Fear resides on both sides,
in the direct sun and in
the borderless shadows;
the light, however,
competes with mine,
so my soul still remains
largely unexposed.

I unzip my skin
behind the bushes
and dip into the sea
of all that I am
and all that I have
yet to be,

a flame underwater, inextinguishable,
no longer chained to the illusion
of drowning;
I dive deeper in belief
of my self
and arise, wet and glowing.

In my new skin,
a more comfortable fit,
I swirl together
the sun and shadows
as I dance,
and the flickering
upon my upturned face
reveals another transformation
taking place

Poem and image ©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

It’s the lightest I’ve ever felt
upon returning, for now, to the ground. 

Too Early to Title

Are you here?
You’ve been searching,
collecting clues;
perhaps this segment
of sea will weed or
reveal identity truths.

Just you here
and your mind.
What do you carry?
What have you
left behind?

Look about.
Family. Strangers.
One in the same.
Or entirely different?

Who has come
to search,
and what for?
Who will leave
with less, 
with more?

So many shells,
filled and hollow.
So many opportunities
made and lost
among people. 

Memories can be made.
Promises broken. 
Second chances given. 
Losses counted. 

Each drop significant, 
each drop matters,
though so vast is
the ocean’s water. 

Water is one,
a singular thing.
We don’t count drops
until we are thirsty. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

In Between the Rains

In between the rains,
I collect the molecules of my soul,
air-dropped from the heavens,
clues gifted from angels.

I peer into the crystal
liquid balls of the beyond,
not the future but the now,
glimpses of the parallel worlds.

Each minuscule evanescent orb
the only looking glass for me;
the universe within,
my naked eye squints to see.

This water of life too
composes my inner being,
my lifespan
in the grand scheme of things
also just as fleeting.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Clues & Pieces

Reinvention of the self,
a mosaic,
from pieces forged
and discovered–
some to be polished,
others best with
the coatings of
dust and dirt.

Have you found yourself? 

I’ve been rethinking this concept lately. For me, I have never really been looking for myself but rather my home, that place where I feel completely welcome, where I am already accurately and wholly known, where I can be completely, freely me, where I’ve been missed, where it makes sense, where it feels just right.  My soul has always been restless.  As a girl and teen, I always felt different, in a sense, like I couldn’t really relate to others. I think because I was always thinking, philosophizing, dreaming. Feeling seemed to be my superpower–not in sensitivity but in depth. I have always thought and felt too deeply about things. I have always been an old soul, have always felt like I’m just not in the right time period or realm. 

An example of this–well, I think I wrote a poem about it once. Let me grab it… Here it is:

Freckle Constellation

This group of freckles
on my forearm
has me mooning,
to childhood…

Funny how even then,
felt like these freckles
meant something,
seemed like
a constellation,
a coding,
a knowing,
a piece of
the puzzle
of me.

Funny how even then
when we would travel
at night in the station wagon,
I pondered if the street lights
spelled out a message that
you could only see from
a distance…

Funny how even then
I would get lost in my
own philosophical thoughts,
felt a bit out of sorts
when others seemed
so content splashing in
shallow waters
when I was so anxious
to explore the
depths of the sea.

Now at 44, I find myself
mulling over those same
mysteries, a calling to me,
a profound knowing that
there’s not only so much more,
but somehow that so much more
involves me,
and not passively.

Do I believe in destiny?
Perhaps partially.

I feel like I was born to love
but also to defend,
sword in hand…

I wonder how my story
will end.

I look for clues
in the freckle tattoo…


Yep, that definitely fits right in with my current contemplation… I think it’s a combination for me of looking for my place–my home–and also myself. For a while now, I’ve just assumed that I would not find this internal place and peace in this life, and that was okay with me; I have always intended to make the most of it. But lately, I am finding that I am actually getting very close. I am finding along the way pieces of myself. I just don’t know if it is a mosaicking process of creating myself or if it is a collection of clues that lead to myself. I like the idea of both. 

