Dimensions

My heart and soul
tire me out,
always frolicking
away and about,

relentless in their
prodding and searching,
no toe-dips,
just all-in swan-diving

into every unknown,
exploring, testing, challenging
the boundaries
of this world,

restless to breach
every deterrence
placed by societal rules
and norms…

So much fear
in potential soulmates
with whom to travel
these magical non-roads.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Fissures

Fissures shift,
the inner lifts,
though I wish
to keep it
enclosed.
Exposed
to the elements
becomes my soul.
The tears rise
and flow.

When the painquake subsides,
there are less toxins inside.
I suppose it is nature’s way
of eliminating the accumulating waste,
that which we bury in false deaths,
that which we hide beneath the surface,
a sort of protection and procrastination
of that which we cannot bear in the moment
to face.

Two-faced
are we all.
How are you?
Good, thanks.
Why do we ask
that question
in passing?
Too often fake.
How am I?
Probably actually
similar to how you are
especially in the way
that we guard
the answer.
Brief eye contact.
Continue walking.
If only we acknowledged
anything.
Hands on phones,
hands of clocks.
Bombs inside.
Tick. Tock.

Fissures by nature
are meant to be breaks.
Down is mine. Again.
No brakes.

Not a fall
but an opening.
An involuntary wound-seeping.
Weeping.

My inner, risen now.
What will you do
with what’s come out?

Red is the heart
and magma
at the core.

I’ve left a puddle
of lava
upon your floor.

Little Tree On The Mountaintop

Little tree on the mountaintop
beneath sun’s celestial reach,
planted purposely at the very peak
or actively advancing toward dreams
from a seed,
more mighty to me
than the mountain itself
and all of the tallest trees
beneath
looking up. 

Little tree on the mountaintop
Biblically reminiscent,
perhaps a Jesus story
never told,
or the Lord’s
seemingly futile reach
to have us remember 
this precious given life’s
goals. 

Who is changed upon the descent from the mountain?
Some things seem to remain as shocking as Moses’. 

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

Wild Bound (With Audio)

Natural material
but man-constructed
walls me in
instead of fences,
I breathe best
in more open spaces.
Wildflower ascends,
climbs up the border –
two-by-fours frame
her bold yet soft colors,
star-shaped for a reason,
skyward bound, rooted
in treason, restrained
by seasons –
toward freedom,
back to the wild
shunning the restrictions
they keep trying to place
upon her style.

I will follow,
eventually,
perhaps at the end
of the lease.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Sometimes The Heavens

Sometimes the heavens 
seem to shout
without a sound, 
send in golden tsunamis 
to knock us out
of our sacrilegious head-bows,
hunched over the false light,
oblivious to whom is beside 
let alone above. 
Another tidal wave of wonder
crashes against an overpopulated shore
unheard and unseen
despite its colossal reminder
that we were not meant to be
islands caught up in the streams
on screens
of mind-numbing nonsense when
the caged spirits within 
continue their deafening 
pleases turned to pleas and 
silent screams
to be released. 
Our souls see
heaven’s reach, 
but our eyes and minds 
are locked
in self-imposed
escapism stagnancy. 
And another stair to heaven
disappears, as the case
little by little,
shrinks. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Simply Love

The purpose of life, the meaning,
has always been crystal clear to me,
never has a non-mystery
been more obvious and accessible:

to love
is the reason
and the miracle,

to be gifted hearts and souls
to find others on the way
home.

Who will you bring?
Who will you pass over?
Remember the Savior
may be the homeless
or aborted,
the silent one
in the corner,
the one deemed
a misfit, different,
deformed.

Each created
from love,
each loved
from above,
each returned
after this
to the metamorphic,
body-molted
non-shape of
love.

The purpose of life, the meaning,
has always been laid out:
Love thy neighbor.
Love thy spouse.
Love thy enemy.
Love thy self.

May we love
the children,
first and foremost. 

Gray Plague

Gray Plague

Part choice, part determination
it seems to be
to avoid the extermination
while still living
caused by the loss
of feeling
when we fall
into that state
of complacency,
the dangerous hibernation
of our dreams,
the steps we take
turning our back
on the way
it could be,
should be…

It’s not easy
to keep the gray
from taking
our colors.
We fade,
part victim,
part converter;
we don’t sell
our souls,
we give them
now away
in exchange
for tickets
to nowhere
but in that gray
for longer,
forever,
to remain.

I feel the pull
of the evolution
of the devil,
the camouflaged
minions, the demons
no longer with arms
now casting spells.

I feel the brush,
the tickle of tentacle;
to kick it off
takes more than will.
Too many sleepers
not getting taken
but tricked into nonthinking
by the sweet song of sirens.

I climb the mountain
and expectedly find
the gray shadow
spreading like
turpentine.

I wrap my limbs
protectively
around my colors
and flee to find
my favorite
awake other.

Together, we embrace,
not in fear
but as survivors
thankful for
our non-superpowers.

We will not
succumb
to the non-fate
of the others
who gave freely away
one by one
each of their
colors.

We will keep painting
on life’s canvas
to preserve
hope and beauty
with each
brush of our breath,

not with fire,
but signaling
with bright hues
to the others
who may be out there still
imbued.

Ultimately, this poem originated from reading a dear WP friend’s poem and listening to a song he posted (which I shared above). (If you are not connected with Ivor Steven, then your life is not as bright as it could be because the light of his soul shines like none other.) Ivor’s poem captures, despite the melancholy mood from the song, a wonderful moment––a pastry, a poem reading, a friendly unmasked smile. Simple. Yet everything really.

Fire in Our Hearts

IMG_4693

Fire in the sky

millions of miles away;

we safely observe

the colorful,

light-scattering

display each day,

gathering in peace-

ful assembly,

all reveling in the

undeniable greatness

of the planet

we are sharing,

if but only temporarily

before we snap back

to the unnatural reality,

manmade distorted discordance

fueled among

a clashing society.

If only the sunset

projected by distant star

could hold us together,

keep us longer

in this blissful moment,

frame us this way,

be able to kindle

in our hearts

love-sparks.

 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise