Poet. Writer. Photographer.
Whirlwinds, whirlpools,
whirl me, no blackholes,
just the pulls and pushes
of the world;
when will I be able again
to simply be
still?
My soul needs the refuge
of trickles,
the focus on the ridges
of ripples.
Throw me not around;
throw a pebble
to the pond
for my gaze to sail upon
to where the circle runs
out…
Just give me a moment
and I’ll give you again
all of me,
all of my
love.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
The pull of the day,
of the years,
of everyone’s needs
leaves shadows
and cavities
from ebb’s
never-ending
taking,
but the sun’s
reflection
warms me
in oranges,
and the glow
stays.
The light
one way
or another
will
illuminate,
independent of
ever reaching
that haunted,
hollowed
space.
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
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
If I have to have walls,
give me windows
big and bright
where shadows can dance for hours
with the light,
windows that open
wide
to invite the breezes
inside.
In all mental-health seasons,
I so easily slip away
for days,
lose myself
in those sunny sills
and rainy panes,
faraway thoughts
that need not be
sorted nor restrained;
even my muses need
a holiday.
The spaces inside
my dwelling fade
in comparison
to the glass
and screens I need
for my soul
to not suffocate.
If I have to have walls,
give me windows
through which to endlessly
escape.
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
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.
The revelation
did not hit
like a ground-scorching
lightning bolt
disappearing theatrically
in a trail of heaven-retreated
smoke…
I simply looked around
in the settling dust
of the storm
I created,
and there you were,
steadfast despite being
injured,
waiting
for me to again
extend
my hand.
You’ve always been there,
the only one
who’s never
left,
despite the mess
I make
in trying
to emerge
from the grave
of my past,
buried alive,
but each time
my wings
open,
the ghosts reach up,
re-clasp.
You never waver
in your belief in me.
I hope this is the last
tentacle severed
to set us both
free.
In my backyard, I take a few moments to myself after sun sets on Christmas.
I am drawn to the silhouetting branches of a tree and the stars surrounding it and eventually retrieve my camera to play with all the ways I can arrange the composition. I realize again what could be one of the reasons why I am drawn to photography: control.
I, in fact, am moving the stars. Positioning them. I manipulate the light. Later, I can manipulate in even more ways with editing apps.
I have danced with control so many times over the years, I had begun to think I was actually the lead. Control for me, though, never has had anything to do with power, simply the illusion of stabilizing, balancing, the perpetual chaos. Little bits of time. Of moments. Of situations. For survival.
As much as I’ve danced with control, I’ve had affairs with denial. Love-hate relationships. I think denial at times was truly a friend, keeping me afloat. At times, I think a betrayer; I could have stood up in the water that was actually shallow. I could have walked out of the water instead of treading. I could have maybe avoided the future near-drownings.
I am drawn most to putting the star here, cradled between the branches reaching for it.
My Labraheeler has joined me, and I give in to kicking his ball for a bit, then decide to do a few laps around the half acre. He is used to this and follows beside me, jollily carrying his partially deflated mini basketball. We run, silently in companionship.
The weather is simply beautiful, the kind that the soul takes in as the breezy, summer-like night air is inhaled. I trust I know the yard enough to not trip in the growing darkness and trust my pup enough to not cross my path underfoot; I look up to the sky as my blood extra pumps, and all of me feels refreshed, renewed, freed.
This is peace.
The day was merry, and Christmas Eve too. I can’t recall another Christmas in which it truly was. Last year, I wore the smile, made it through, and then was nearly drowned in my after-tears.
I believe in miracles. And in magic. And in love.
I’ve always held fast to faith over the years, but in that hopeful someday kind of way, struggling to not drink in the devil-potions that would make me question and challenge the unfairness of the situations plaguing me. Only a few years ago did I fully recognize miracles, the direct hand of God at work, the Spirit inside me. I had a merry Christmas. We all did. That was a miracle. I’ve always wanted that. I did not think it possible.
I made Christmas magical and happy for my children when they were younger (with the help of my community most years), but I did so under the immense weight of all that being married to an addict-alcoholic adds. Add the strain of being the peacemaker, the glue, and often the leader of my whole family tree. Heavy. Stressful. Masked. Martyr. Superhero. Weighed. Bending. Cracking. Moth-eaten cape. Suffocating. Hiding. Pretending. Pleasing. Holding in. Suppressing. Swallowing. Denying. Lying. Stretched. Thinner. Thinner. Breaking.
Currently, light, airy, floating, feathered, free. Breathing.
So this is Merry Christmas…
I don’t think I’ll edit anything.
Cycloptic serpent
scorched deep
into my being,
color of decay
not even attempting
to camouflage
into my resilient green,
laying eggs,
disease breeding,
growing larger,
but still unable
to see,
for at my core
is also my heart,
and it bleeds
in light.
You try
to grow more eyes,
but this love
inside
will always
render you
blind,
not Karma
but what is right
finally
for I have falsely seen
too clearly
all my life
your lies.
The exorcist has arrived:
self-love.
Parasite,
good final bye.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
The silent tear
and its companion,
slipping away
from a hidden river
subterranean,
an inner well
I wish to visit,
I pay the obol
but am refused
admission.
I touch the solution
risen to the surface,
released to me
at the green-galactic
entrance.
It absorbs, vanishes,
as if it were only
imagination,
but I know it exists within,
the ancient pool
of my essence
preservation,
disturbed
by a pressure,
a fissure,
from the near past,
a conflict of interest
to who I am
attempting to contaminate
the purity of my heart’s intentions,
sent from the sacred waters
to get my attention:
two harbinger drops
to warn of the bubbling,
but how can I mend
the underground rupturing
when I cannot access
the pre-war,
cannot reverse time
to remove the source
that lies beyond
the lies
in layers
of conditioning,
beneath the protection
of pain
self-buried?
Desperate, kneeling,
thoughts begin spinning,
I get dizzy
in the spiraling,
plead for the ripples
to take me down
into the spring.
“I want to go there!
I want to come!
Let me face
what I know not
head on!
I am brave!
I am strong!”
The portal
closes shut.
What more must I do
to be worthy
enough?
Laura Denise 