Seasons Within

Shades of bright pink–
magenta, fuchsia, cerise–
through a sea of gray, peek,
a reminder that soon it will be spring.

In the shroud of fog and mist
that seems to perpetually persist, 
nature refuses to statically subsist;
every cloud will again disperse or lift.

Time was constructed with the condition of motion 
with clauses that require stages of hibernation;
every living thing needs rest and recuperation.
Time ticks on at the same rate; speed is but perception.

Fill the moments wisely with balance,
tenderly caring for each personal aspect.
Mind, body, and soul are both one and separate;
each undergo necessary, natural occurrences.

Embrace each season that inevitably occurs;
even the cold, the dark, the thorns, the spurs
have their purpose in the slows and the stirs.
We are nature within, designed this way by our Creator.

This too shall pass: it’s happening for a reason. 
Let’s not be in a hurry for every next season. 
This moment now is infused with more than you can know.
We are not meant to understand, only to continue to evolve,

to grow. 

We will reach the sun when we are meant to. 
Side by side or entwined, let us together bloom. 
No hurry, no need to be bold;
we can take our time, be led by

the whispers of our souls. 

Poem and images ©LauraDenise


Dragonfly’s silhouette

against the boundaryless blue

entrances me with mysticism,

and I still myself for a clue.


The secrets of the universe

he holds in all-seeing eyes,

billions of years of mysteries

flicker in wings that span time.


The evanescent moments in his presence

pass through me and leave

a mythological map

of the surreptitious path

to placidity.


Poem and images ©LauraDenise




The white and gold

in the mushroom undertoe

draws me in to that peculiar

texture of spongy foam.


Something there is about wild

mushrooms growing

seems magical, mystical;

they seem to harbor a knowing

that we all miss

so busily attending to the non-bliss

of the things deemed more glamorous.


For me, though,

I’d rather shrink myself

and stay awhile or so

in the land of fairies and gnomes

and listen all day to the tales of old

before the curse of growing

and learning, being told

to pay no attention to those

mushrooms undertoe.


Poem and image ©LauraDenise

Childhood is a Puddle


Once upon a time, there was a puddle.

A glorious wonder you fully explored, feeling the wetness, no matter the cleanliness. The muddier, the better, for then the wonder transformed into imagination of what was in there. A puddle, the mode for endless active games, splashing, jumping. Ripples became waves. A hands-on experiment in science made the landing of rain boots produce colossal impacts, and then there was the trial-and-variation of what could float. Floating in the puddle, memories of a time when nature and the outdoors were enough, didn’t use electricity, didn’t cost a dime. That puddle so mystical the way it drew out smiles and squeals of surprise and delight. That puddle, a portal, to a simpler life.

Last week, there was a puddle.

A nuisance you fully avoided. The puddle threatened the fancy shoes you were wearing. Nasty muddy puddle, too. You let out a curse to the city for not engineering the walkway better. Perhaps you’ll sue. Thank goodness you noticed it over your phone’s rim. You had to jump over it, risking looking so stupid, hoping the other phone-viewers didn’t notice. Floating in the puddle you regard for a fleeting moment a leaf, which reminds you fall is nearing, and your yard work will increase. Maybe you’ll cut down the tree in your yard to avoid the awful raking. The puddle-portal to childhood has faded. Your life is now complicated.

A puddle is but one portal to childhood. A gift from nature that used to provide ample pleasure. At what age, what day, did you grow up and away? Which time was your last splash? When did your mind racing replace your legs? When did your imagination fade and the mundane move in? When is the last time you slowed down, breathed in, the simplest joys, put down your showy toys?

What if…

What if you took off your fancy shoes and shamelessly dipped your unmanicured toes into a puddle? Let the wetness take you in, back to a time and place when you had no cares. Look deeply into the reflection until you can see yourself again. Whisper the password, and I bet the portal will open and transport you back.

Let the ripples become dimples and waves and make you small in the best of ways. Dive into the puddle and emerge


©Laura Denise 06/30/18

Sapience From a Shell


Time and time again, children who are caught with their “heads in the clouds” have been reprimanded by adults to snap out of it, focus, pay attention. Snap out of imagination, out of possibilities, out of ingenuity, focus on reality, pay attention to the lecture, don’t talk, don’t think, bury your ideas and dreams. At what point did this mindset become accepted? At what point did clouds acquire such a bad connotation?

As an adult, I regularly risk my life for clouds. When I go for walks in my sidewalk-less neighborhood, I am always looking up, oblivious to my surroundings. When I am driving, I must remind myself not to be a distracted driver: keep your eyes on the road, not the sky. The sky entrances me, and I’ve never really understood why it doesn’t have that same effect on everybody else. When I come out of the grocery store and see the grand, glorious mountain-cloud bursting with light and colors so heavenly that I wonder if it’s the Second Coming, my soul gasps like Flint Lockwood when it first rains burgers, and I don’t understand why no one else in the parking lot is taking pictures, or even looking for that matter.

If this is me around town, you can only imagine the places I go while standing still before the ocean. I am much more than a dreamer with “childish” fantasies though.  I think I came out of womb a philosopher, but along the way, I have acquired life experience and lessons, hardships, gratitude, spirituality, and a master’s degree. When I observe nature, I still admire its surface beauty, still wonder, still imagine, still escape, but now I see the beauty as a gift and natural healer from a divine being, I wonder about the meaning of life and what my gifts are, I imagine endless ways I and others could make meaningful difference in this world, and I escape because I know that I simply must exercise my soul to stay healthy, to be my best me, to live to my fullest potential.

When I observe nature, I see the metaphorical parallels to our human existence, to the personal daily grind and the bigger, collective picture. All of my philosophies about life seem to stem from a stem, a cloud, a shell, a bird. The greatest wisdom I have acquired comes from nature, for it is out here on my patio, out along the shores, out among the trees, that everything within me becomes tranquil, and I lose myself, find myself, restore myself, reinvent myself. Nature is full of messages for us; it is the ultimate teacher, free and accessible (for now, anyway). All you have to do is show up and be still, be silent. If you never pick up the conch shell to put it to your ear, you cannot hear its whispers, and it is that sapience from the shell that remains within us, during and long after that lecture.