Poet. Writer. Photographer.
May I never lose my way
to getting lost,
may I never resist the urge
to leave it all,
may I never shelter my face
from the storm,
may I never let my arms fall
in the downpour,
may I never fully wash off
the grit of the sand,
and may I never be restrained
by clock or human hand.
May I never negotiate with my soul:
may I never let anyone close the window.
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
Some set off to find themselves;
some say wherever you go, there you are.
Some never choose paths to explore
but remain stagnant, wishing upon stars.
(But stars are evermoving,
taking those wishes with them,
beckoning the dreamer to follow
the paths constellationly charted.)
I set off with no objective,
but upon returning, the self-reflection
(thoughts actually in the clouds!)
made me realize about myself
that I am exactly who I thought I’ve already
found.
It’s the lightest I’ve ever felt
upon returning, for now, to the ground.
When I pray,
I always add the addendum,
“…if it is in accordance with Your plan,”
for more than what I plea for,
superseded, I wish for us to remain
always in His hands.
I trust whatever may happen,
although I may not understand,
will come with a needed lesson,
a necessary occurrence in the process
of the destiny in becoming once again
who I am.
I was reminded of this
when a partial wishie lent
further wisdom for reflection.
Sometimes the biggest wishes
should not be spent, eyes closed,
all at once, in one breath and direction
but patiently
spaced out in seeds,
part self-initiated action,
part angel-breath breezes.
Sometimes what we desire most
needs time to germinate to non-perfection
and be released in parts for better chances
of fruitful multiplication.
I am always careful
in what I wish and pray for:
I don’t want to get in the way
of what He has in store.
I try not to be too cautious
in taking action with soulful instinct,
for the surest way to get lost
is to pass up what He hands me.
I do close my eyes
to bring up a whisper
from my soul
that launches another
seed of hope…
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
Illusion of control,
I never really drove,
not on a road trip
of my own;
I rode
round and round,
hair in the breeze,
holding on to the mane
of carousel dreams,
never free.
Now I am.
But the invisible reins
of pleasing so long
keeps me stalled
in the corral;
my voice on auto-pilot
agreeing with everyone else.
A passenger yet.
I sit quietly
still looking out
the windows.
But in the rearview mirrors,
I frame my favorite parts,
and up ahead in the near distance,
I see the peaks
of my heart’s desires.
I think I am ready
to take the wheel
while listening to nature
on God’s behalf appeal
to my soul, that home,
I’ve carried all along.
I only needed to use my voice
to steer to where
I belong.
I will need to put it in park
for the final leg,
so I can ride bareback
on my stallion
away from all of them…
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
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
I am the maiden from your dreams
whose song you still heard in your non-sleep,
deep in the wood where the single beam
breached the dark and lit the lilting stream
that you followed, barefoot-steady on mossy rock,
determined to find the source entrancing your heart.
Maiden, faery, mythological immortal,
you knew not the form of the feminine aura,
only that you would never be at peace
until you tasted the voice that gave purpose to the breeze
that reached you over and over again
both far away and as breath upon your skin,
closer now than you’ve ever been,
always determined I’d be just around the next bend,
and this time, the end of the search,
back turned, I felt your presence,
white dress, hem drenched by the river,
wildflowers woven through waterfalling tresses;
unsure if the heavens kept a soft beam on me
or that was my own light self-illuminating,
you froze in awe, then began to weep in relief
as I slowly turned and used your name in my greeting.
Never so sweet were three syllables ever spoken
until the ones that soon followed when in your arms,
I was finally enfolded––
the fit, so long ago star-blessed and
divinely molded.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
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.
Your aquasoul-ripples
bring such good vibes
across the waves
that reach my shore
and stir the salt-water
that courses through
my own veins.
I need no bottle
to send you my message;
I whisper it to the
sea turtle instead.
So happy to know
you are well, my friend.
Keep the cephalopod inkwell filled
and in ebb-and-flow motion, your pen.
Us in love
Mutual bliss
Heated passion
between infinite shared interests
Us in love
This comfortableness
Beautifully nude
as ourselves, no nervousness
Us in love
So many precious facets
Discovering in each other’s
sparkling cores the hidden diamonds
Us in love
Outbursts of mirth
And plenty of reasons for
phones on
“Do not disturb”
Us in love
Deep in philosophical discussions
And quiet time together
penning our works in progress
Us in love
Lying in our garden
among the sweet scents
Us in love
All these years
like we were back then
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
Autumn in the South:
no warm-hued foliage
yet to be found.
Faithful leaves adhere
to branches,
stubborn, taunting
the November ground.
Windows open though,
temperatures temperate,
and the fresh air I breathe in
could not be more perfect.
Saturday morning well spent
reading, writing, creating
with and at ease,
puppy napping beside me
so contentedly,
instrumental music
scooping up silence
in a loving dance,
floating in a reverie
of me-time peace,
I sip my tea
and let the cross-breeze
permeate through
my soul’s expanse…
