Cracked blinds,
unwashed windows,
dusty dreamcatcher
mislead;
the sun has finally found
the seed in me.
Tag: Potential
Meadow Myth
So many keys you possess,
having collected them along the way,
sand-fossils upon lonely shores,
earth-buried near silent graves,
all shapes and sizes,
from all times and places,
dating back centuries,
no ties to faces.
From a misty meadow,
skin-kissed with dew,
I emerge and
wordlessly stand
before you.
I have waited
all these lifetimes
for my key-holder
to unlock me to find
my deeper, my deepest,
potential beauty.
You raise your
worn pouch of keys;
my cloak slips
revealing non-flesh,
just my soul
preparing to
receive the gifts,
and from my light
are launched a thousand
butterfly-like fairies
that swirl around
until the white blinds
and unburies
my greatest potential,
and as the blaze subsides,
I am left with a glow
radiating from the inside,
and all of your keys
have metamorphosed
into one skeleton,
ancient and ornate, gold,
and with a knowing
in my eyes of green seas,
I reach for your heart
and let the key release
all of the beauty
and hope and dreams
you have for so long
held onto with
battered-knuckled belief,
the non-spell, broken,
for we only needed
to find each other again,
having once protected
our love by
locking it
and entrusting
you with
the task of finding
each last key
that would bring you
back to me,
and now, my love,
we are again free
to continue to love
each other eternally.
Come, fly away
with me.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
Restless
Restless
is my soul
in this skin,
morphing,
from the cocoon
but not yet used to these
wings,
free
from the dark, cramped
past-life chrysalis
but not free enough
from the weighted wet
preventing my wings
from fully drying,
so I can fly,
soar to my fullest
potential,
reach the height
I’ve been aching for
since I was born.
Restless is my soul
still
in its search for the home
waiting for me.
Not in a rush,
but tired
of the delays
with wings
still not ready
to take me
where I so long
to be.
Perhaps
my home
will come
to me…
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
One Drop Dreaming
I am but one,
already tired,
one tiny bent molecule
in a sea of salt water.
I drift with others,
ebb and flow,
too slowly moving
to really know
if we’re going forward
at all;
am I my own motion
or merely following
the crowd,
being pulled and tugged,
or worse, rocked to sleep?
Am I even awake
or is this a dream?
What would happen,
I wonder,
if I resisted the urge
to merely drift like this
because it’s easier.
I once heard
in hushed whispers
about a legendary drop
that caused a ripple
that created a wave
that pummeled the shore
that got the attention
of a grain of sand
who thought to itself,
I want to do more…
I got lost in thought after reading this poem (below) by Will Pennington, and it inspired me to write the above poem.