Category: Writings

My Word

lindastudleyLeave a comment

My words must stand alone
because I will not always be there to
illuminate their origins,
explain their motivation,
excuse their shortcomings.

I do not know where or how far they will travel
so they must go into the world prepared
to function without my assistance.

My words don’t come with illustrations or
extraneous instructions for operation.
They must provide that within themselves
or they are not complete.

I raised my children the same way.
#94

Just to be clear – the following doesn’t constitute instructions for the operation of this poem…lol. It’s just an aside that I thought would give you a chuckle.
My new version of MS Word doesn’t have a ‘Help’ button; instead it has an icon shaped like a light bulb with a prompt that reads  “Tell me what you want to do”. I told it that I wanted to write a poem. It told me “Sorry, there are no results for ‘I want to write a poem’.”
I told it that I wanted to be happy. It told me I should insert word art and wrap text around pictures. I miss ‘Clip-it’; at least he smiled at me.

A World Called English

lindastudley2 Comments

I love the English language.
It’s a world full of contradictions,
words that sound like other words that
do not remotely mean the same thing and
seem to exist solely to separate the casual
English speaker from the dedicated
English lover.
English is a language where we wear
words alliteratively, literally adorning
our writings with sound as well as meaning.
Honestly, does my assonance look big in this poem?
#92

We are Star Dust… or Not

lindastudley2 Comments

So apparently we’re formed
from cosmic dandruff,
ashes from a stellar furnace
reintegrated into planets
and people.
By Jupiter, it has a ring to it!
Makes you feel rather celestially grand until
you realize that everything
is made of stardust;
the chair, the cat,
your teacup and somehow
the concept of exclusive grandeur flickers and
fades like the star you wished upon
last night.

#91

PS. (If we’re made of star stuff I think my knee is going nova)

Painting a New Home With an Old Life

lindastudleyLeave a comment

A new home is like an empty canvas.
Aside from the obvious fresh paint
on the walls,
there is a sense of potential,
a re-evaluation of the corporeal things
that populate our lives, shape
our routines, and represent us
to the world.

We hang a painting on the pristine wall,
place prisms in the windows to spark rainbows,
throw down a hand made rug,
and suddenly the canvas is not so empty anymore.

Some things make the cut,
others languish in liquor boxes
until the next garage sale or are abandoned
on the back doorstep of the nearest
thrift shop.
Only to be discovered by another soul
looking for new colours to splash
upon their own
empty canvas.

#90

Human History

lindastudley6 Comments

They say “we must learn from history”,
but what is history but the victory song
the minstrel sings to placate a new king
and gain a coin or two?

What is history but the ancient twittering
of vested interests?

Has it ever been possible to report without bias?
Has the manipulation of truth been the means
by which our evolution has been steered to this end?
Were hunting stories daubed onto cave walls accurate
or were they padding their count?

They also say “the truth will out.”
But perhaps the only thing we can trust
humanity to do consistently
is to lie to achieve cherished outcomes.

Single humans may be noble where
humanity seldom is.

#89

How to Read Another Person’s Poetry

lindastudleyLeave a comment

With anticipation of magic,
imagery, and thought provoking
plot twists and double entendres.

Hopefully, with a wistful longing
for some word or phrase
that will speak to your heart and set you free.

With acceptance of the consequences
for what the words kindle within
as the poet bravely holds the mirror to your soul.

#88

The Illustrated Child

lindastudley2 Comments

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