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Train whistles
for its missing;
silent stream
greets her.

Curtains drawn,
palmprints on panes;
sun tries to rise,
but “nothing
gold can stay.”

Some spirits,
nomads,
eternally
misplaced.

Wings of phoenix,
wings of angels,
unable to land;
all homes have sails.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Finally Abloom

Late bloomer
of self-love,
had to break
free from
his choking-vine
of lies.

It’s never too late
to start life.

This is who
I’ve always wanted
to be,
the me I’ve always thought
I was.

For bringing me home
to myself,
thank you, love. ❤️

#verbalabuse #healing #selflovejourney

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

Maiden in White

She seemed to float
in flowing gown of white
through the gardens
in the misty morning light.

With gentle hands,
her fingers brushed,
skimmed over the blossoms
with celestial touch;

the blooms self-muted their hues
as if infused with her purity
until all the world resembled heaven
for a moment but affording
a glimpse of eternity,

and as she departed,
long, fair hair slow-dancing
into the horizon,
the flowers returned
to their former colors
and the breeze dissipated.

No witness but I.
No photograph taken.
The maiden in white,
in my mind’s eye,
eternally painted.

I wish I had noticed at the time
the one single rose who refused to revert;
I could have at least penned a poem
to gift the hope to others.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

What It Is To Be

When I write, I write from prompts,
the ones organically generated around me, from nature,
usually from my own photographic capture.
But what if I started only with the classic white space?
A screen, a cursor – better yet, lined paper – better yet,
the heavier plummet of fingers upon a typewriter…
Yes, I do remember…

When I write, I begin without an ending,
never know the next letter even;
it’s always a surprise, an adventure I
am but the vehicle for, at the will of my muse.
And so it goes with this warm-up practice
getting back into the habit
of creating the dance
in the absence of the music.
The sound and lyrics within
need but the expression mechanism;
there is never a pause in my mind,
there will never be a time
in which my fingers do not itch
for the dance
with or without the prompt,
with or without a reader.
I am a writer.
And not by chance.

Except this exercise was supposed to be
non-poetry. I’ll start again but an essayist,
I may simply no longer be.
I long for it, but wrong it seems
to try to suppress this sing-song in me
that happens whenever my spirit
brushes up against these keys,
and my wings remember
the feel of the breeze,
and my heart remembers
what it is to be
free.

Unintentional poem and images from my journey that came to mind afterward ©LauraDenise

Verses of Us

I used to write love poems,
not that long ago;
the first were to the stars
to birthe my heart’s hope.

I used to write love poems
to passionately release feelings,
but they were stamped “return to sender”
with the sweet salt of unrequited’s sting.

I used to write love poems
to no one specifically,
just to let Eros see
I was beginning again
to water the dream.

I used to write love poems
and send them to cyberspace;
our love story began
when God sent one your way.

I used to write love poems
and share them publicly;
now I write about this requited love,
and yours you read to me.

I used to write love poems
but then our love defied words,
so we write our refrains
but brush upon our flesh
each verse.

Tending the Fire

It was a dark and rainy early Saturday morning
that I felt the rejuvenating movement of air fan the cinders of my soul
on the side of the fire neglected for only a short while,
yet the glow that yearns the most to be fed seems overly sensitive to the cold.

My muses knew and rose to perform the effortless, second-nature ritual
as the hiss of the coffee pot like water drops tempered all other sides of the fire,
and Poetry puffed up its orange-and-gray-feathered embers
as twelve days of life-buyness’s still air gave way to weekend’s rising
wind igniting creative passion’s desires.

Finally again: a moment in time
to exhale that pent-up lyrical sigh.

My breath gives life.