At The Trestle

Navigating rapids,
being battered by waves,
flailing in riptides:
for decades, the assay.

Perhaps that’s why
these ripples and reflections
call to me now
to make amends. 

I let my soul be stroked
with the bristles
coating with liquid layers
in redemption, baptismal:


A sibyl

Something about this river
brings back the scribbles
on my slate. 

I linger
at the trestle bridge, 
toes across inverted sky, skim. 
I know it is a portal
to where I have been.

I chant the rising words
to be let


I check the ground for a “safe” spot and sit beside the mound to observe awhile through my macro lens; my hand was too shaky in that squatting position. I wait and wait, camera poised at the precipice of the mountain (I’ve made again from a hill smaller than the mole’s), waiting for a leg or head to surface. Patience. Stillness. These seem to be the dying traits falling out of practice. It is the essence of my passion, ironically, as a hobbyist: I photograph. Only nature. Submersed in it. Currently, I am at an immeasurable distance far away, though only from my back door, a few paces.

For a shot, I extend my permanently-scarred leg (what they did), foot to shin, and position it too close to the enemy camp. Damn fire ants. The savages are known for swarming, stinging, inducing explicative screaming, leaving blisters, pussing, to dry and fade to red. I have wished them all dead. But now, here I am, because I am a lover, and I am drawn to developing my gift of making beauty from pain. I simply observe, get to know the supposed perpetrators, and if I get attacked again, I know it will be deserved for violating their now-known territory. Self-defense is all they have ever been guilty of really…

A stir in the grass beside my hip! What is this? So hyper-focused on my enemies, I saw not the burrowing bee. Did I sit on it, I wonder now. Oh dear, so very sorry!

I keep forgetting, I have not actually been granted the ability to shrink. Did it go underground too, for I lost it completely… I realize then, I took my eye off the threat, but then again in the Three Fates’ web, perhaps we are all clinging to the same seasonal gossamer thread.

The neighbor’s doorknob plops me back into my own dimension too suddenly, as I rise and dust off my bottom, and silently slip away



Split-rail fences,
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 let him 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.

Returning To The River

Returning to the river
for the first time since you drained it
from my happy memories. 

but the sky beckoned,
so I translated it
as a loving nudging
from the heavens

that the timing
was personally pre-approved, selected, 
to make peace again
with my nature,
so dearly beloved.

This adventure
of my own, I began
and descended
down the road
beneath the bridge;

on the other side,
sandaled feet in sand,
it was a fallen tree
that first held me
so tenderly captive, 

as I slowly drew
my therapy weapon,
seizing the sun itself
in my aimed lenses,

creating the art,
selecting the perspectives,
as my subjects so selflessly lended
themselves to manipulations. 

Tri-colored trunks
and branches I braided
around a knot of light
to hold the center
of this soulful oasis.

Then, as if with x-ray vision,
or simply a gift to hear nature
in the language of revelation,

I saw the inner glow
of life after another death,
or maybe the asomatous mending
of a damaging past,

and, too, the beautiful reminder
that through the thick and barred,
and shadowed solids,

the rays and fires 
of hope and passion 
can always reach
those who desire them.

I have desired
but have not known how
to get back to my nature 
nor my self

since the impact
of the last explosion 
left too deep within 
the shrapnel
bereft of reparations.

In a window,
in the distance,
the legendary River Deer leaps
into the sunset,

and in its landing
after the eclipse,
a second sun is left
as both a back up and a


The clouds in the river
pave alternative
paths for me,

and the bisolar rays
upon the Oracle Tree
leave an evanescent ember map

Poem and images ©LauraDenise


Nothing I can do or say,
no amount of love,
can faze the victim
of the self
while he is being Judge –

condemning, sentencing,
self-shackling to disgust,
the mirror of my eyes
that hold the truth,
and all this evidence,

falls upon deaf ears –
the abused,
too far gone…

All I can do is wait
until the trial’s done.

It’s hard
to accept being helpless
while keeping it separate
from not being enough,

but I’ve met
Depression personally
and know he’s

At the back of the courtroom,
I stay knelt
and keep praying with faith to
our shared God,

and when you
recognize me
and are ready,
I’ll take you home,
my sweet love.