First Chords

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…

Suffice

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.

If I Could Reach It

There is a pain in you
so exquisitely piercing,
in depths that cannot
be reached;
if I could dive
into the abyss of you,
I wouldn’t hesitate
to retrieve it.

But even then,
it could too easily
well up again,
so instead,
I would trace the source,
swim upstream
through your tears
and pluck
from the duct
the thorn.

But I cannot.
The furthest I can reach
is your heart
and transfuse the antiserum
from my own scars,
hold your hand
and see you through
each storm,
and all of my faith
add to yours
and send up
our plea

to the stars.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Ravaged Nest

mourning dove
the morning after
I will shed the tears
for you, dear lady

I will grieve

but we most both look
to the sun
it rises again
and our lives go on

even without
the physical presence
sometimes of lost ones
we love

the circle of life
contains the dark
and the light

the ultimate joys
the seemingly unrecoverable
losses

no deity induced
things just happen

I believe
He is wrapped
around us
grieving too

but reassuring
He will take them
to a place even more
beautiful

and hold them close
as we, too, will
always do

the sun rises
against mourning dove’s
rooftop silhouette

a reminder
a symbol
that represents

loss and love
will always be
the polar peaks
of life

so closely
intertwined

and whether we
are ready or not,
the sun again
will rise

continuing the
advancement of time

seemingly so long
before we can reunite

but this life
is but a blink
of an eye

and in that downward
motion of that lid
we still have much
love
we can give

to love
is the only way
to truly
live

In the Ashes

I walk through the airy white ashes

of all the extinguished yesterdays;

along my cheeks, I rub the dark soot,

not like blush, but battle paint

for strength in a war

for internal peace.

There is always a sadness

buried in remains

after the combustion and fall

of what used to reign

so steadfastly,

in the end of the life

of the final ember’s glow

when the rain

saturates the last ignition hope.

The clean up and rebuilding

takes time and effort;

no amount of it can

ever restore the devastation,

for nothing

should ever burn,

save the passion

of united hearts, pure.

I walk through the airy white ashes.

I wish I could have saved it.

The soot tickles my cheek

and encourages me to go on

living,

while remembering

and making out of this,

a difference.

Not all loss

needs to be buried.

We can both move on

and carry,

as long as what we take

is fertile,

so in the worst of conditions,

it will grow

the sprouts and green

of the happiness

we refused to leave behind

in the ashes.

The Lines We Grip

I don’t know

if time heals as much

as it wears us thin,

loosens our grip

on the line,

not giving up hope,

but giving in

to the realization

that whatever was on the other end

is not coming back,

will never be able to be

reeled in,

and eventually,

we reach for the tail end

instead

with our other hand,

of the kite,

not knowing what

it looks like

hidden

in the white clouds,

but sensing that

up is universally better

than down,

and little by little

our cut and blistered fingers

relax on the line

that sinks under

and without realizing,

we let it slip

to reach with the other hand

for that kite string,

believing, hoping,

again

in what it might bring…