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On To The Next Chapter
Canvas
Turned one of my therapy prompts into a poem…
Blank canvas,
illusion of new.
What are these shades
of old beneath
rising through,
discoloring the purity
of clean slate…
I lay the brush down
before first stroke
of paint
and step back
for a more
distant perspective.
Rorschach shadows
become detected.
Buried beneath
the fresh-white,
I deny them
resurrected life
and apply another
layer on top,
but the past creation
again creeps up.
So I switch
to turpentine
and attempt to excavate
the shapes
that underlie.
In an old life,
I find….
an abstract piece
of universe,
in which I orbit
a black hole
with hues so vibrant
that feeds itself
from my colors,
not symbiotic
yet I always offer.
It does pull,
but also repels;
it will never allow me
inside itself.
Gravity does not
keep me there,
looping the same cycle
that keeps me
in despair;
I choose it,
foolishly,
until there is barely
anything
left of me.
Since the past
on this canvas
can’t seem to be erased,
I make myself the center
and add an axis
to turn away
and keep my face
toward the light,
and my colors and definition,
I reapply.
Then some of my favorite things,
I paint to orbit
around ME
and set into motion
a new trajectory…
Breaking Light
(3 Haiku)
In each breaking point,
piercing the internal dark:
the persistent light.
New day, sun return:
wheel of time pauses neither
for life nor for death.
Seasons of life, heart,
barren branches to full bloom:
design and free will.
(Some belated thoughts on a photograph of a hospital parking-lot tree…)
Uncaptured
Upon bark canvas,
the shadows of life swung:
leaves and branches
silhouetted on trunk.
From the window,
my gaze succumbed,
and poetry fluttered
but did not muster
(enough) photo motivation.
Still Mother’s lesson
was whispered to me:
“Perhaps, my child,
it’s time to refocus
on the light
and the green.”
Someday Home
I am the embodiment of Love,
The Giving Tree,
with a heart that refuses
to let my head lead
as bright as I am,
cerebrum and soul,
but I refuse to become bare
by the end of this
long and lonely road.
Birdsong
Lazy late morning,
nothing but sun
and silence save
this birdsong;
I could be this still,
just listening,
for the rest of my life
so contentedly
in this personal Eden
healing me.
Well Mirage
By clinging together,
raindrops resist
at the edgeÂ
of the cliff,Â
the abyss,
at the border between
lifeÂ
and the cracking brown
that begs for tears
to re-quench
what has already been
drowned:
concrete, manmade.
How futile it is to keep
watering the pain.
Green and blue
reflect and infuse,
ever so gently pull
toward better use:
decide instead
to feed growth
and desert these looping
barren roads.
Poem and image ©LauraDenise
Hammock
I gently lay
my heart to rest
upon a sea-oat-
suspended hammock
and let my Maker
tenderly sway
through the breeze
my cradled malaise,
and after this dose
of soaking wounds in warm gold,
I’ll convert this sling
to sail boat…Â