Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the category “A New Poem Every Morning #2”


Does the scent of the rose garden, aflutter
with wayward petals,
waft  through your open door?
Does it bring back memories of wild roses in June?

You stand silent in the historical village,
a transplanted log cabin complete with furnishings,
a lonely anachronism waiting
for familiar footsteps at the back door.

Few tourists will climb your steep stairs.
Some whisper of a face they’ve seen,
peering from the second story window, curtains twitching.
Ghosts may linger in this house
but I feel only peace.
Peace with a touch of sadness.

I imagine seeing my life, my home,
through an outsider’s eyes as they shake
their heads at the wood cook stove,
the gas lanterns, and the crank telephone.
“ How did they live like this” they ask each other.

And I hear the ghosts cry back “Well.
We lived well.
By the strength of our own hands
we cleared the land, built our home, grew our food.
We worked, we sang, we danced.
We cried, we laughed, we loved.
All else is meaningless.”

And I smile and nod as the silence flows
back into the corners of the room.
Be content ghost.
I hear you.

What Love Is

For the young man who says he loves my granddaughter…

rusting her implicitly
Respecting her mind and her body
Evolving as you both grow
Admiring her creativity
Supporting her to achieve her goals
Understanding that sometimes you won’t understand
Realizing that she is every bit as imperfect as you are
Enduring hardships together; as a team
Holding hands, even when you’re not young lovers anymore
Encouraging her to reach her potential
Rejoicing in her successes

…Welcome to the family



Pockmarks and Shadows

As I make my morning mile
I ponder the pebbles
strewn across the dirt road, they stand
unusually tall in the early morning sunlight.
Long shadow fingers point across the road,
like the tails of active blood drops
indicating the direction of travel.
And the sun travels,
peering into pockmarks from pebbles
leaping from tire and sole and hoof.
And perhaps we are all just pebbles,
whether standing tall or running away,
our legacies as enduring as pockmarks
and shadows on the sand.




Facebook Challenge Answered

(Rules: Day 1 – the book you are currently reading; Day 2 – a book you loved as a child; Day 3 – a book abandoned half-read; Day 4 – a book that made a great impression on you; Day 5 – The book you return to over and over again. Nominate 3 friends each day)


Caught in an online hybrid
of tag and chain letter
you want me to tell you about my reading habits, but
I warn you, I rarely follow rules unless
the reasoning is sound.

How can I dole out my bookish experiences
piecemeal when books are more like air
to me, an indivisible atmosphere
that I breathe in and out.
Some smell of lilacs and slip
into my psyche like melting chocolate
while others gag me
with the scent of rotting flesh and yet
I read on, knowing that the kernel of the story
will nourish some necessary hunger.

As I child I loved children’s books that hold
no real charm for me now because the lenses
of childhood do not fit anymore.
I do not mourn their passing, it is the
natural way of life to move along.

Of abandoned books I will not speak.
They are the choking breath that engenders
coughing fits; best forgotten.

Some volumes drowned me with new ideas,
gave me fresh eyes with which to view my life.
They filled my lungs with the purest air, unscented
yet smelling of the world and everything in it.
These I revisit; these and the ones whose
words roll around my mind in familiar patterns,
un-pinching, comfortable and safe.

I will not tell you the names of these books
lest you accidentally read them with false expectations.

I will not exhort triumvirates of friends to spill
their literary leanings – they must offer them to you
willingly – with no guilt laden nudges.

If you want my advice about books,
this I will give you…
Read it all and decide for yourself.


It Sucks to be Sick

It sucks to be sick
When the sun is shining bright.
When your bleary eyes are blinded
by the golden light.
It’s a fail when you ail
and your food tastes like straw
and scratches up your throat
and catches in your craw.
Yep, it sucks to be sick,
and your head feels like a brick
and your stomach is queasy
and breathing don’t come easy
and your muscles are all sore
and you know there’s plenty more
I could bring to your attention,
by the way, did I mention that
it sucks to be sick…


Dreaming My Cold Away

When I have a cold,
when I’m stuck in bed,
I close my eyes and dream
I’m somewhere else instead.

Sitting on the beach
with my toes in the sand,
a cool glass of something
sweating in my hand.

Or I see myself gardening
Planting hopeful seeds,
tucking in the plantlets,
and turfing out the weeds.

Or maybe I am drifting
on a lake in our canoe.
My paddle dips and dives
like the loons and loonlings do.

While I’m lying in my bed
trying not to swallow
there is no shining memory
I won’t pull up and follow.

Till the microscopic menace
loosens up its fetters
and I can truly say
“I think I’m feeling better.”

But until then I’ll close my eyes
and dream my cold away
with ideas for summer projects
and plans for sunny days.




Music, friends, and wine.
Enduring memories grow
from fleeting moments.



Winter Dawn

Dawn peers past cloudy
cataracts with pale blue eyes.
Snowblind; cold comfort.



227-photo for poem

When you’re gone
I find myself in the uncomfortable company
of my own self far too much.
I miss your symbiotic intelligence,
your unerring ability to catch
what I’m pitching,
scratch when I’m itching,
tolerate, placate
when I’m bitching.
It’s probably good for me to experience
introspection a little
every now and then. When
will you be home?


Time is a Relative

I am a firm believer in time warps.
In folding zones
and involuntary ticks
and talk about relativity…
It’s as clear as the gnomon on your face
that time shifts and passes
dependant upon the momentum of age.
Is the hourglass half full or half empty?
Time must be relative.
That’s the only way my grandbaby
could turn eighteen so soon.


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