Bill and I just purchased a brand new 25 foot trailer (with a slide out). We are already in raptures over our lovely new home away from home. Haven’t really been paying much attention to the foo-forah about the latest ‘end of the world’ foolishness so when I realized that it is supposed to happen at 6pm (apparently it’s scheduled for 6pm everywhere, convenient, that) I sighed deeply and said “It figures! We finally seem to have gotten all the ducks in a row and the darned old Rapture’s going to happen.” Oh well, I guess I might have felt more cheated if it happened right after I’d paid off the trailer. Kind of like when our house burned down years ago – somehow deep inside there was an appreciation that I hadn’t bothered to wash the dishes before leaving that morning. I suppose that if I was a more cautious person I’d be covering my bases and praying my ass off, but what with 1984, Nostradamus, Y2K, Killer meteor scares, and the ever-present (and real) threat of nuclear annihilation, I just don’t care anymore. If the end’s coming it’s going to find me completely unprepared because I’ll be busy living my life just as if I was in my right mind.
Category: Writings
Between Forever and Long Ago
Between Forever and Long Ago
Between forever and long ago
There’s a song I used to know.
I sang it loud to calm my fears
Or soft to cushion tears.
Between forever and long ago
There’s a word I used to know.
Forcing me to make a choice
To stand and raise my voice
Between forever and long ago
There’s a path I used to know.
Clear and smooth or full of stones
It always led me home.
Between forever and long ago
There’s love I used know.
From life to life I followed him
To meet and love again.
And the song I sing is the beating of my wings
And the word I cry is freedom.
And the path I choose is the one less used
And the man I love’s the reason.
Between forever and long ago again.
Angels Bowling in Fort St John
My partner, Bill, and I were recently asked to perform at the first “Everyone Belongs” Coffee House at ‘Patch Java’ in Fort St John (BC Canada) and while we always enjoy getting out and performing our music, I was also very happy to have some talented young people recite one of my poems, “Angels Bowling”. Apparently they had heard of it through one of my friends and this blog, liked it and asked if they could recite it at the coffee-house. It was a very special moment – hearing someone else recite my poetry – knowing that something about it touched them. Thank you Tina Tompkins and Peter Fehr, for your lovely reading of my poem!
“Angels Bowling” is about how my father explained thunder and lightning to me when I was a child. The Back Story to Angels Bowling was discussed in a previous blog post.
There are many different styles that can be used to write a poem. I believe that the style you choose can and should complement the message. “Angels Bowling” is a rhymed poem with a very regular meter and rhythm and I feel that style projects the childlike innocence that the message requires. That is not to say that all rhymed, rhythmic poetry is childlike – certainly not – but in this instance, I think it worked that way.
Cyberspacial Limbo – a haiku lament
I showed up at the usual meeting place for my Saturday morning writers’ group only to find that I’d gotten the dates wrong. As I sat drinking my Market Spice Tea and nibbling on my fresh baked tea biscuit (Faking Sanity yummies) I connected to the internet with my netbook and tried to track down my writing buddies. I tried Facebook and email etc… no one was online! Finally I just phoned someone and confirmed my suspicions that I’d managed to be a week early!
Because I had another appointment later that day, I decided to get another tea and just do some writing – any kind of writing. What I ended up with is a six verse haiku lament about not being able to locate someone online.
Cyberspacial Limbo
Where are you now, friend?
Does my email languish in
your full spam inbox?
My friend request lost
In cyberspacial limbo?
Twitter me this, dear.
Why stumble upon
My space? I hear your word press
Against my ear, dear.
Well, Skype my I M !
Your broken link can’t find the
Internet Highway.
I spell your name – search,
But the way back machine lies,
As though you’re still there.
I Google you now.
Your SEO has fallen
From grace, you diggit?
The February Coffee House DADA Poem
Here it is! this poem was a group creation. Rebekah and I cut out words and phrases and put them into a bag . Then the audience at the February Peace Region Songwriters, Coffee House at Faking Sanity Cafe (Dawson Creek, BC) selected snippets randomly. We then put the snippets together into this poem. (a little ‘poetic license’ was used by using the ‘you’re’ as ‘your’. Yes we are aware it’s the wrong form of the word for this context, but hey, it’s a ransom note poem!)
DaDa Poem
You’re period of mourning uncovered death in the fifth position.
Illuminate yourself.
Morning. slipped into her robe
and heard a masculine voice say: “What can we do?…especially if he’s innocent,
Stronger than a season
Between home and night that never slips away
moment by moment, slowly, looking,
do you look inside the flowers blooming last.
It is either very profound or very bizarre, or perhaps a bit of both but it was fun to do and it brought up some interesting images. Images like ‘morning slipping into a robe’ and ‘a season between home and night.’ I like these images and perhaps they, or modified versions of them, will eventually find their way into my poems. You’ll never know until you look inside the flowers blooming last…
February 2011 Coffee House
Great Coffee House at Faking Sanity Cafe! As the final stop on the Spirit Arts Festival tour the ranks of our audience were swelled by some wonderful, arts lovin’ people and we were also pleased to have a new face front and centre with Lana Sloane and her very entertaining cowboy poetry. We hope she will come back and read again soon!
Our featured performer was Karen McGowan, who performed both cover songs and her own original music. Karen’s sense of humour is a treat; she really knows how to entertain an audience! An interesting note for those of you who may not know: Faking Sanity Cafe used to be called Under the Willow and was started by Karen. It passed from Karen on to Jennifer Singer, Karen’s daughter , and then to Angele and Cindy, the present owners, who changed the name to “Faking Sanity”.
