Poet. Writer. Photographer.
In the dark,
as a harbinger
of horizon’s light:
the herald’s song,
solo bird’s
opening line.
What hope floats
through my open window
to remind:
courage upon blindness
most often rides.
In the lightening mist
before the sun arrives,
the first chords inspire
the chorus to rise…
One by one,
I pluck the thorns
barbed-wiring my heart in;
obstacle after obstacle
I surmount to prove
that love
will win.
Naturally, the plucks
unclog also the ducts
that keep the dammed rain
bayed,
but that doesn’t mean
the salt will wilt
the bloom who’s too far
on its way….
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
The green returns
as sure as the sun;
the seasons keep spinning,
web-weaved by the One.
There must be a purpose
for the phases of the heart,
like the moon always whole
but only showing certain parts.
Shadows and winter and
stormy weather undesired,
but without feeling the chill,
what would be the motivation
to light the fire?
What could wake, shake, and
empower my soul
if not for the thunder’s
inciting rolls?
How could the beacon
so clearly light the way
without the shadowing trees
contrasting and parting
for the ray?
The green returns
as sure as the sun:
my heart turns again
in its revolution.
Poetry and images ©LauraDenise
fragile unfurling
last raindrop evaporates
absorbed by love’s warmth
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
There is a pain in you
so exquisitely piercing,
in depths that cannot
be reached;
if I could dive
into the abyss of you,
I wouldn’t hesitate
to retrieve it.
But even then,
it could too easily
well up again,
so instead,
I would trace the source,
swim upstream
through your tears
and pluck
from the duct
the thorn.
But I cannot.
The furthest I can reach
is your heart
and transfuse the antiserum
from my own scars,
hold your hand
and see you through
each storm,
and all of my faith
add to yours
and send up
our plea
to the stars.
Poem and images ©LauraDenise
Heart-sensors
extra sensitive,
picking up mixed signals
of every human emotion,
eyes brim with
unidentified sadness
but do not spill over,
for tears that mix
simultaneously with
happiness
get recalled to the cauldron
to start over
in the feelings-concoction,
stirred not by hand
but all that I am,
have been through,
have yet to see,
and the substance
that holds it
all together
in the center
comes from the faith
I feel
He has
in me.
I am transforming
into exactly who
I was always
going to
be,
still a mystery
to me.
Lord, keep making me
an instrument
of Your peace.
Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is error, the truth;
Where there is doubt, the faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled, as to console;
To be understood, as to understand;
To be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.
The sun always returns,
the rain always dries,
the colors come back,
floral scents in the breeze again waft by
in time.
So, my darling, wipe those eyes.
This season is passing soon.
And another truth:
right now,
always,
there is beauty and blessings
all about you.
Sometimes poetry is love letters to the self. And when passed around, others it helps.
Laura Denise 