What Kind

What kind of world
would it be
if we all knew
our neighbors?

What type of hearts
would evolve
if we all spread
kindness?

One drop
is nothing,
could make
no difference?

If each drop
thought like that,
there’d be no
ocean.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Simply Love

The purpose of life, the meaning,
has always been crystal clear to me,
never has a non-mystery
been more obvious and accessible:

to love
is the reason
and the miracle,

to be gifted hearts and souls
to find others on the way
home.

Who will you bring?
Who will you pass over?
Remember the Savior
may be the homeless
or aborted,
the silent one
in the corner,
the one deemed
a misfit, different,
deformed.

Each created
from love,
each loved
from above,
each returned
after this
to the metamorphic,
body-molted
non-shape of
love.

The purpose of life, the meaning,
has always been laid out:
Love thy neighbor.
Love thy spouse.
Love thy enemy.
Love thy self.

May we love
the children,
first and foremost.

Cobwebs Between Petals

Ninety-three million miles away,
yet upon the cobwebs of a flower,
Sol’s ray reaches, haloes, frames.

How powerful
that gentle, golden beam is
when it finds and reminds us our
insignificance

is more important and personal
than we think it to be,
for the Creator made sure
the cold and darkness
would always have
returning light and heat.

We are turned away each evening,
in a rotation beyond our control,
perhaps to make possible
the continuous rebirthing
of new-day gratitude and hope,

to make possible these moments
that universally lift up our gazes,
to freeze-frame and coat in gold
these nuggets of humble
beauty appreciation,

like cobwebs on a flower
that still me with revelation:
in the tapestry and labyrinth of life,
we are woven and connected
by hidden common thread,
and love could always,
then and now,
win.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Roots and Blooms

With a single spark
from my wild heart,
I sneakily reseed
a little yellow cheer
and carry on
my solo way,
planting the
little flames
to light the way
back to
love.

So if you see
the floral light,
pass it on
randomly,
be kind
to a stranger,
let’s try
to string
smiles,
no matter
how fleeting,
for the winter is
receding,
and the birds sing
of forgiveness,
of burying,
of remembering,

for in the decay
of leaves,
we can fertilize
the best parts
of memories,
and visit
the rest
at the graveyard
of past seasons;
the reasons
you cling to
that poison
your roots,
leave by the wayside
and mark the route.
Visit respectfully
but do not carry it
with you;
seeds were meant
for detaching,
and rebirthing
where they land
new blooms.