December Pinks

The pink blooms I never planted
are more beautiful than ever
as I return rejuvenated
to the patio in December.

Autumn has rained
its traditional hues too;
warmth in the setting sun
dries a wet spell of the blues.

I am tickled by the message
of the southern bell for whom it tolls,
waking the possibilities in me
of choosing the way it goes.

I’ll keep growing these pink blooms
even if they get winter-taken,
for I’ve reseeded in my heart
a season of hope to never end.

January Fire

Winter in the South means a mix of seasons but the absence of snow. My soul needs the snow though. Still, I find much beauty in the messages and stories that appear in my lens. There is always a story in my lens.

I have been admiring the stubbornness of Autumn. Colors still ablaze that arrived in standardized winter months hold fast, refuse to let go. Soon it will be spring here. How long can Autumn hold on? Will she co-exist with Spring next? As much as I admire her, part of me wants to console her, let her know that it will be okay to relax her grip, to let change occur. I have known such resistance, such unsettling feelings, such pre-nostalgia, such fear.

I am not a fan of change, which surprises even me given my fiery resistance to conformity. Part of me admires the fiery leaf refusing to be classified into a season, to be confined to certain months. Part of me sees a sadness though too, especially paired with the fiery setting sun, similarly seeming to stall in its descent, wanting to stay just a bit longer.

Autumn clings
defiant
or weeping;
its leaves
like the setting sun
seem to desperately
hold on.

Gray Plague

Gray Plague

Part choice, part determination
it seems to be
to avoid the extermination
while still living
caused by the loss
of feeling
when we fall
into that state
of complacency,
the dangerous hibernation
of our dreams,
the steps we take
turning our back
on the way
it could be,
should be…

It’s not easy
to keep the gray
from taking
our colors.
We fade,
part victim,
part converter;
we don’t sell
our souls,
we give them
now away
in exchange
for tickets
to nowhere
but in that gray
for longer,
forever,
to remain.

I feel the pull
of the evolution
of the devil,
the camouflaged
minions, the demons
no longer with arms
now casting spells.

I feel the brush,
the tickle of tentacle;
to kick it off
takes more than will.
Too many sleepers
not getting taken
but tricked into nonthinking
by the sweet song of sirens.

I climb the mountain
and expectedly find
the gray shadow
spreading like
turpentine.

I wrap my limbs
protectively
around my colors
and flee to find
my favorite
awake other.

Together, we embrace,
not in fear
but as survivors
thankful for
our non-superpowers.

We will not
succumb
to the non-fate
of the others
who gave freely away
one by one
each of their
colors.

We will keep painting
on life’s canvas
to preserve
hope and beauty
with each
brush of our breath,

not with fire,
but signaling
with bright hues
to the others
who may be out there still
imbued.

Ultimately, this poem originated from reading a dear WP friend’s poem and listening to a song he posted (which I shared above). (If you are not connected with Ivor Steven, then your life is not as bright as it could be because the light of his soul shines like none other.) Ivor’s poem captures, despite the melancholy mood from the song, a wonderful moment––a pastry, a poem reading, a friendly unmasked smile. Simple. Yet everything really.

A Heart Out of Hibernation

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Cryogenically-preserved heart
guarded with blades of ice,
lying low, preferring alone,
but the romantic dreams
so carefully preserved inside.

Not deliberately hiding
and you were not looking,
but the gods in mixing the seasons
led you to find me.

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I was faded
in protective hibernation,
but your love 
warmed me like morning sun.

Your heart
brought mine
to life,
blew gently
to spark my inner fire;

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the colors
that resided down deep
saturated
my desire
with you 

to be me.

img_6063Poem and images ©LauraDenise

Silent Night

Soundless snowflakes,

silent night,

white star lights

faintly decorate

the sky,

and I

keep my eyes

and heart open wide,

close my mind,

still time…

 

Every night

painted fresh

by the brush

of His breath,

O holy night

granted to

the blessed witness…

 

I look up,

and my center calms,

spirits lift

and join the souls

dancing in this

silent night,

this blissful

ignorance

of the mysteries

beyond all this…

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The Weight

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I was

a thin and bare

branch

at the snapping point

from the weight

of the heavily-packed snow

bearing down upon me.

Silence, save for the

chorus of eerie creaking,

seemed to echo

in the overcast cold.

 

But inside this branch

was hope.

 

The pressure

lessened slowly

as the sun

sent its rays

and the weight

fell off,

simply melted away.

 

Sometimes,

all we can do,

should do,

are meant to do,

is wait.

 

And sometimes be willing

to accept being selflessly

saved.