Petals

I found a pile
of moments,
once treasure,
memories preserved
in sensitive limbo,
or waiting
in purgatory,
or for surgery,
or autopsy
to know, to have
final say-so…

Is it the light and shadows
that determine
if each, or collectively,
are worthy
to keep their sweet
olfactory hold
on our soul,
or simply the decision
of a heart to cradle
or let go…?

Different Rays

The sunrises are always mine,
the only ego I condone;
not only do my bones and soul
need to behold them alone,

I do believe the diurnal gift
for each witness is tailored,
different rays crafted
by Divinity’s fingers
and personally delivered,

and sometimes meant
to be received twice,
once live and another
to lift from within
when the timing is later
for an even greater purpose
right.

It resurrected again
today at three to remind
that it was always meant to be
mine.

Scrapbooking

Split-rail fences,
wildflowers,
clouds and moon,
and golden hours,

cuddly pets,
pajama days,
all things cinnamon,
autumn ablaze,

friends’ hugs,
hugs in general,
generations working
on jigsaw puzzle,

chai latte,
tea in fancy china,
every sunrise,
29:11 of Jeremiah,

daughter blossoming
and other such miracles,
like the way You show me
Your love, unconditional…

these but a few
of my favorite things
I fill my album
with to keep
the good in me
to offset the pain
until I finally find
my way home again.

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.

Out of Season

Determined to counter the moody clouds
others have been attempting to cast onto me,
I choose to seek out the sun, spring-infuse myself,
dip my soul into the fresh-blooming green,

breathe in the revitalizing April air,
let the warming rays seep in through my pores,
absorbed more in the whole of the reborn panorama than
focused on the details imploring to be explored,

labrador-blue heeler happy for any outdoor adventure,
not a hike but a mutually restorative leisurely linger,
ahhh…a new season…

Circling back to the start, back to the car,
I am not allowed to leave, it seems,
until Mother Nature imparts
a lesson, whispers words of wisdom
through some not-new, refusing-to-be-forgotten
leaves from two seasons ago,
still here, and starkly so,
weathered, fossilized autumn,

a reminder of the past
not so easily dismissed;
buried or not, it insists
on revisits,
coming to you
if you neglect it,
but what we make
of what is,
that is the endless work
or blessing
depending on the nature
of what was–
bright, shiny yellow
of yesterday
against the conglomerate
of rocks, man-manipulated
into asphalt,
a yellow sickness
or stubborn
fading sun,
either way the marring,
tattered edges and holes,
do not seem to take the whole,
still here despite the winter
with a fortitude to witness,
to reunite with the green
it was itself once.

I see a reminder that
we can turn
our back on the past
and run to spring,
but all seasons remain,
never really leave,
inside us always
are the memories,
tears of joy and loss,
the scars of life;
we can embrace it all,
co-exist in peace
with all that is inside.

I choose to find
the positive,
even in the stumbling
upon the past
in my determined
celebration of the
present moments,
all presents indeed,
and then I find a smile
in the concrete
when I see
yet another unexpected
chapter of a
love story,
so pure and yet to be
complete…

I wonder what those
resigned to defeat see.
Perception can sting
regardless, some things
we simply must feel
but perspective…
that is the key
in our control
and possession,
a powerful tool we
can self-weld and
self-wield,
manipulate,
to preserve
our internal
peace.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

The Past In Your Palm

Natural beach tangleballs
messily woven with care;
the tides tidy the past,
clean up the yesteryears,

least-cherished experiences
ready for burial but not at sea,
rejected from the ocean
to keep the present clean.

From the depths, the debris
from storms and dune erosion
get collected and rolled like snowballs
and returned to the shores,

sand burial for these non-treasures
heavy in the chest
that successfully sunk
but then resurrected.

Inspect it, if you can,
at this time of the future,
the mess and the once unbearable
now so compacted,

once thrashed about
then captured by the dark and deep,
now in your palm, non-crystal ball
looking back controlledly–

the imagined lines and ropes
and exoskeletons of past selves shed,
the stench of rotten wounds
and splinters of the shipwrecks,

all detailed in
the collection of symbols,
the litter of your old life
ready for respectful burial.

Dig the hole
in sand or dirt,
and if so desired,
place a marker on it,

then walk back to the water
and submerge yourself:
the present is clear,
and blissful is this
new soothing swell.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Window Shells

Out of body, I float through time,
hover unaccompanied, no ghost as guide;
nonetheless, through windows I peer,
Dickens-paned, layered veneers.

Yet in them, in those moments,
the mise-en-scènes are still amiss–
a faraway look, a laugh insincere,
a single, silent unwitnessed tear–

not necessarily sad, just adrift;
have I never settled into my prints?
My soul, a gypsy, but wishing to barter–
tent for cabin, canoe for harbor.

My life does not flash before my eyes,
for this person, I barely recognize;
experiences play out, acts with multitudes of ends,
the quilt more mishappen-patched than threaded.

So many past lives I’ve lived and died within this one,
so many false dawns that made me suspect the sun,
yet through it all, in this saga of my non-selves,
I walk the beaches of my past and collect the treasures

beneath and between the shells

and place them on the sunny sills of my present,
the true dawn of the genesis of me
that began when you kissed me into living
and finally led me home into my awaited dreams.

Time Capsule

Sunset strips the day of its colors;
the last drips disappear before drying.
The empty swing hangs still from the tree,
its motion, too, retreats into time.

All the world seems silent, pauses;
all the years universally fossilize.
Only I and the earth subtly shift as
the sun reaches, in gold capsulizes.

For A While

Times are changing,
the earth keeps rotating,
seasons arrive and depart…
Change is always hard on my heart.

No shadow now joined to my hip.
Gradual independence.
Children grow up and detach.
How can we know which kiss may be the last?

IMG_E8181

Years unravelled from finite twine;
at the end, the kites will fly.
If Father Time were to grant my wish,
which moments would I revisit?

IMG_E3775

The sands keep slipping;
no way to flip it.
How should I spend this day?
What memories can I make
to leave my family as legacy
to have, to hold, to keep
as the distance continues to grow
and life leads us down different roads?

Tomorrow is never promised,
another sunset never guaranteed.
Priorities must be organized
so nothing overshadows the people.

This moment may be all we have,
so when I reach for your hand,
let me draw you nearer.
Come sit for a while and talk with me, dear.

Lone Fisherman

Lone fisherman at the sea
I watch as the sun begins to bleed
into the horizon and the golden
makes a moment of the scene
that in turn seeps into me
and coats in a honey so sweet
each of my memories and dreams.

The fisherman fades in footsteps away
into the sunrise of a thousand days,
and I paint upon the canvas of my soul
a thousand stories I do not know.

Poem and image by Laura Denise