control and power
as an abuse-survivor to manipulate
in a positive way.
I do it for you, but really and also
for me, selfishly,
but if you and I both need it,
how comforting it then becomes for us
to become “we.”
You’ve been here too,
I know, as I have been there,
not these same tracks
but in the aches that echo,
shared.

Split-rail fences,
wildflowers,
clouds and moon,
and golden hours,
cuddly pets,
pajama days,
all things cinnamon,
autumn ablaze,
friends’ hugs,
hugs in general,
generations working
on jigsaw puzzle,
chai latte,
tea in fancy china,
every sunrise,
29:11 of Jeremiah,
daughter blossoming
and other such miracles,
like the way You show me
Your love, unconditional…
these but a few
of my favorite things
I fill my album
with to keep
the good in me
to offset the pain
until I finally find
my way home again.









































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
Beside them the birds of the heavens dwell; they sing among the branches.
Psalm 104:12
Emerging from tepals,
I simply listen
to the birds’
morning songs
before the wakening
and bustle
of the world
in which we both
belong,
before the sun itself
beats its rays down;
thank you, Lord,
for the gradual
transitions
and living Psalms.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise