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We can be nothing,
label-free,
defying definition,
and be
everything.

Come fly
with me,
fear not
the fall;
we never have
to land at all.

We’ll rise,
we’ll dip,
we’ll plummet,
we’ll soar,

sun-singe our wings
and touch
the ocean floor.

Bubble Dreams

Dangerous to dream, I know.
Foolish to fly in a bubble!
Either could burst
without notice,
drop you fast in a plummet
to the hard reality surface.

But what if…

the trajectory was directed
by angels’ breaths
and the bubble made impenetrable,
a shield only able to be
forged from the past,
and you were gently lowered
precisely as intended
by the benevolence
of your higher power
assisting you in the navigation
toward your heart’s
deepest and purest desire?
What if the bubble
met passion’s fire?
And in the ashes
two phoenixes rose
and began new life
and left behind
all the rainbows
found in bubbles?

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Ascension

I used to foolishly attempt

to trek around

the storms

to avoid them,

but the weather comes

regardless…

Eventually, I learned

some you must simply

forge through

and get it over with…

But then I remembered

the times upon

aluminum wings

I’ve flown,

and how the storms

appear the ceiling

only to those below.

It took a long while,

but I finally grew

wings of my own

and apply that lesson,

simply soar above

many of the dark clouds,

slip into that

blue-loophole

ascension…

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Flight

The flock of birds that appeared during the rising of the song I was listening to on my morning walk really moved me…

Love, music, nature

all seem to strum the same inner strings,

playing different chords, forming

melodies that make the heart hum

and the soul sing.

As the birds in formation burst forth to meet the sun,

so my heart and soul leap up to follow,

but this body, for now, keeps my core anchored,

like a planet with a burning center

that longs to flow,

free.

Buds & Cocoons

Buds and cocoons

can only contain

our potential for so long;

sooner or later,

we must bloom,

our colors don,

feel the rain

and the sun

upon petals and wings

and believe

that when we emerge,

love will be

waiting…

Upward Strokes

Upward strokes

of cloud-wisps,

a contrail

left as an ephemeral gift,

fading and floating away

but calling attention,

flaunting evidence

of launched heart-wishes,

sky wishies

taking flight,

one dreamer

setting out to find

what it desperately desires,

or perhaps nothing more

than having the foolish courage

to transcend boundaries and

explore.

The upward strokes

brushed upon the canvas

give hope,

for there are no edges,

no frame,

no conclusion,

where they reach,

unknown,

and I, too,

want to go…