Amidst and Between

Amidst the thorns,
beneath the wounds,
we can take turns
bringing self-love
to bloom,

we’ll smooth
the edges
so raw and jagged,
each lend the silk
of virgin petals

birthed in kisses
and gentle touches,
countering the poisons 
of previous “gardeners”
with ill-intentions,
fencing us from 
freedom.

We’ll remain
faithful companions,
take turns in the cycle
of taking and giving,

in sun and shadow,
through every internal
season and weathered vane.

We’ll simply heal
and learn
what love is,
together
the right way

until we both
blossom white,
centers exposed
to feel 
the cleansing 
rain. 

Love will 
beget love
which will 
beget love
to spread.

It begins
with us.
It begins 
within. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Brushes of Soul

what if i’m a drifter
not meant to float alone
but to feel
to the core
every spirit
i choose to know
in brief encounters
but bare
soul to soul
stripped to the glow

fearless
deep
strokes
of wounds
and hopes

what if my home
is collectively
each

what if I crave
the companionship 
of such fleeting
impressions
that layer
like honey –
raw, sweet

sticking
in this amaranthine
slip

what if to be whole
insatiable must be
the need

let’s feed

each other
truths

when it comes 
to how are you

let’s feel

let’s prove
nothing
to this world

let’s love
like we are
eternal

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Dissolving into Grace

Saving grace,
whole heart back
in your arms,
you hold all of me
as me;
I never knew
how non-words
could feel the best route.
Unspoken is our reset,
mutual forgiveness,
moving on
but not leaving
anything unaddressed.
We understand,
silent resolutions,
in the simple language
of love.

Do you mind if I stay
extra near
awhile,
to just exist
in this balance,
a respite
from the drama
of being so much?

Sometimes
(more often than not),
I exhaust
myself
with this wild heart
and wild soul
I house.

Hold me tight, my love.
You are the only one

who can.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Mythological Growths

Cycloptic serpent
scorched deep
into my being,
color of decay
not even attempting
to camouflage
into my resilient green,
laying eggs,
disease breeding,
growing larger,
but still unable
to see,
for at my core
is also my heart,
and it bleeds
in light.
You try
to grow more eyes,
but this love
inside
will always
render you
blind,
not Karma
but what is right
finally
for I have falsely seen
too clearly
all my life

your lies.

The exorcist has arrived:
self-love.
Parasite,
good final bye.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Almost Worthy

The silent tear
and its companion,
slipping away
from a hidden river
subterranean,

an inner well
I wish to visit,
I pay the obol
but am refused
admission.

I touch the solution
risen to the surface,
released to me
at the green-galactic
entrance.

It absorbs, vanishes,
as if it were only
imagination,
but I know it exists within,
the ancient pool
of my essence
preservation,

disturbed
by a pressure,
a fissure,
from the near past,
a conflict of interest
to who I am

attempting to contaminate
the purity of my heart’s intentions,
sent from the sacred waters
to get my attention:

two harbinger drops
to warn of the bubbling,
but how can I mend
the underground rupturing

when I cannot access
the pre-war,
cannot reverse time
to remove the source

that lies beyond
the lies
in layers
of conditioning,
beneath the protection
of pain
self-buried?

Desperate, kneeling,
thoughts begin spinning,
I get dizzy
in the spiraling,
plead for the ripples
to take me down
into the spring.

“I want to go there!
I want to come!
Let me face
what I know not
head on!

I am brave!
I am strong!”

The portal
closes shut.

What more must I do
to be worthy
enough?

Aforementioned

There is no greater feeling
(other than love, and perhaps forgiveness)
than the way the heavens
ever so slowly open
in the last of the
fading rumbles,
parting clouds
to reveal nothing more
than the forgotten,
that supreme is
all, above and beyond this,
that we never were alone
through any of it;
it makes me almost wish

for another storm…

I realize that this is
that love and forgiveness
aforementioned
taking form.

This is how inner
peace is born.

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Poem and images ©LauraDenise

December Pinks

The pink blooms I never planted
are more beautiful than ever
as I return rejuvenated
to the patio in December.

Autumn has rained
its traditional hues too;
warmth in the setting sun
dries a wet spell of the blues.

I am tickled by the message
of the southern bell for whom it tolls,
waking the possibilities in me
of choosing the way it goes.

I’ll keep growing these pink blooms
even if they get winter-taken,
for I’ve reseeded in my heart
a season of hope to never end.