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

Finally

I am changing again,
another metamorphosis,
finally with wings

delicate yet indestructible,
soft but dipped in
a protective celestial coating.

I think it may be your love
combined with His blessing.

I think this is my last rebirth,
no more rising from the ashes
of my previous selves.

I am ready to fly,
though already home,
so comfortably snug
in your heart.

Coastal breezes
keep me blissfully hovering
above the benevolent sea

as the rising sun
warms my soul
without singeing
my dreams.

Tea With Honey Bee

Few things do I find
more peaceful 
than the golden hours
I make and spend 
with non-people
in those euphoric moments
I string together
between the shadows, 
sitting among the bees
in neither garden
nor bramble,
a weedy yard 
as proxy for the meadow
I have yet to discover
as my special 
place to feel 
home. 

In the meantime, 
longer still, 
will I spend 
unweaving the web
to the portal. 

I watch in comforting
company each
peculiar movement
of a single honey bee
again in the perfect
light, so celestial. 

I bet he’s seen
my meadow. 

I strain to hear
the whispers, 
the clues, 
as I always do,
and add them to
my map
home. 

I take into my essence
the message 
of a single bee
teetering
on the webbed edge
of the dark and deep, 
and I remember, 
too late or in perfect timing, 
that I also have and always have had
wings. 

Perhaps this whole map thing
is what deceives, 
keeps us stagnant 
with the planning
when we simply
need to faithfully begin
the journey, 
all of it too fleeting
to waste another moment
not believing
we can achieve
right now
our dreams. 

We are never truly defeated, 
jilted, ill-fated, 
except by ourselves
when we lie down
too long 
where we don’t belong,
succumbing to the sunset song of the poppies
when the field of sunny, new-day daisies
is just up ahead. 

I never heard a buzz from that bee. 
Funny how later and always, I will remember
the way it pollinated
these dreams. 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Gardens Along The Way

Raindrops cling
to Japanese Maple;
Time suspends them
to give way to
Stillness’s held breath…
subtly exhaled
as I pass, as if I were a
royal angel.

Bare feet upon
the cool, smooth stones,
into another potential
garden of myself,
I enter alone,
a blossoming bud
incongruous 
with the shibui growth;
humbly, I pause
to reflect,
but recognize this is also not
my home. 

I continue on
in the directional tug of 
my soul. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Too Soon To Title

You can find me among the wildflowers
in the golden light;
this is one of the few things I know
about where my soul resides. 

You’ll carry the scars;
they make you who you are, 
but rarely will they remind
of the battles you thought you lost
when you slipped through 
that presumed eternal hole
inside.

He lies. 

That’s all you need to know
for now.
God hears your prayers. 
Oh, broken child, 
please get up from the
cold, hard ground. 
I’ll be the one
to hold you for a while. 

One day,
so genuine and bright
will be
your smile. 

Seeing you here
on this pivotal day, 
your hemorrhaged
soul upon the tile…

This is it, my love.
The epitome of
raw, awakened denial. 
The tomorrow 
you consider
giving all hope on…
well, even the greatest
of fighters fall before
the rise. 

You don’t have to
dry your eyes. 
I just came by
to let you know
God does indeed
send you the one
to do more than 
have and hold;

he’ll show you how
to love yourself,
and with that gifted key
you’ll unlock every
chain and door,
be able to go
wherever you want,
for home is not
a destination
but who you are
when you

find me among the wildflowers
in the golden light. 

A poem to deliver to my 2018 self. 
A poem for those like me then. ❤ 

Petals Along the Path

Just another golden bloom
beneath the golden rays,
just another petal in the path
to my heart’s hearth
at the end of the day

where you’ll find me always
and just the same,
as faithful as sun & moon
taking turns to
light individual ways,

but you know the direction home
by the scent of the dream,
and you make your way 
off trail through the fields
to me;

the wildflowers whisper,
familiar with us both,
and excitedly sway, tickled by
our love’s natural growth.

In the distance, 
your soul espies 
its shared light source:
love of your life
predictably hunched over
wildflowers beyond the garden. 

Inside your chest,
a million daffodils
spring up,
your silhouette 
against the setting sun, 
itself, like hers, 
haloed in the golden, 

and the gods gently shake
with a smile
the sacred snow globe of love,
officially changing the season,
and all of creation again
wakes up…

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Spring Trepidation

Nothing blooms
without first being buried;
seems I’ve spent most of my life
underground waiting,
gripping the darkness,
but denial is shapeshifting,
roots repeatedly rejected
despite the yearning.

This time, maybe…
the maybe the bravest part,
for the doubt is the drought
when the clouds become
quenchingly dark.

Perhaps only faith
in love and the dream
can fertilize the seed,
and only continued belief
keep the sprout growing. 

I suppose that’s why some break
through the earth
while others retain
fear of fruition 
and why we have seasons
to vary the conditions

to inspire the buried,
the dormant, the hibernating,
to take that final leap
whenever they’re ready.

Some burst through
on days with blue skies and
sun’s spotlight on debut petals,
embraced by love, the gardener
waiting with welcome arms,
and the dreams get fulfilled;

others with faith
still laced with trepidation
may emerge under the
protection of the shadows
unsure if their hearts’ desires
will be met in this new world.

It is my time.
Or so I thought.
So sure he’ll be there. 
But what if he’s not. 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise