Ceiling Window

Storm damage,
barriers broken,
dirty, yellow sickness,
weathering construction;

sky lights,
greening branches,
reach to pull through window
perspective victim.

Poem and image ©LauraDenise

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’.

The Orb

orb of light suspended
protected by barkless tentacles
the fire descends
for the ancient ritual

soundless ceremony
tree spirits of old
centuries of wisdom
remain untold

a vision of truth
purity of purpose
i become entranced
test my worthiness

Written for BrewNSpew’s first ever weekly prompt: Ceremony.
Thanks for hosting, Eugenia!

Alive

My roots, my veins,

my soular capillaries,

every inner

and immeasurable

part of my being

craves, thirsts, seeks

the quenching

that only feelings bring,

for to feel

is life

as well as the meaning.

I choose to only feed

from now on

on the good and happy things,

so move me,

sky, flowers, trees,

friend, lover, hobbies;

let me drink in

that life

that fills me beyond

capacity,

keep my feelers tingling,

my colors bleeding,

never let me be defeated

by a drought

of feeling

alive.

Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Swing of Possibilities

Little girl

spinning,

squealing,

dizzy

with glee,

pigtails and innocence

and laughter

flying

in the breeze…

Young lady

in love

being pushed

romantically,

a shy smile

and stolen glance

noticed by tree

and he

as swing’s momentum

slows

and romance

quickens,

first kiss

approaching;

oh, the

anticipation…

Elderly widow

sits still

on the suspended plank

swaying in and out of

memories,

cold hands rubbing

the rough

ropes and scars,

but he only feels

her soft hair

in his dream…

The swing starts

to sway,

though the bitter winds

have not changed.

He does not see

but from far away,

you can make out

her ghostly figure

giving him a push

back into happiness,

as he swears he hears

her voice

laughing in chorus

with the breeze and

the leaves,

bringing eternal spring…