To Where You Are

A poetic letter to me sent upon a wave and star
to reach through time, back to where you are…

This “he” of your fantasies
receives your Little Red Balloon
and your whispers
to be delivered by Moon.

He will continuously clean
your mirrors until you see
as he does, all of your beauty
clearly.

You will weave wedding
wildflowers in your hair
and feel the wind whip
freeingly through the despair.

You will radiate in dresses
and feel feminine,
barefoot and free
upon grass and sand.

Your wavy locks
will be teased by the breeze.
Your hand outstretched
for a companion will receive.

Your heart reopened
will be filled to overflowing,
exceeding your dreams
with God-blessed reality.

Your voice in song
will again reach the heavens,
your loquaciousness endlessly
received with eager anticipation.

That voice in your head
and grip around your growth
will fall away as he convinces you
to love yourself.

Your faith will grow
as anticipated;
God will see you through
as He always has.
He knows always
what is ahead.
He will deliver love
if you cut the thread…

You will not give
your whole life
to this verbally-abusive “man.”
Soon you will be filled
with enough courage to act.
You will come to realize
those decades
of hurtful words
were lies all along;
you will come to know
your worth.

Who you once long ago
hoped instead you were
will appear as unwavering
truths in every mirror.

Little Red Balloon

Barricades and Gates

Don’t count the days
you’ve been apart
or all the fissures
that keep forming
in your heart.

Don’t count at all
except to count on the reunion.
Sometimes it’s necessary
to future-focus in those moments.

Close your eyes
and let that vision in;
the light of faith
makes the best stitches.

Stop red-exing. Green circle
all the days left in this life.
Keep hope open and
into each moment invited.

Don’t count the tears that drop
in the seemingly endless flood.
Count on His greater plan.
Lift your face to the Son.

Pray for the courage to take the wheel
as the angels give directions.
Sometimes we have to wait longer;
sometimes we need to take action.

Sometimes it’s up to them;
sometimes it’s not determined by fate
but by every action
we don’t and do make.

Dead ends are the Devil.
Detours, angel interventions.
The first, avalanches suffocating.
The latter, breathways to salvation.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Out of Season

Determined to counter the moody clouds
others have been attempting to cast onto me,
I choose to seek out the sun, spring-infuse myself,
dip my soul into the fresh-blooming green,

breathe in the revitalizing April air,
let the warming rays seep in through my pores,
absorbed more in the whole of the reborn panorama than
focused on the details imploring to be explored,

labrador-blue heeler happy for any outdoor adventure,
not a hike but a mutually restorative leisurely linger,
ahhh…a new season…

Circling back to the start, back to the car,
I am not allowed to leave, it seems,
until Mother Nature imparts
a lesson, whispers words of wisdom
through some not-new, refusing-to-be-forgotten
leaves from two seasons ago,
still here, and starkly so,
weathered, fossilized autumn,

a reminder of the past
not so easily dismissed;
buried or not, it insists
on revisits,
coming to you
if you neglect it,
but what we make
of what is,
that is the endless work
or blessing
depending on the nature
of what was–
bright, shiny yellow
of yesterday
against the conglomerate
of rocks, man-manipulated
into asphalt,
a yellow sickness
or stubborn
fading sun,
either way the marring,
tattered edges and holes,
do not seem to take the whole,
still here despite the winter
with a fortitude to witness,
to reunite with the green
it was itself once.

I see a reminder that
we can turn
our back on the past
and run to spring,
but all seasons remain,
never really leave,
inside us always
are the memories,
tears of joy and loss,
the scars of life;
we can embrace it all,
co-exist in peace
with all that is inside.

I choose to find
the positive,
even in the stumbling
upon the past
in my determined
celebration of the
present moments,
all presents indeed,
and then I find a smile
in the concrete
when I see
yet another unexpected
chapter of a
love story,
so pure and yet to be
complete…

I wonder what those
resigned to defeat see.
Perception can sting
regardless, some things
we simply must feel
but perspective…
that is the key
in our control
and possession,
a powerful tool we
can self-weld and
self-wield,
manipulate,
to preserve
our internal
peace.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Holding Photographs

nostalgia bittersweet
joy so genuine, effortless
radiating, echoing
from fading photographs

touched, held between
ringless fingers and the fumes
of a heart on empty
from the moment
so distantly removed

time does not warp
those precious instances
forever suspended
feelings will flutter on
thousands of centuries

bittersweet for the bliss
is eternally retrievable
but if the present is less
then the tears
breach suppressible

falling is the gravity
of sadness, all rain
nature running its course
to cleanse the panes

we simply must
adjust the frames
order the montages
strategically arrange

so when we step back
to take in the collective
the rainbow across
our present
gets light-refracted

First Dandelion

I am a champion of dandelions, so when I spotted the first one unseasonably early this year in January, it was meaningful to me.

This “winter” along the Gulf Coast has been a wonderland for me despite the absence of snow. Summer flowers refused to fold, autumn arrived in December and passed yet lingers, some leaves finally fallen and browned, others “frozen” in time.

