Still Life

Still as silhouetted dragonfly wings
is all that used to swirl restlessly in me.
I hold my breath and so does the breeze;
we both stop time for centuries. 

The secrets from the ancient flier 
can only be imparted in complete silence;
any ripple in the universe jeopardizes
this which is rarely achievable in this life. 

Perhaps this is my umpteenth time… 

I recently had a supreme spiritual moment;
not now, but when I was again freshly broke open,
my soul exposed again to worldly poisons 
and decades-rotten ingested false notions.

It is only in these complete ruptures, it seems, 
can the bad get out and God restitch the seams. 
Perhaps it is true that the rock bottoms are needed
to unclench the fist and open the palm for receiving.

I was mended with light again by His own loving hand.
And inside me, this time, another something planted. 
I feel it in the silhouetted dragonfly wings suspended, 
except I think it is me that it and the breeze are sensing. 

I feel our connectedness, 
the same serenity seeds inside of us. 
It’s hard to go back to the way it was
when gratitude, which I’ve always had, 
are blooms in such surplus shooting up. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Forever is the Sunrise

Forever is the moment 
that stills me
when everything
is swirling inside
my heart, my soul, 
my mind…

Forever is the moment
that absolves me,
that nature bestows,
head bowed or not,
heart knotted or atoned. 

Forever is the moment
that holds me
so personally close,
the rays extended
to touch 
with warmth. 

Forever is the moment
that soaks me, 
in waves that rebirthe
or ripples that trickle
to my inner caverns

where I buried
the treasure
of me 
in a chest of fear,
where only the mermaids
are entrusted 
with the key
shaped from 
my tears. 

Forever is the moment
I carry with me
in every moment
I am away
from the sea. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Drops of Fuchsia

A sojourn among the wildflowers
is what my soul needs
in regular doses,
down low 
among the “weeds”

where time does not stand still,
but the world does,
for nothing exists in the moment
except for us, 

and no greater beauty 
can there be
than in the nonmanhandled,
outside-the-garden-lines seed
that blooms so gracefully,
silently defying, 
yet exuding pure peace;

that peace
transfers into my essence
as I listen with my soul
to the whispered sapience, 

no lesson or story 
captivates my interest
more than what the petals transmit,

and to think how often it goes unnoticed –
underfoot, sole-crushed, disregarded –
the natural therapy for inner balance.

If you happen to have the interest, 
I’ll share with you what was imparted 
on this Tuesday morning in my own backyard
during my daily sojourn 

among the wildflowers…. 

I wish to simply be
the color in your gray,
to open your heart to seeing
every season has new days,
and there always exists
little blessings sent 
personally your way… 

We all at times lose focus
as the world becomes tear-blurred;
that’s why we were given each other
to lean on, lend strength, stay near.

When we get closer
through the growing trust,
we become less guarded
and show the rest of us,


the complexities, 
the other ways through 
the protective shield,
the scars, the webs, the truths,

and we find,
though all unique,
we are the same
in our sufferings,

made so we
take turns with it,
return to the circle 
of falls and lifts
.

I am here
to share my hues,
overflowing now,
but once like you
.

And when you come
into fuller bloom,
pay it forward
so others may too
become imbued.

Poem and this morning’s backyard photography ©LauraDenise

Simply Introverted

She fans silken petals,
the softest of shells,
not to be coy, just discreetly
distancing herself,

comfortable cocooned,
guilty of pretense,
privacy preferred
over others’ presence,

never unfriendliness,
just not social;
passions and interests
captivate most when alone.

Tending to her own tendrils,
internal biodome, 
nirvana nurtured,
nature, home.

She shows the sides
she chooses;
do not assume
that’s all there is.

No longer fear-restrained:
for the first time, 
she fully lives.

She fans silken petals,
simply introverted,
but continuously gifts
translucent colors and
serenity’s scent.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Rooted to Trees

Tree-hugger for as long as I can remember
(my favorite nature companions),
known sky-and-cloud obsesser
to those who discover a drop of who I am.