At last month’s coffee house, we created a pantoum poem from suggestions from the audience. This month we had our audience participate in creating a Da Da Poem (or as I like to call them, ‘ransom note poems’!) We cut out words and phrases from discarded books/magazines, threw them into a bag, then the audience drew out the ones we’d use for the poem. It’s always quite amazing, and often a little odd, what you can make out of these snippets. I’m getting the original poem scanned and I’ll include it in my next post.
- Bill Studley
Bill Studley held the audience spellbound with his incredibly fast rendition of ‘I’ve been everywhere’.
Wayne Ezeard not only played and sang but also regaled us with some poetry from his book ‘Where Eagles Soar’. Rebekah Rempel-Chorney and Marilyn Belak read several selections from their exceptionally fine original poetry.
Dave McGowan, the man whose voice I’ve often referred to as “sounding like melted chocolate”, delighted us with some old favourites.
As MC I spent a lot of time trying not to place my foot squarely in my mouth but I also had time to play a few songs. I’ve included a video of my redition of Siúil a Rúin, an old Irish traditional.
Goddess in the Garden Rewrite.
As always, I received some very insightful feedback from my writing group on Saturday! I submitted ‘Goddess in the Garden’ for them to critique and was inspired to do a rewrite. Rebekah mentioned that, although I include references to ‘singing to’ the ‘sun’, ‘stars’, and ‘ocean’ as well as to the ‘earth’, most of the poem seems to talk about the earth only. She suggested that I expand the poem, and I think she was right.
I am including the rewrite here but the first draft is still in its original post if you want to compare them. The rewrite is obviously longer, but it also explores the Goddess in her relationships with these other elements.
Goddess in the Garden
Goddess-Spirit-Essence-Kernel-Seed-Sow-Propagate-Grow-Garden
The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of snakes.
She strides barefoot, browned by sun, washed by rain.
Nakedly unashamed of the miracle, she lies
upon the open ground and leaches her essence
into the greedy earth, renewed, reborn through a million petals unfurled.
Burgeoning in tempting fruit and wanton weed alike
she sings the earth a song of plenty
The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of the light.
She sways, heliotropic, eyes wide to the sky.
She steams from Earth to arc in apogee
to turn, prisms tangled in her hair.
Becoming the light and flooding back to Earth
she sings the sun a song of power.
The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of the dark.
She dances to the rhythm of the moon, lambent steps
through dusky depths undaunted.
Limned with icy fire she spins the long night
into blessed dreams.
And smiling sweet abandon
she sings the stars a song of wonder.
The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of water.
Dissolute she melts into the tidal swell.
Cradled in creation she floats in seaweed,
Hair streaming out behind.
A perfect balance of blood and brine and breath,
she sings the ocean a song of life; deep, immortal, ancestral home.
It is no sin to sing.
Oh, Child of Perfection
Oh, Child of Perfection
‘Growing up poor is not the same
as growing up deprived.’
What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the days when you were a babe in arms?
Of the large cardboard box,
rescued from the grocery store, carried home
covered inside and out with pretty mactac
Flannelette covered foam,
yellow giraffes and green bears, bought at the Sally.
Your little nest till we could afford a second hand crib.
What can I tell you, oh, child of perfection?
Of the days when you were a tot in the stroller
I pushed along the gravel drive.
The drunken couple shoving and cursing
three feet from the back door.
Her with her shirt off, brandishing it at him,
Whipping him with it
“I don’t want this shirt you bought me” she slurs.
He hiccoughs a sheepish grin.
Neither notices as I roll your stroller
around them and into the house.
Lock the door behind us.
We eat lunch and play and laugh in the sunbeam in the living room.
What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the days when you left my side to study.
Of watching, from a distance, as you stepped into the world
Of biting my lip, holding my tongue.
Closing my eyes so yours could open.
And when you came home; reading together, laughing and playing still.
What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the day you stood apart from me.
So strong and stubborn,
Eyes wise in wonder and dreams.
Of the battle I fought between loss and pride.
Of the battle I fight between loss and pride.
Oh, what can I tell you?
What can I tell you, oh child of perfection
that you won’t soon find out for yourself?
Bamboo Soul
Bamboo Soul was originally a poem, then it became a song, and now it resides, apparently quite happily, in both worlds. Sometimes I speak it, sometimes I sing it.
Bamboo Soul
I’d rather have a bamboo soul
Singing in the dark
Than one of oak, hard and hid
Beneath an inch of bark.
You tell me time is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong
But I’d rather live deep and now and here
Than never live at all.
I’d rather have a duck down heart
Floating free and soft
Than one of stone; dead and cold
Beneath an inch of moss.
You tell me love is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong
But I’d rather be crushed and start again
Than never start at all.
I’d rather have a water will
Trickling stone to dust
Than one of iron that tears have left
Beneath an inch of rust
You tell me life is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong.
But I’d rather be flesh and blood – and bruise
Than never feel at all.
With my water will
My duck down heart
And my bamboo soul
Singing in the dark.
Silent Legacy
- wild white violets
Perhaps, despite all our plans, schemes, and best intentions, all we really leave behind is silence. But perhaps we can at least, during our lives, define the type of silence we will leave.
Silent Legacy
If all I leave behind is silence
Let it be the silence of my eyes opening
To violets on my pillow.
Let it be the silence of my eyes opening
To violets on my pillow.
Let it be the silence of the first pussy willow of spring
brave in the snow
Let it be the silence of sunlight
melting across our bed
Let it be the silence of the last line drawn
The last word written
Let it be the silence of sunlight
melting across our bed
Let it be the silence of the last line drawn
The last word written
The ringing eternity between final note and first applause.
Linda Studley 