With a steady hand
one can build a house of cards
from a deck of dreams.
But beware the breeze
of your own breath as you sigh
at its perfection
and the well placed dreams
slither down into a pile
of new potential.
#87
Category: A New Poem Every Morning #2
Habits
Downhill ruts that trap
Our wheels, sliding life into
well worn mud puddles.
We don’t have to stay
in the mud any longer
than necessary.
Habits are the ruts
But we are the ones driving.
It’s time to chain up.
#86
The Illustrated Child
Every now and then she breaks out
in tattoo ink.
Her body a shrine to what she holds dear.
Her children, music, even flowers remembered
from her grandmother’s garden – all imprinted
on her memory and on limbs and back.
It’s only rational that someone who wears
her heart on her sleeve
would not flinch at wearing her love
on her skin.
# 85
Advanced Prep is Grossly Over Rated – a haiku to the morning
Unprepared I walk
into this day, not knowing,
not needing to know.
#84
Colour Me
“Men can only differentiate between 16 colours.”
he explained to me as we scanned the paint chips.
I was busy trying to decide between ‘Rusty Nail’
and ‘Bull’s Eye’.
“It’s red.”
Thank you, Dear, but I need a completely irrelevant name
to give to the lady who mixes the paints.
Back to the 16 colours – he likes 8 and so do I,
but, apparently they aren’t the same 8.
We agree to divide the house.
He will choose for the studio.
I will choose the rest.
And yet somehow the studio
will be painted “Chipotle”,
not orange.
#83
King of the Woodpile
Tans and browns and green grey camo
the grouse knows how to blend
with wood and bark and aspen bough
feathered illusionist. Then,
with cocky self importance
he proceeds to sabotage
his monochrome advantage
of feathered camouflage
by drumming on the woodpile,
and he makes it very plain,
that all who hear had best steer clear
for he has staked his claim.
#82
Between Two Clouds
Above hang clouds, flat bottomed and heavy,
the propellers absentmindedly snick, snicking at
their bellies.
Below, clouds breathe and shift like a living thing.
I am in an airplane sandwich,
suspended in a pocket of clarity,
cloud above, cloud below with the sunset
spilling in from the side, trickling,
staining the slices of cloud
like the pink juice from a ripe tomato.
the bottom slice tears, the way
bread does when you try to spread
hard butter.
Lights appear in the darkness.
I am home.
#81
Musings on Television
I don’t get TV at home
but sometimes, when I’m on the roam,
and sitting in some hotel room,
I turn the darn thing on.
I’ll scan the listings patiently
and flip through channels just to see
if anything might interest me
before I click along.
Far from tempting me to change
from my television-less ways,
these infrequent, boredom fuelled, forays
reinforce my first impression
that the more the choice the less the chance
I’ll find something to catch my glance
Unless, of course, by happen-stance
A classic movie’s on.
But commercials swarm and I swat ‘em
until I’m lost and have forgotten
what movie I am actually watching.
What pleasure is in that?
So by the time I get back home,
I’m glad for my TV-less home,
where there are no commercial drones
or dreaded talk show chat.
#80
Beware
Beware child.
At some point time speeds up.
I know, the scientists will deny
but one day you will look in the mirror
and cry
“Wait, what happened here?
When did yesterday become
twenty years ago?”
and your only
consolation will be
that your grandmother,
your great grandmother, and me
at some point thought the same.
But your daughter will remain
blithely unaware until that day
dawns on her and she’ll say
“Why didn’t she warn me?”
Even though you did.
#79
Morning Horizon
Pink clouds on blue sky,
sunrise gently traces a
lingering caress.
#78
Linda Studley 