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 only apply love, 
for love is my essence;
I don’t know how
to have any other 

I try to dim
the brightness
of my aura,
but then, from within,
sprout the wild, white

Despite this gift
planted in my creation,
and all my practice,
and the best
of intentions,

I can’t seem to get
a reciprocated
which makes me think
I was misplaced
in this wrong


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


Peace Of Plank

“Whatcha doin’?” my teacher friend across the outdoor space between our classroom doors says, popping her head out.

“Just capturing poems I’ve passed by,” I say, still hunched over close to the sandy ground just before school started. “You know.”

I captured the wildflower oasis and the non-fool’s gold recently but have since discovered the plank in the magical world beneath our giant steps…

Peace of Plank

I wish I could have been afforded 
the plank
instead of all the times
each “he” just yanked 
my never-grounded footing 
the sharks
The plank
in the desert
beneath me now,
symbolic of how
we can feel so nudged 
toward the apparent 
doom to drown,
prisoners and victims
until the spell 
is unbound
and we are able to see
that the moat 
was always
a mirage,
and we always 
the power
to simply 
into the safety of our 
trusting God 
would never 
let us 
and if we ever did
get pushed into the deep, 
what He personally pre-planted within us each
would be all 
the buoyancy
we need. 

Proverbs 3:5-6

5 Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
    and do not lean on your own understanding.
6 In all your ways acknowledge him,
    and he will make straight your paths.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

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

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


Artificial light
will suffice
when I employ
on quiet walks
my creative devices
to make art
during heart-
survival crises

until it all naturally passes,
as all weather is designed to do;
I need to do better with storm preparations,
though He always sees ahead and sees me 

Tonight, to distract
with creative play,
I replace and extend
a stem with manmade

until the flower becomes a tower,
and then I ignite the beacon,
and let the moon console 
a lonely orb romantic-dreaming.

I do these magnificent things
not only to take focus away from the pain 
but because it gives me the control and power 
as an abuse-survivor to manipulate 
in a positive way. 

I do it for you, but really and also 
for me, selfishly, 
but if you and I both need it, 
how comforting it then becomes for us
to become “we.” 

You’ve been here too, 
I know, as I have been there, 
not these same tracks
but in the aches that echo,