Somewhere in my grey matter a poem is lurking,
skulking around a corner of my mind, shirking
its duty to spring magically to my lips,
to dance to the beat of my fingertips
on my tablet. Creativity shouldn’t feel like working.
#204
Category: Writings
Hue and Cry Foul
Roses are red
Violets are blue.
But roses are white
and yellow too
and violets are more
of a purple-ish hue
which inaccuracy only
goes to prove
that a poet’s no botanist
and if they must choose
twixt rhyming a word
and telling the truth
the rhyme wins.
#203
What If
There is no certainty to life
but uncertainty,
no accepted wisdom
not subject to revision,
no hard and fast rules
that will not soften and loosen
under the perpetual motion of time.
To be flexible;
to see through, around, and behind
the walls of convention is to
brush lightly against the universe.
It is to experience the full depth
of the breathtaking question
“What if?”
#302
Garden Dreams
Garden dreams start early.
Barely out of January,
I imagine the earthy tang of potting soil,
the cool sweetness of spring rain on my tongue,
the weathered roughness of terra cotta pots
beneath my fingers.
In my dreams, tangles of clambering peas and beans
twine themselves Heaven-ward,
waving their white and red flowers to flag
down wayward bees.
In my mind’s eye tomatoes hang heavy,
onions and garlic tilt their lances at the sky,
and the greens march crisply, row on successive row,
out of the garden and into my salad bowl.
Then into my dreams floats the scented glory
of roses, the rioting rainbow of hardy perennials,
the colours of laughter and abundance and joy.
Do not wake me from this reverie too soon,
at least not until the seed catalogues begin to sprout
in frigid mail boxes.
Garden dreams start early.
#201
Insomnia
I tried counting up sheep
as o’er the fence rails they leap
but, alas, my downfall
is my flock is too small
and runs out before I fall asleep.
#200
Step Out
Two steps forward and keep on the track,
resisting the surging
of the current that’s urging
you to take at least one step back.
# 199
I See, or Not…
Does squinting really make things easier to see?
It seems like it should be about as effective
as pushing on the dashboard
to make the car go faster.
And yet as I screw up my face
into wincing wrinkles
the word will sometimes float up
for a split second and I can skim
the essence off the top,
like alphabet soup noodles roiling
in a pot of boiling stock
and if I read fast enought I can
get the gist.
Such is life when the cataracts
are acting up.
#198
REMember
Why do I dream of beautiful things
falling apart, of useless relics underfoot,
of strangers in my home?
Are my dreams some strange waystation
for past, present, and future baggage;
a merging place for alternate realities
where outcomes are all able to occupy
the same space at the same time?
This is what comes from failing Physics in high school.
Why do I dream impossible foolishness?
What crossed circuit or over tired synapse
is responsible for my dreams of broken glass
and spilled wine?
My REM cycle seems to have a flat
and I awake, gasping for air.
# 197
Hearts
Take care of your heart
or no one will ever trust
you’ll take care of theirs.
#196
Morning Song
The morning dawns with a pale, flat light
and eases out the last of night,
tired of black, you’d think she might
squeeze out a little spark.
But no, her bland illumination
consists of gray and its gradations.
You’d think there’d be some small temptation
to make the world less stark.
Lightening now, the grays turn whiter
as though the celestial lamplighter
decided graciously to right her
obvious shortcomings
And now a hint of blue I see
emerging o’er the snow clad trees
and a band of peachy red that seems
to set the sky a humming.
The light grows stronger now and gleams
on silent, stately evergreens
who rouse themselves from winter dreams
and start to switch and sway.
And as the wind begins to shake
their cloaks of snow to falling flakes.
Pink clouds begin to thin and break
and simply float away.
Winter white returns full force
and day progresses in its course
I’ll let it go, with some remorse;
this fleeting, lovely thing.
Another winter sunrise gone.
But I’ll recall the day that dawned
and spread her colours on my lawn
and made the morning sing.
195
Linda Studley 