I write of the sea
because I have been living by the beach,
and if my writing you currently read,
you know mountains aren’t my thing.

Wildflowers, especially white ones,
have become infused into my self-journey,
but if I could only keep just one,
I’d have to keep the trees.

Size does matter sometimes
for I need the large circumference,
and the older, the wiser, I find is true, 
(secret bias though toward non-coniferous).

In the national forest, 
I seek the inner grove, 
the largest sequoias I can find
so I can visit my soul’s home. 

A hand, a hug, upon the giants
fills my heart, and my authentic
smile naturally shows. 

The Little Things

Something there is 
in a soul’s composition
that personalizes light
from the connecting threads;

in the weave of mine,
part my art and part divine,
seems to be for the grandiose
some kind of rare blindness
in the mainstream sense,
for I only find it 
in the minute and steeped in
mindfulness,

the larger picture
always blurred and muted,
unacceptably-by-society
dismissing sweeping views;

upon deaf eyes, the waterfalls,
for my soul only hones in on single drops,
the silhouette of an insect’s wings
even beyond the forefront flowering.

Too far away are the large and obvious;
I slip into the inconspicuous, 
secret portals and nooks 
that scan my soul
and recognize me in my
slow and scenic way home. 

Don’t take me to the lookout point; 
take me to the mountain where I can climb
to admire all the wonder along the trail.
The view at the top can never be the peak:
for me it can only be

in the little things. 

You can hike with me
if you have the patience,
for a mile in nature 
won’t get you fit,
but if you’d like to sit
awhile beside me,
I wouldn’t mind
the company,

but no attention would I be able to give you
when the sun sets on a solitary bee upon a pink bloom… 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

I Look for the Broken

I look for the “broken,”
the torn, the cracked,
the light-and-shadow’s
silent dance,

the intimate,
the unvoiced stories,
for in these lie
no greater beauty
nor still me
with more reverie.

Parallels and metaphors,
all nature reminds
and shares with us
what we are here for.

Leaf veins and light
extend into me
and connect you,
God’s creation
intended to sustain us all
in love
and see us through.

For the first time, my morning IG haiku intent turned into a full poem, so I thought I’d share it here too (while I continue to try to sweet talk my moody laptop into granting me browser access…).

❤️ Laura

The Language of Wildflowers

I have always been drawn to intimacy,
that of the petal, the shell, the bee. 
Grand, sweeping panoramic views
have trouble impressing me. 
Everyone else lines up though to see,
so I release the guilt to the benevolent breeze
while I sneak away from my party
after posing in their pictures
to get low upon the mountain surface
to hear the gentle, pink, silky whispers.

My first two vacation poems of the same subject,
the world-renowned postcard as a blurred backdrop.
You can take a body to a different location,
but you cannot take control of a soul’s vocation,
especially when it is spiritually connected
more so to the underfoot details overlooked and neglected. 

The stories of nature that fit in the palm of my hand
speak to me more profoundly than the grandest canyon. 
I have never been one to follow the crowds. 
The bold mountaintop bloom whispers another route. 

I cannot take it now: my father is guiding this tour. 
But I will never forget the brief shared encounter

with the single wildflower

that found me in the clouds
and allowed me to recenter myself. 

Mountaintop Beauty

I hiked to 8,000 feet above the level of the sea
only to confirm my reputation of being a freak, 
for at a summit with world-famous views, 
I am the only one mesmerized stooped, 

having spotted the little bloom…

I feel the familiar flutter in my soul. 
My heart flies home. 

More minuscule than ever, 
the wildflower reminds me
of the mountains I have moved
to get here, to these
identity truths. 

And I remain committed and proud
to be the freak they deem me as, 
the one with eyes turned
in the other direction 
still following maps
to the treasure
that I am.