Coffee With Emily

If hope is “the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul”
and never stops singing,
even in the storms, 

then faith is knowing
the branch will never break,
that no matter the opposing forces, 
the twig will remain,

no what ifs
or backup plans
just in case:
the twig will remain
for hope’s unwavering
refrain, 

for even if hope 
has the wings to withstand,
all things with feathers
need a place
to land. 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314

Poem and image ©LauraDenise (Quoted line by Emily Dickinson)

Perhaps The Storms

Perhaps the storms
are simply meant
to rouse our inner
empowerment,

faraway rumbles
culminating
into the now,
waking from hibernation
the reminder
of the how,

for fate is passive
sitting ducks,
and destiny
the arms
in the winds
resurrecting
the self up,

believing in the achieving
part of dreams,
rousing the soul
to with that single bird,
despite the conditions,

sing.

I dance in the rain,
and the bird
wishes it
were me;
we chat about exchanging
wings and feet
but decide each are intentionally
meant to propel,
and here we are together
celebrating freedom
from cage and cell.

Some Days

Full moon
still hides
parts of itself
from view.

Wildflowers
don’t always feel
like opening
up to bloom.

Not all
birdsongs
can be
cheerful tunes.

Stars may not
get to every
wish they accrue.

Some days
the water
vapor is unable
to make itself
cloud-plumes.

Seasons
of the heart
insist a sunny poet
take a respite
in the shade,

but earth shifts
and turns
and always brings
another new day.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

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

Let Me

Let my honeyed-elixir voice
in your left ear
reach down to the raw & scarred
present and past tears,

those rips in the abyss
of the soul:
let this touch caress
and these words slowly dripped
from my lips
coat.

I know
each deep,
dry-well fissure
all too well:
let me stitch you
with these
golden threads
like I’ve sewn
myself

and fill you
with the feel
of liquid hope.
Let it
overflow.

Lay down your armor
beside mine,
undress so I
may dress
the wounds
unable to be healed
by Time.

You are safe
tonight.
Let me take care
of you
until the return
of Light.


Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Umbrellaless On Purpose

Moments drip
drop, first
molecules
floating
to fall,
and when
the basin
is filled,
our time
is up.

Let me taste
each one
individually
upon my
upturned
mouth.

May I spend
the least
amount
in flood
or drought,
paned,
sheltered
or drowned.

Let me feel
it all
though;
to offer an umbrella
or call me inside
is to deny me
each elixir dose
to my soul’s life.

Moments
shared
with others,
even fleeting
in passing,
make up
the ocean
of emotion
that fills and
propels me
most deeply.

When the last sun sets,
I know I cannot take
any drops with
even though they became a part
of my very composition,
but heaven is in the clouds
for a reason,
and I believe from these
drops within,
another birthing
will begin… 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Garden Escape

“Marguerite Gachet in the Garden” by Van Gogh

I have always been one to so easily lose myself, to be lured so very far away, in a painting, a song, a window…

In the years of his cussing at me, I would often detach, escape, into this 1890 white-wooden-framed window… Thank you, Vincent.

I was overweight and often wore comfortable, baggy, masculine clothes. He said dresses did not look good on me. My hair was much shorter then. He said I didn’t look good with it longer.

I was trapped in that marriage, I always (erroneously) felt. From the beginning, it seemed. From the very, very hesitant, “I do” when I was six months pregnant. Twenty-four slow years of the same-old cycle (after cycle), same broken record played over and over.

I wanted to be the young lady in the painting. Mostly because she was far away from the cigarette-butt-and-beer-can scented patio. Mostly because I bet she could hear the birds singing. Mostly because I felt the freedom in the breeze that teased her tresses and hem.

When he finally agreed to leave once and for all, he took the painting. I think he knew…

My daughter wanted to get it back for me. Eventually, I asked too. He said no. This past Christmas, my daughter was going to get me a replica. I told her I don’t really want it anymore, that he ruined even that for me.

But then I realized, I didn’t need it anymore. Because I was now her.

Cussing cacophony
chokes me.
Into my secret garden,
I escape;
surrounded by white flowers
and open air,
I inhale both in deeply.
If his bowl were not empty,
the words would not be
so nasty.
A bottle smashes,
but I know I will only be beaten
verbally.
I run farther
into the open fields
until all I can hear
is the birds’ sweet euphony
soothing me.
The lady left behind

is a statue of stone.
Eventually, he will pass
out cold.
I’ll stay out here a while
longer,
tuck behind my ear
a keepsake wildflower,
run
my fingers
over the soft-tipped grasses,
consider staying forever
on the other side of this glass,
but I can’t leave her.
I head back.
Morning rays have again
made their rounds,
but upon the wet pillow,
a petal has
drowned.


But that was then, and this is now.

Thank you, love,
for the continuous cleaning
of the mirrors of my past,
for your endless patience,
for making me
every day blush
calling me beautiful and princess,
for being my rain and sun
blooming me into
this miracle of
self-love
.

❤️

Parting Kiss

I must part ways with you now,
dear Darkness;
Light is forlorn
without its Laura,

my aura
is dimming
the further I drift
in this alluring
cradling
away from attempts

of putting forth
the efforts
to swim
back up
toward Bliss:

I still hope,
believe (barely),
that it exists.

A parting kiss…

Yes, I know
that means
I will have to let go,
for now,
of that dream,
but I can keep
the parts
that were seeded,
for weeds
they are not;
I feel it,
in that new spot,
how I can nurture
it into something
beautiful
still…

I will.

I return to the isle
from a distance,
leave a trinket,
so it is known
I’ll always
be near,

no need to desert
every future
possibility.

We will all
someday
see.