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

The Petals I’ve Known

It’s been sunny and seventies, and the seasons
have not so much been confused
as they have been seemingly
just leisurely mingling, amused,
some stalling, some joyfully letting go;
nothing in the South rushes though.

Like melting cubes of ice in tea,
we take it sweet and slow down here.
It tickles me pink to have the mix
sprinkling personal messages so clear.

Today started differently,
gray with a bit of nip in the air.
Certain trees partaking in autumn
are almost now bare,
covering the patio in a bland
blanket over stone,
which made the flowers
I did not grow
even more the focal point
of my windowed soul.

I smiled for how they have become
so deeply rooted in my journey.
Marking my heart’s pages,
so many petals and leaves held so dearly,
imprinting with their colors and scents
my most powerful untold stories.

Fissures

Fissures shift,
the inner lifts,
though I wish
to keep it
enclosed.
Exposed
to the elements
becomes my soul.
The tears rise
and flow.

When the painquake subsides,
there are less toxins inside.
I suppose it is nature’s way
of eliminating the accumulating waste,
that which we bury in false deaths,
that which we hide beneath the surface,
a sort of protection and procrastination
of that which we cannot bear in the moment
to face.

Two-faced
are we all.
How are you?
Good, thanks.
Why do we ask
that question
in passing?
Too often fake.
How am I?
Probably actually
similar to how you are
especially in the way
that we guard
the answer.
Brief eye contact.
Continue walking.
If only we acknowledged
anything.
Hands on phones,
hands of clocks.
Bombs inside.
Tick. Tock.

Fissures by nature
are meant to be breaks.
Down is mine. Again.
No brakes.

Not a fall
but an opening.
An involuntary wound-seeping.
Weeping.

My inner, risen now.
What will you do
with what’s come out?

Red is the heart
and magma
at the core.

I’ve left a puddle
of lava
upon your floor.

Dress Pockets

Over the years, I’ve collected
the best fragments
from the jagged breaks
of the past,
revisiting the scenes
after the immediate threats
have into ashes passed.

When the sun faithfully returns,
each ray seems to gently lead,
reflecting in intermittent beams,
to rebuild resilient dreams,

refracted off each of these
gorgeous shards of glass.
I add to these, the heartifacts
unearthed from avalanche

and dug up from old spots,
buried for protection,
washed and polished rocks
diversifying my unified vision.

In dress pockets,
I tuck into shadows
the reflections resurrected,
reunite them with the rays
as I sentimentally
deconstruct them,

assembling a mosaic
stained-glass arboretum
to grow from pains and grief
a new garden of suncatchers
and walk among the rainbows
into a new and beautiful future.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Four Seasons (Four Haiku)

choking vine pierces
peering into window pains
drains the last color

ember of strength flares
colors of chested dreams surge
from the inside paints

momentum floods up
the courage to turn away
and spread self-love’s wings

the greatest fear yet
overcome when exposing
the heart once again

Did you know I post my photo haiku daily to Instagram? This is today’s. https://www.instagram.com/bylauradenise