Perhaps True Love is Not

Perhaps true love is not
long-lost soulmates reunited
or two hearts shaped
puzzle-piece- or locket-and-key-like;

perhaps it’s not just one
but any two who
can fit just right
if each only trades in
fears for freedom
to rise as shared light,

and in that lift,
opposite of fall,
that is when hearts
are melted and forged

into the fitting pieces
or key and lock
to open the chest
and remember
what is love,

and what if love’s touch is not
a lightning spark but the hearth
that holds the flame’s warmth
long into the darkest hours,

or the faithful embers
staying aglow
for the return of air
to ignite the soul.

Brushes of Soul

what if i’m a drifter
not meant to float alone
but to feel
to the core
every spirit
i choose to know
in brief encounters
but bare
soul to soul
stripped to the glow

fearless
deep
strokes
of wounds
and hopes

what if my home
is collectively
each

what if I crave
the companionship
of such fleeting
impressions
that layer
like honey –
raw, sweet

sticking
in this amaranthine
slip

what if to be whole
insatiable must be
the need

let’s feed

each other
truths

when it comes
to how are you

let’s feel

let’s prove
nothing
to this world

let’s love
like we are
eternal

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

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

The Little Things

Something there is
in a soul’s composition
that personalizes light
from the connecting threads;

in the weave of mine,
part my art and part divine,
seems to be for the grandiose
some kind of rare blindness
in the mainstream sense,
for I only find it
in the minute and steeped in
mindfulness,

the larger picture
always blurred and muted,
unacceptably-by-society
dismissing sweeping views;

upon deaf eyes, the waterfalls,
for my soul only hones in on single drops,
the silhouette of an insect’s wings
even beyond the forefront flowering.

Too far away are the large and obvious;
I slip into the inconspicuous,
secret portals and nooks
that scan my soul
and recognize me in my
slow and scenic way home.

Don’t take me to the lookout point;
take me to the mountain where I can climb
to admire all the wonder along the trail.
The view at the top can never be the peak:
for me it can only be

in the little things.

You can hike with me
if you have the patience,
for a mile in nature
won’t get you fit,
but if you’d like to sit
awhile beside me,
I wouldn’t mind
the company,

but no attention would I be able to give you
when the sun sets on a solitary bee upon a pink bloom…

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Beneath The Magnolia Trees

May Day birthday, one to add
genuinely to my scant album

of joyful memories,

as Time bows down to still itself
and lets me live some moments
immortally

beneath the Magnolia trees

that seemed to have waited
for this occasion
to begin their epic blooming.

So dear to me have become
the velvet ivory,
symbolizing hope
and soul purity,

so many seasons dormant,
waiting and waiting
and waiting so patiently
for me to water
the self-love seeds.

The skies reflect their best blues,
the clouds tone down with humility,
the leaves dance with the breeze,
the sun, between, flickers in winks.

I am the center of the universe;
all planets line up to kiss my cheek.
I could stay here, my happiest place ever,
forever in this heavenly garden

of Magnolia trees.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

One (More) Prayer

Blinded by tears,
but sight not needed
when folded in prayer
and the heart is leading

through the dark,
no darkness able to extinguish
the soul’s pilot light igniting
the vigil of candles
in a community’s deepest wishes,

one prayer
all I’ve ever believed
to be needed,
but at the same time,
what if one more
is all that’s needed…

when any fellow brother or sister
is pleading
to the stars and moon
and higher powers
to feel the tourniquet
wrapped around the bleeding.

Some prayers in my most lonely hours
were mine alone for another,
and I always hoped it was enough,
just my solo anguished heart lifted up

to God.
I think one is always
enough,

but just in case
yours makes the difference
in jumping the threshold,
let’s pray together,
let our heard and unheard
hearts unite
as one.

We can go back
to being distant
when we’re done.

Or we can hold on
to the memory of this moment
when we joined
the angels’ solemn song.

Let His will be done.

Bluebell Truths

First among the season’s
blooms of Mexican bluebells,
the sight of the familiar color
already having sprung
the leak in my heart’s well,

so profoundly in its silence
rang such messages of truth,
its face to the soft, setting sun,
its torn wing-petal too,

so humble,
so beautiful,
a story untold:
inner workings
only through
the gentle,
loving light
vulnerably
exposed.

We are meant
to fill in the gaps,
each other hold,
using the same light
harbored in our own
souls.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Light Hole

Gravitational pull
through metaphysical galaxies,
you galvanized
an ancient seed
long-planted in me;

o u r r e a c h

that began in previous centuries
ever so close now to finally entering
this current reality.

At the source of light,
we shall meet
and pure love conceive
before transcending

complete.

It Calls to Souls

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It calls to souls,
summons apropos
when we are weary with worldly woes,
wants to wash us whole,

and I feel the pull…

So benevolent is the offering,
selfless power there dwelling,
to wrap me in the healing dressing
and infuse the peace;

I feel it filling…

It calls to souls,
universally, indiscriminately so;
every ocean and sea seems to extol
us when our true selves we simply show.
I get brushed into that timeless tableau,
the heavenly mantel family photo,
and His love takes hold,

welcomes me home.

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,
returning,
shedding
all of the artificial

shells.

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