Category: A New Poem Every Morning

Weather Diagnosed

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Weather is not a normal noun,
it’s a paranormal personification
of abnormal personalities.

Winter, the un-empathic; the anti-social bully
with his snow swirlies, daring you to venture out
to watch the northern lights. Passive aggressive,
freezing the world with a billion unique snowflakes.

Spring, hesitant, all PTSD over winter’s bullying,
constantly trying to start anew. All false
starts and flowers, chilly showers
and warm breezes. gumbo and promises.

Summer the narcissist, all sweetness and lightning,
sunshine and wasp nests. manipulative, deluded with
grandeur she floods on a whim then inundates
her victim with sunny smiles and bouquets.

Fall, depressed pessimist with bi-polar swings of
glorious sensory displays and frosty intolerance.
Identity crises, moody, paranoid, leaving countless
trails of leaves and still getting lost.

 

#287

Goldilocks and the Time Traveler

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Goldilocks’ housebreaking career finally
brought her to the time travellers little house.
There was no porridge, no chairs, no beds,
only a calendar.

She tried yesterday but it was way too soon.
She tried tomorrow but it was way too late.
Then she tried today and it was just right.

She wasn’t quite sure what it was right for,
but she knew she’d never give it back.
She’d been stealing minutes for years so
pilfering an entire day was just the next logical step.

 

#285

I Look Better Than I See

lindastudley2 Comments

I had a pair of progressive lenses
that worked well for a while and then
my eyes had a spizwhifty spell
(that’s a technical term for “what the hell?”)

Now it’s glasses 1 to watch TV
glasses 2 for computer screens.
glasses 3 to see the music stand
and, when I’m  in bed, I can

wear glasses 2 and  3 to look
close enough to read my book.
It is a strange, ungainly sight
my layered bifocals of the night.

Perhaps some day along the line
when it’s cataract picking time
I may be allowed to re-progress
to the progressives, languishing in the chest.

 

#284

And the Dance Goes On

lindastudley2 Comments

Leaves crunch underfoot.
Summer’s bones litter and drift
into the hollows.

Autumn’s ripe red scent
steeps the air cranberry rust
with a hint of loam.

She wears a golden
gown, rustling taffeta
with red petticoats.

Twitching up her skirts,
she swirls, flirts with the old man
who stands in the door.

He catches her hand,
joins her in the dance, icing
her pretty gold gown

as they waltz the night
and he draws her close to him
‘neath his snowy cloak.

Now they drift away,
fall into a restless sleep
and dream of a child

crying to wake up,
fretting for flowers and leaves
to twine in her hair.

Autumn gives her child
sunshine. Winter gives his child
a pure mountain stream

and he names her Spring
and knows that one day Summer
will woo her away.

Then they’ll call their child
Autumn, after her mother,
and the dance goes on.

 

#282

Why I’d Rather Hold a Guitar Than a Baby

lindastudley1 Comment

Babies wiggle.
Guitars occasionally slip off their straps, but not very often.
Babies wail.
Guitars can too but generally only when you want them too.
Babies puke.
Guitars do not do this.
Babies need their diapers changed.
Guitars need their strings changed but not as often and it smells better.
A guitar will never wake you in the middle of the night
(unless someone else is playing it).
Babies grow up and leave.
Guitars grow old with you and never leave.
I love my babies but they’ve grown up knowing
I’d rather hold a guitar than a baby
and I’m pretty sure they understand that it’s nothing personal.

#281

Pegs

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Dear Square Peg,
I believe you possess something that belongs to me.
And I’m pretty sure I’ve got something of yours
perhaps we could meet and see

if you’d like to swap me your round hole
for the square one that drives me insane
I simply can’t fit where I don’t belong
I’m guessing you’re feeling the same.

I’m sure you would find it more comfy
Please say yes and don’t make me beg.
Straight swap – round hole for a square one,

Sincerely,
Yours truly,
Round Peg.

 

#280

When It’s Over

lindastudley2 Comments

“It’s not over till the fat lady sings.”
Pretty sure I’ve done that.
“It’s all over but the crying.”
Pretty sure I’ve done that too.

But “It’s not over till it’s over”
has locked me in a circular reference
that denies the possibility of closure
or of starting over.

I propose a new adage:
“It’s over when I say it’s over.”

 

#278

Beginnings and Endings

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Every beginning holds within it
shadows of an ending.
Pine cones foreshadow firewood.

Every ending holds within it
seeds of new beginnings.
After fire the fireweed blooms.

Live in the middle as much as possible
Climb a pine tree, pick the fire weed,
let beginnings and endings fend for themselves.

 

#273