This all came up this evening because I was looking at some pictures of wildflowers I recently took, lol (see what I mean about getting lost in thought?…) Wildflowers speak to my soul, plain and simple. The meeker, the smaller, the more tattered, the more beautiful to me, the stronger the pull, the more complex the silent stories… White/ivory flowers have the same kind of spiritual effect on me. Framing fragile, wild “weeds” in the first or last rays of the day… that is my soul in a photograph. Just something about it… a piece, a clue, for sure. 

I have a very strong connection to nature. It’s where I prefer to be. It’s where I feel I belong. I would rather watch the clouds all day and all night than do any of those things others like to do. That makes me a freak to some, I suppose; my family makes fun of me for it. While most flocked to tourist attractions over spring break, I lived the dream: poetry, photography, and nature. At home. Lots of pajama time. Lots of coffee and tea. (Hence the abundance of posts on Sunday, my last day to indulge in my hobbies before work began again.) Although I am rather socially fearless and can easily be the life of a party, I would rather be home alone doing my own thing. I think I would be quite content as a hermit, preferably a writer in a small, cozy cottage amidst diverse nature. 

So wildflowers are a clue along the trail of myself, or the trail home, or a piece I choose to include in my “me” mural. 

past the flower beds
I seek colors of the wild
to appease my soul

I sit for a while
let my inner light visit
no place like this home

(double haiku)

The morning after writing this post, I discovered my friend’s beautiful video capturing one of his “children’s” books (with his gorgeous artwork and inspired by his dear chickens). It made me cry. And the timing and relevance…so special. Please do take a moment to be moved. Please do yourself the favor of enjoying more of John’s work and soul: https://mylifewithgracie.com/2021/03/20/a-read-beside-me-book-video/

If I Expose My Soul

My place, still trying to find…

The theme seems to be
on repeat
in my poems and prayers,
on repeat
even after all of these years.

How can a soul feel
so gypsy-like?
Am I
just too connected
to some other
source of life,
to an invisible umbilical
chord still tied,
too aware that none of this
is being done right,
the meaning and purpose
of this hourglass-time?

Am I to be searching,
actively roaming,
or is it the going
that keeps me from knowing

or being found?

Is it that I must
in the stillness sit
to hear feel the direction
in which I should shift

inward bound?

My soul is restless
but more at peace
than ever;
perhaps I am nearing
or about to remember

my self.

Perhaps the journey
is not in evolution
but in reverting,
all of the artificial


If I expose
my soul
to you,
and you expose
your soul
to me,
I wonder
if each other’s
we would find
our selves
to be.

Poem and photography ©LauraDenise

What Remains

The weather inevitably has blown some of my hanging-flower petals about. There is a bloom that seems to have become one with my patio table. This is what I saw in it…


Sometimes, we become filled

with negativity

planted and watered by others

despite our desire

to be pure and free,


voices that internally scream

and override

fading beliefs,

transplanting them

with false seeds

and roots that

rot the soil

way down deep.


But sometimes,

a seed in shining armor comes

and whispers as it lies down

and stubbornly

refuses to leave

despite our pleas,

concerned for its safety,

for it surely

cannot survive

in this shady, weedy,

rocky quarry.


But the seed won’t leave.


The seed blooms white

with a pink, fuzzy center


and somehow its

delicacy and whispers




not in a sappy way

you want washed off,

but like the soft scent

that distracts you enough

from the stench,

that you find yourself

indeliberately drawing near it,

not clinging

but preferring it,

and the whispers

rub off

a bit from the petals

into your depths,

deeper than the evil roots

to the center of you


before the application of that supposed fertilizing



and you remember.


And now it’s too late


for any pesticide

to eradicate

the belief

that you are beautiful,

and no matter what becomes

of that selfless seed

or bloom,

its presence

eternally exists

in you.