I don’t think the leaves and flowers and frost are confused by the erratic temperatures. It feels more willful than that. They feel alive, refusing to conform, but not in a defiant resistance, more of a joyful jubilee, an awakening, a desire to witness, delayed death meeting premature birth, overlapping, perhaps just this once as planets form a particular pattern.

I see the parallels in me.

I woke long before dawn on a Sunday because I couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to, any longer. I yearned to write, to seize the day, because it was mine. As much as I love my career, it dictates me like any other. No agenda today but my own, the only notes needed, the scribblings of poetic thoughts flittering in the spring of my mind. Like the flowers and leaves out of doors, I will inevitably sleep but if fate allows, I’ll decide the time. A nap with the window open mid-afternoon, perhaps in the middle of a chapter, perhaps in an hour.

The seasons of our lives are wed to time, and these seasons are defying order, the same way the past in me can mix with my present, competing for my attention, openly and beneath. Sometimes it is simply past time for the last leaf to release its grip; after all, it is sacrificial and needed for the tree’s perseverance. The trees of life within us, like the blooms, will assuredly bud again. Perhaps the exposed bareness is necessary for us too, to feel the abrasive, harsh winds, to virus-hibernate for a while, to better appreciate the warmth and warmer rains, and friends. To extend once again or for the first time, our olive branches.

I lean down to the ground behind my privacy fence to capture the “Tooth of the Lion.” I shake my head instead of getting mad when I am photo-bombed. Sometimes the unexpected comes along, for we were not designed to be able to translate the harbinger’s song.

Seasons of the Heart

Leaves, pinecones, and acorns fall,
petals and whole blooms too;
the hands of time
propel the seasons,
pulling and pushing
the memories of you.

Change comes inevitably,
seems to detach and deteriorate
in the downward descent
on the slippery slopes
of wet-leaves and iced pathways.

We can find our grip though,
we can find the beauty that clings,
hold in our hearts the comforting scents,
focus on the evergreens.

The petals that fall
like snowflakes,
the snowflakes that
melt too quickly,
need not die in the moment
if we preserve them
in our chest of memories,

collecting the treasures as keepsakes
and letting the winds
take what we want to forget
but knowing in the circle of life,
it will surely come ’round again.

In the interim,
we can reflect,
metamorphose feelings
instead of circumvent.

Time and Change
have their purposes,
often cognizant
of our best interests,
sometimes the fall,
the return to earth,
is the only way
to bring life
to buried relationships.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Golden Frames

Golden transformation
those past pains
with limited perspectives
seem to undergo
when God and time
mix in blessings and distance.

No phoenix transformation needed;
from the fires before ashes,
I retrieve the experiences
and in lieu of scar-brands

manipulate the molten looking-glass
and use the heat to my advantage,
blowing a kiss of forgiveness
to all of my previous misfortunes,

all the ways things did not turn out
the way I hoped they would,
for in the end, it seems that all
will be perfectly understood.

So in the setting sun of yesterdays,
I withhold the potential for rain
and weld the cloud shapes
into precious golden frames…

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Ravaged Nest

mourning dove
the morning after
I will shed the tears
for you, dear lady

I will grieve

but we most both look
to the sun
it rises again
and our lives go on

even without
the physical presence
sometimes of lost ones
we love

the circle of life
contains the dark
and the light

the ultimate joys
the seemingly unrecoverable
losses

no deity induced
things just happen

I believe
He is wrapped
around us
grieving too

but reassuring
He will take them
to a place even more
beautiful

and hold them close
as we, too, will
always do

the sun rises
against mourning dove’s
rooftop silhouette

a reminder
a symbol
that represents

loss and love
will always be
the polar peaks
of life

so closely
intertwined

and whether we
are ready or not,
the sun again
will rise

continuing the
advancement of time

seemingly so long
before we can reunite

but this life
is but a blink
of an eye

and in that downward
motion of that lid
we still have much
love
we can give

to love
is the only way
to truly
live

Drops of Time

Sometimes you need
to let go
of both the past and present
to make room for
your future

waiting so patiently
to embrace you
if your heart
and arms
were not so
full

of nonliving yesterdays
and unfulfilling todays;
though they may haunt
and though they may sustain,

it is only your future
that can bring
what you can’t help but
need

and deserve.
Eventually,

the future, too,
moves on.
And before you know it,
you’ve achieved

survival
until you’re

g
o
n
e
.

Let your future
bring you

love…

❤

Present Turning

Version 2

footprints in the sand

headed to the sunset,

the present turning

to memories

with each leisurely step

time stands still

yet it doesn’t,

simultaneously

moving

while holding forever

the moment

no turning back

as history proceeds,

no undoing

impressions

once the pressure

is released

and the shape

is ingrained

indelibly

though the tide

may wipe

the slate clean

and the imprint

may no longer

be seen

only time

may be able to change

the feelings

what kind

of trail

are you leaving?

footprints in the sand

headed to the sunset,

the present turning

to memories

with each step