Shifting

shifting sands
grains unable to be grasped
slipping through fingers
sieve of my existence
footprints vanishing
in vain trying to leave
an imprint, fingerprints
fossilizing

as I watch
sea drops dry on shells
shells of mankind
displayed non-selves
on shelves

shifting painted shapes
offer to take me away
only to lead to the next
drifting cumulous cloud
lateral when I need
to be higher
homeward bound

shifting sands
I open my hand
spread my fingers wider
I know what the answers
are not
to feel the silk
is to feel
nothing caught
but sensory strokes
the void
in the curve
of my palm
no trail found
to my entrance
into the sea

saltwater can’t sting
when the wounds
are too far beneath
the body’s surface

arms open
I invite
the above in
home-
sick
let me know
I am not

forgotten

Shared Trains

I’ve ridden
on the same trains
as you
over these eternal years,
collecting the paintings
of your words
in my album
held dear.

When you board,
a sense of comfort
always hugs my soul
even without eye contact
or any vocalized hello.

Somehow, I feel
you know me, though,
while respecting
my poor attempts at
incognito.

Always at night,
we ride, reading
each other;
sometimes I ride
moonbeams
to stay near
when you depart,

hovering at the open window,
turning to respect your privacy
after the last line
of your poem
falls off
sensually.

My spirit knows yours
from some other life or realm;
I’ve counted on you
to always be there
as I travelled through each
lonely world.

Today, the universe
was all out of whack,
for when you boarded,
you replied back

to the thoughts
I did not think were said.
A rose you left,
my name spoken,

thornless
and seeded
as you sat
beside,
chatting away
to my smile
and starry eyes

until it was our
independent stops.
No sins today,
but my heart felt
your pulse.

Flickers

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
within.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

The Petals I’ve Known

It’s been sunny and seventies, and the seasons
have not so much been confused
as they have been seemingly
just leisurely mingling, amused,
some stalling, some joyfully letting go;
nothing in the South rushes though.

Like melting cubes of ice in tea,
we take it sweet and slow down here.
It tickles me pink to have the mix
sprinkling personal messages so clear.

Today started differently,
gray with a bit of nip in the air.
Certain trees partaking in autumn
are almost now bare,
covering the patio in a bland
blanket over stone,
which made the flowers
I did not grow
even more the focal point
of my windowed soul.

I smiled for how they have become
so deeply rooted in my journey.
Marking my heart’s pages,
so many petals and leaves held so dearly,
imprinting with their colors and scents
my most powerful untold stories.

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.

After-Storm

Unedited after-storm sky,
heavens open up
as if to apologize
for the tribulation
necessarily survived,
though still withheld
must be the why.

Instilled with a knowing
a higher power so loving
is in control when I spin
in my free will off trajectory,

I simply pause all the swirling
emotional turbulence within
and feel the wind,
the exhale of the one above,
mighty breath on my skin;

my hair and soul lift up,
and I wish my feet would.
Grounded on this earth for now;
let me master all the lessons.

There is nothing but comfort
in the after-storm sky,
a sojourn wrapped in serenity,
a glimpse of afterlife.

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.

Protected: Ghost Town Intersection

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.

Gravitational Falls

We all fall. Sometimes.
It’s inevitable. Natural.
Stumbles and knockouts
along the way.
Bumps and potholes,
from obstacles and pitfalls,
All paved roads, manmade.

No wonder we get lost.
We make through-streets
when we are meant to meander
on foot, following brooks
and the day-star beacon
through the trees.

I believe it lights
a different direction
for each.

Newton’s laws are really
a Universe thing,
term ego-coined by humanity,
but even that which
has no momentum to soar,
has never been granted
the boost or breeze,
seems to fall
with a harder thud
from crawling.

Perhaps the greatest
and most needed fall
is the one to our knees,
when we give it all
up and let Him
take the lead.

Perhaps in that moment
we are granted our wings.

But in that excitement,
will we remember
to fall silent and still
enough to feel our soul’s
gravitational pull?

We can now go anywhere
the heart leads.
This time I will stay away
from the paved
and listen to the whispers
of the wildflowers
and leaves.

I feel your heart
out there
gravitating toward
me.