Wishes and Prayers

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superseded, I wish for us to remain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

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

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

Maiden Song

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

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. 

Us in Love

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

Weekend Renewal

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…

October Blooms

How can I possibly focus
when you’ve gone
and set abloom
all the colors in me
in such sweetly-scented hues?

How can I command
self-discipline when
your inspiration stirs
my creative passions?

How can I do those things
I need to tend to
when my soul heard your non-whisper
calling me my own muse?

How can I keep order
with this flutter of fancy within
that came about when that destined breeze
seed-sprinkled your goodness in?

Poem and this evening’s photography ©LauraDenise

Sunflowers in the Sand


Sunflowers in the sand

baffle my preconceived notions,

such a traditional earthy flower

sprouting alongside the ocean.


It draws me in,

such an unexpected sight,

yellow-bursting heads,

mini-suns against the muted,

so bold and bright.


So many thoughts

beyond the beauty

begin to orbit

in my mind.


I am reminded

of childhood,

encouraged to

color in the book

true to experienced life,

don’t make the sun blue,

stay within the lines,

learn early

to close your mind.


Sunflowers in the sand

seem to defy,

toss their heads proudly

yet their humility

roots a portrait

symbolic of choosing

one’s own path

and life.


People on the beach

pass by,

seem oblivious

to the mini-miracles

and massive messages

that entrance

and shape me

from the inside.


And that is the difference

between the photographer-poet

and the others:

we see beneath and beyond,

we hear the whispers.


We capture it in the lens

and ink-dipped pens

and present it back to you,

artfully gifting

a beautiful impression,

another perspective,

a deeper connection,

hoping you’ll pause

long enough for



Sunflowers in the sand

should never be overlooked.

You would never find them

in a coloring book.


Poem and image ©LauraDenise