This could be the day
when the words run away
and the poetry gets ugly ‘cause
there’s nothing left to say.
So I’ll try to keep it short
and I’ll try to keep it sweet
but I can’t make any promises
I’m not equipped to keep.
I didn’t promise gems
I only promised poems
and sometimes though the lights are on
there’s really no one home.
In the top of my dome.
#68
I’m thinking of a number.
do you know what it is?
A number between make believe and make-up,
between three and twentyone,
between toys and poise.
Sweet petulance
confused enlightenment
contradicting certainty that only wants
to be left alone
at the centre of the Universe.
Do you know the number?
Have you been the number?
Fourteen.
#67
for my sweet, sophisticated fourteen year old granddaughter
Dear Universe,
I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you…
1. At what point did it seem like a good idea to sabotage my knees so any attempt at a regular exercise regime was doomed to failure?
2. When did you decide to relocate the hair from the top of my husband’s head to my chin?
3. This law of gravity thing, I pride myself on being law abiding, but I really think that some things should be exempt; at least two that I can think of offhand.
4. I’m pretty sure you knew I was going to live this long so why arrange things so the warrantees expire just when I was getting the hang of it?
In short, Universe, I don’t particularly enjoy your sense of humour but in the absence of any other Universes to choose from, you seem to have a mortal lock on the monopoly. So, I will continue to inhabit you but only under duress.
Sincerely
The Writer at the Bottom of the Well
“This is an automated out of office reply. Thank you for your letter to the Universe. I will be on vacation and away from the office for the next millennia. Your message is important to us and will be answered, in the order in which it was received, as soon as I return. Thank you”
#64
I need to be that other me for a while, the me who smiles wide and thinks large and stands in the middle of the page, not in the margin. The me who dusts off yesterday’s remains then calls the rains to wash it away and yet I won’t get wet unless I want to, I just walk away, no, the rain can’t touch me unless I say so. That other me is free to think unconventionally, painting my world with thoughts curled around dreams hurled at walls where they spread and glow and pulse and show the way to be this me permanently. I need to be that other me.
#66
The thing about a circle is it never ends
but it always ends up where it started.
So maybe this ‘circle of life’
lionized by Disney is just a series
of bends in the road; the drunken,
accidental extra steps to the right
in the long journey that pulls us
back the spot where the plane
crashed in the desert.
The thing about a spiral is it ends
in a different place
than it begins yet it still wends
its way like a circle, minus the futility.
Spirals nest and dance
where circles are solitary,
can only join with others if they’re
broken and twisted first like
rings in chain maille.
The thing is
I’d rather be a part of a spiral of life
and dance and nest with you for a while
Than spin forever in a solitary circle.
#62
My perfect world never gets colder than
wearing a light sweater will handle.
The sun is warm, not scorching, and it only rains at night.
My perfect world is very green with
generous dollops of flowers and fruit trees.
Cats and dogs don’t scratch or bite – just wag and purr.
My perfect world is home to people who smile
a lot and always have time to play scrabble.
Poets and musicians are admired and stay for free.
And I don’t know if my perfect world is Heaven or
a high end seniors’ home, but Canada’s
the closest to it that I’ve found so far.
#61
I find a bottle bobbing in the water by the shore,
A dark green bottle with its label gone.
the cork is tight, the glass is wet, which makes it quite a chore
to hold the bottle while the cork is drawn.
In fact it takes me longer than I think it will because
I just can’t pry the cork out of the neck.
I shake it and it rattles like a paper message does
I sigh and smash the bottle all to heck.
And there, amongst the green glass shards, the cursive missive rests
So finally I have the words I seek.
“Congratulations! You are rich” the silly note attests
“This bottle is a priceless, rare antique!”
#60
‘You here again? I just gave you a poem yesterday.’
“Yes, but I did make that promise about one every day.”
‘You could have discussed this with me first, and this year is a leap year too’
“Sorry. Maybe just a haiku or two?”
‘Haiku are tricky. How about a limerick?’
“As long as there’s no reference to Nantucket, I guess that would be alright.”
‘There once was a poet from BC,
Who was constantly bothering me.
For sonnets and ditties
and verses so witty
to blog with. Now go drink your tea.’
“Um… okay. Sorry for being so demanding, Brain.”
‘Ah, that’s okay, kid. I’ll try to work out something better for tomorrow.’
#59
Don’t tell me it’s time to lay it all down,
and leave it for someone else to haul.
Don’t tell me it’s time to give up my ghost
of a dream of having it all.
Last call. Last call.
Not much time left to read the wall.
Don’t say that it’s time to drink up and go
so someone else can clean it all away
Don’t tell me it’s time to put away the dice
there’s still too much game to play.
Last call. Last call.
Not much time left to watch them fall
So don’t stand there smiling and tell me it’s time
to walk away and leave what I’ve begun.
Don’t tell me to sit in the corner and watch
‘cause I’m just starting to have fun.
Last call. Last call.
Get on home child, I hear your Mama call.
#58
It’s a strange world
run by squirrels,
that place inside my brain,
with notions, emotions,
and champagne oceans,
and at least one derailed train
of thought.
And I wonder if a pigeon with the flu
says cu-cu-katchoo?
#57
Linda Studley 