Forever Nested

Empty nest
discourages sadness,
too beautifully woven
with flowered wild grasses, 

nostalgic strands of the past
leave the heart
to imagination,
a reminder that love remains
behind in every season,

as well as the next:
from eggs come wings
to independence
to touch for oneself 
the clouds’ edges.

Home, they say, 
is where the heart is, 
and a part of my heart
flies with you and will 
beyond this world’s
and life’s limitations… 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Seasons

Seasons about,
seasons within,
seasons of life,
seasons begin.

All seasons end.

This brings about what pleases
and that which disappoints,
that which shatters
and that which fills with joy,

but who are we to judge
what’s in our best interest
from our non-omniscient,
limited perspective?

Who is the narrator?
Who is the character?
Who is the author?
Who will read it

in the end?

Dusty cover,
spring breeze,
dust to dust,
seasons never cease.

I resist the gales of change
even though I’ve grown wings;
sometimes our comfy cocoons
are stirred on purpose
by the leaf.

Premature nostalgia
begins to take hold;
I try to focus on the excitement
of what He has in store.

Seasons never cease.
“Nothing gold can stay,”
but it returns so loyally,
and in its absence regrows

faith.

I will harvest the gold
in the center
as the petals unfurl,
life within life…
keeping or returning to
the purity and light,

I believe,

is the eternal goal.

Poem and image ©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

Second Apiering

Tide flows, 
tide ebbs, 
changing, hiding, 
revealing the edges
of division.

I watch
the transitions,
half dream-drifting,
half paying
detail-attention.

Always thinking. 

I ponder on 
the ebb and flow, 
how one takes
and the other gives
in its rhythmic dance
to and fro

and how taking
can also be
giving, 
and giving be
taking,
and for each,
the difference 
is in the
seeking and releasing.

We send bottled messages
afloat, hopeful for
its accurate delivery
and offer what we desire
for burial at sea;

we collect treasures
and look for clues
from gods and mermaids
Destiny-strewn.

I notice in the wet sand
in between surf’s blanketing,
a secret passageway, 
a ladder to dreams,

unless, of course, 
it’s an evil illusion,
a detour or trap
set by opposing forces.

I wonder
how much 
is serendipity
and divine intervention
verses taking control
and free will’s actions,

if choosing the evanescent
option not on the maps
is a test of fortitude
or foolish brassiness.

Another option,
nonetheless, is presented:
two piers to walk,
but only one may
have no end. 

Poem and images by Laura Denise

Symbols in the Sand

A detour, soulful tugging,
I find myself impulsively
knelt again on the white sands
before the altar at an end
of the earth,
surf symphony
rising predictably
to greet me,
but I casually look about
for the signs He wanted me
to again come ’round…
between my toes
ancient mountains ground
to grains,
quartz granules,
sugar-soft,
appropriate backdrop
for the hieroglyph
written for me:
it freezes me.

So easily,
I succumb
to the enchantment
of silence,
save for those waves
and occasional sea birds
with personal messages calling.
(It always baffles me
how I can so often have
this parcel of paradise
to myself…)
I stay a long, unhurried while
just trying to feel
what this enigmatic swirl
of sea oat in the sand
is all about…
Something about curves
is always so sensuous,
aesthetically strokes
my soul…
I don’t need a translation;
in fact, I prefer
this sacredly-carved symbol.
I make it my own
and add it to my collection
of clues
leading me leisurely
home.
It is the journey
after all, and I have nowhere else
to go.

Poem and images ©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

Dimensions

My heart and soul
tire me out,
always frolicking
away and about,

relentless in their
prodding and searching,
no toe-dips,
just all-in swan-diving

into every unknown,
exploring, testing, challenging
the boundaries
of this world,

restless to breach
every deterrence
placed by societal rules
and norms…

So much fear
in potential soulmates
with whom to travel
these magical non-roads.

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