Chain Links

Withering weed
behind chain-link fence
produces the illusion
of being defenseless,

unable to escape
to freedom,
but the thing
about dandelions
is the way God made them,

for big are the dreams
they are charged with,
but it is in their breaking apart
into pieces that launches

these seeds of more
to be rebirthed elsewhere,
carried protectively upon benevolent breeze
and prayer

in different directions
better for us,
for when dead ends surround,
the ways are through
or up,

toward The Light,
and wing-bathed in hope,
blind-ride flight right through
the wide-open holes,

or one cracked window…

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Origin

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.

Untitled

We can be nothing,
label-free,
defying definition,
and be
everything.

Come fly
with me,
fear not
the fall;
we never have
to land at all.

We’ll rise,
we’ll dip,
we’ll plummet,
we’ll soar,

sun-singe our wings
and touch
the ocean floor.

May I?

May I never lose my way
to getting lost,
may I never resist the urge
to leave it all,
may I never shelter my face
from the storm,
may I never let my arms fall
in the downpour,
may I never fully wash off
the grit of the sand,
and may I never be restrained
by clock or human hand.

May I never negotiate with my soul:
may I never let anyone close the window.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

The Language of Wildflowers

I have always been drawn to intimacy,
that of the petal, the shell, the bee.
Grand, sweeping panoramic views
have trouble impressing me.
Everyone else lines up though to see,
so I release the guilt to the benevolent breeze
while I sneak away from my party
after posing in their pictures
to get low upon the mountain surface
to hear the gentle, pink, silky whispers.

My first two vacation poems of the same subject,
the world-renowned postcard as a blurred backdrop.
You can take a body to a different location,
but you cannot take control of a soul’s vocation,
especially when it is spiritually connected
more so to the underfoot details overlooked and neglected.

The stories of nature that fit in the palm of my hand
speak to me more profoundly than the grandest canyon.
I have never been one to follow the crowds.
The bold mountaintop bloom whispers another route.

I cannot take it now: my father is guiding this tour.
But I will never forget the brief shared encounter

with the single wildflower

that found me in the clouds
and allowed me to recenter myself.

Hope Is A Red Balloon (With Audio)

Hope is a red balloon.
To dream is to release,
To let the heart again believe:
Benediction granted wings.

Hope is a red balloon.
To fear is to release.
Self-shackling to the ribbon needed
For freedom to be achieved.

Hope is a red balloon.
But with passenger and knapsack attached,
It becomes the passageway
Between spirit-death and life hatched.

Hope is a red balloon
That may burst at any moment
Over deep, dark uncharted waters
With drowning a likely occurrence.

Hope is a red balloon.
Faith is to ride it into the winds
Knowing the trajectory
Is calculated and adjusted
by Him,

Delivering to safety,
Granting the dream.
Because you held fast
To Hope’s string.

Poem and image and recitation ©LauraDenise

Where It Soars

Freedom of the spirit,

the release of the heart,

lies within us all

in that potential-spark;

beneath the scars,

wrapped in chains,

the whisper persists

guarded by brain,

but only the heart

knows the direction,

can guide the way,

to authentic ever-after.

Hear the fear

to track its source.

Defeat the wraith.

Uncage the heart

and follow where it

soars.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Pilot

I decide

where and when

I go

next.

I’ve always had wings

but never realized

I, alone,

am the pilot.

This Strange New Land

2e35211c-f445-4ffa-b1a2-ea3e0193ad85

My hands are free.

It is an odd feeling

to be gripping so tightly

nothing,

but not like previous

free falling.

My feet are steady.

The fears, the desperations,

have fled, leaving me

drama free.

I have landed

in such a strange new land.

My muses, even,

have retreated,

not in abandonment,

but belief that I can stand

on my own.

Mother Nature and my higher power

whisper again the ways to go now

toward home.

Without the whirlwinds of that past life

deafening me,

I can hear them now.

And I’m not in a hurry.

To flee toward or away from

anything.

Normally, I would be on guard,

not trusting the calm,

knowing it is only the before

of the next storm,

but somehow,

I now know

even though I am still one without a home,

I am exactly where I should be.

I do not feel lost.

I am not lonely.

At this stage of relief

in my journey.

Is this serenity?

So many years,

I spoke the words

of that prayer.

Something or someone

feels so gently and thankfully

near.

My hands, my arms, my heart

are now free

to, if I choose,

receive.

Little Red Balloon

I am usually natural,

only find myself in

nature,

but if I were synthetic

right now,

I’d be a

little red balloon

filled with helium

with a long white

ribbon attached

on a

blue-sky,

white-cumulous

sort of day.

I am light

for once

and colorful,

rising

toward

the light

sneaking away

from an old life

happiness

and hope,

not helium,

lifting me

away.

I have been here before

but each time been stopped

because of that long

white ribbon,

usually caught by

another who pulls me

back down,

but also by

the brick of guilt

attached to me.

Then my hope

of freedom

deflates

again.

Again I am on that

upward ascent.

Please, God,

don’t let anyone

catch the ribbon,

please give me the

courage to cut

my own tether

to that brick

that shackles me

to this spot.

For my heart is this

little red balloon,

and it was meant

to soar.