Perhaps The Storms

Perhaps the storms
are simply meant
to rouse our inner
empowerment,

faraway rumbles
culminating
into the now,
waking from hibernation
the reminder
of the how,

for fate is passive
sitting ducks,
and destiny
the arms
in the winds
resurrecting
the self up,

believing in the achieving
part of dreams,
rousing the soul
to with that single bird,
despite the conditions,

sing.

I dance in the rain,
and the bird
wishes it
were me;
we chat about exchanging
wings and feet
but decide each are intentionally
meant to propel,
and here we are together
celebrating freedom
from cage and cell.

Umbrellaless On Purpose

Moments drip
drop, first
molecules
floating
to fall,
and when
the basin
is filled,
our time
is up.

Let me taste
each one
individually
upon my
upturned
mouth.

May I spend
the least
amount
in flood
or drought,
paned,
sheltered
or drowned.

Let me feel
it all
though;
to offer an umbrella
or call me inside
is to deny me
each elixir dose
to my soul’s life.

Moments
shared
with others,
even fleeting
in passing,
make up
the ocean
of emotion
that fills and
propels me
most deeply.

When the last sun sets,
I know I cannot take
any drops with
even though they became a part
of my very composition,
but heaven is in the clouds
for a reason,
and I believe from these
drops within,
another birthing
will begin…

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

May I?

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

Drifting

Blue skies seem sometimes
behind us too far,
and when the oasis of nearness
dissipates into illusion
yet again,
we dangerously tire,

as the colors of hope
fade
like sidewalk chalk
in the rain,
and we drift
without care
into the storm.

But as long as there are
forks and bends
in the paths and roads,
what-ifs and depends,
Fate can only temporarily take
hostages,

for choice and circumstance
and weather will permit
the opportunities
to change direction
over and over again;
only lack of faith
can lead to the
false perception
of dead-ends.

Sometimes when we are
too weary to drive,
another takes the wheel:
sometimes God,
sometimes Satan,
sometimes someone
who loves you still.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Concrete Canvas

Concrete cannot barricade
my imagination from its escape;
especially on rainy days,
I paint with puddles
like Van Gogh and Monet –
bright colors, ocean waves,
always naturescapes,
to keep from drowning
in the daily mundane.

Concrete cannot barricade
dreams that refuse to fade to gray.

Afterwards

Shadows, gray,
overcast, rain…
Oh how glorious
afterwards are those
first heavenly rays

piercing through,
the contrast needed
to make the bold statement:
“Look up here!”

The more beyond this
sending to each
personal beacons:
“You have never once
been forgotten nor
abandoned.”

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Flowers Wish Not

Flowers wish not

for the raindrops

to detach;

petals cling to

brief love affairs

in the fleeting overcast.

Time and gravity

and even sun

seem against them,

pull apart

the bonds.

But sometimes

a flower

simply loves

the rain,

the way

so naturally

both simultaneously

bloom and glisten

when so tenderly

embraced.

Rainy-Day Dreams

Waterdrops drip

from the gray,

but they do not

dilute my colors;

boldly, they remain.

My dreams

are not made

of sidewalk chalk

in danger of the rain;

they cannot be washed

away.

They are more like

the wildflower,

beautiful bloom

with roots

that the earth

selflessly lends

a hand to,

so the petals can focus

on their reach

for the sun

and be the first

to taste

the rain

when it comes.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Drops of You

My heart was fragile,

tissue-paper thin.

Only you could

continuously drip

the nourishment

I needed

in a way in which

I could absorb it all

without tearing

or having my petals

fall,

and you saw

past the false

decoy colors I donned,

knew beneath,

my heart’s truest hue

was pure,

a dove,

and the peace

within myself

soon followed,

all because

you were the rain

that found me

from that cloud.

Always

The sun always returns,

the rain always dries,

the colors come back,

floral scents in the breeze again waft by

in time.

So, my darling, wipe those eyes.

This season is passing soon.

And another truth:

right now,

always,

there is beauty and blessings

all about you.

Sometimes poetry is love letters to the self. And when passed around, others it helps.