At The Trestle

Navigating rapids,
being battered by waves,
flailing in riptides:
for decades, the assay.

Perhaps that’s why
these ripples and reflections
call to me now
to make amends.

I let my soul be stroked
with the bristles
coating with liquid layers
in redemption, baptismal:

acquittal.

A sibyl
reinstated.

Something about this river
brings back the scribbles
on my slate.

I linger
at the trestle bridge,
toes across inverted sky, skim.
I know it is a portal
to where I have been.

I chant the rising words
to be let
in…

Undam Me

It is the red-flagged waves,
the storm sirens,
that wake who I’ve been
for centuries dormant;
arms by themselves stretch,
welcome, open,
remembering the calling,
my true name on the cusp
of being unspoken,
on the cusp of the crescent,
my dreams dangled,
the cusp of my heart
releasing the rush withheld,
on the cusp of my emergence
from the cocoon that protects
the self. I am not afraid!
May these waves finally break
this manmade dam
and reveal once and for all
who I am!

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

The Journey

The journey, they say,
is in itself the key;
I’ve been down
every wrong road
multiple times
it seemed,

but to surface,
I wish I could say unscathed,
with the treasure of me
in this mirror
now held
sacred,

I’m hesitant
to lay blame
on my past,
for who I am
was definitely shaped
by every shadowed,
obstacle-strewn
path,

and the key
that ended up being me
fits perfectly
into the lock
around your heart;

I look forward
to every step
we now get to take
together,
journeying to meet our Matchmaker,
hand in hand,
to that eternal
start.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

This Sunrise

In this early dawn,

I let the stillness be,

observe the lightening of dark

transforming gradually,

so subtly,

yet the colors awakening

are so softly profound,

the beauty

almost too much to behold

with the eye,

so the heart

and soul

absorb the excess,

the spilling over,

and preserve it

as a natural resource

to guide the self

back to self

and that stillness

whenever life seems too

chaotic,

and I realize,

I am

this sunrise.

This morning’s sunrise from my front yard.

Printless Sand

What would prompt me

if not a photo?

Where would I go

if I had but one tomorrow?

Of the flames lit inside of me,

which is the one

that fuels naturally?

If the slate were blank

and the mind cleaned,

what colors would rise

to the surface to bleed?

If the water were so still

no ripple dared move,

would my inner reflection

be revealed in truth?

If you were here beside me

and fear never conceived,

would our souls

breathe into each other

sighs of relief?