Take a pencil, made of wood,
and paper made from trees.
Jot your words, draw your lines,
and make a moment freeze.
How long can you hold it there?
Until it rots and then
it feeds the forest floor
and becomes a tree again.
#43
Category: Poetry
Rhymed and unrhymed, form or free, this is where the poetry lives.
Pet Peeve
Pet: 1. an animal kept for companionship, interest, or amusement. 2. an indulged or pampered person. 3. somebody whom others find lovable.
Peeve: 1. something that annoys or irritates somebody. 2. an irritated or resentful mood
If something’s annoying
I truly believe
it shouldn’t be given
the rank of ‘pet peeve’.
Pet means you like it
Peeve means you don’t.
I’ll cry contradiction
though maybe you won’t.
That to like an annoyance
is a bit masochistic
and to make it your pet
is unrealistic.
So I’m making a change
I’ve decided to let
all my peeves run away
and not to keep pets.
Well, maybe just one,
just one that won’t leave.
My only pet peeve
will be having pet peeves.
#42
Frost
Not a killing frost
because hardy plants survived.
Just a culling frost.
#41
I’ll Let You Fall
Thinking of my father
and the mischief in his smiles.
I thought I was looking back
but he was really up ahead breaking trail for me for miles.
Dreaming of my mother
and the softness of her skin.
Wish I could hear her silly sneeze,
or hear her sing ‘Ta rah rah boom de-ay’ again.
And now that I am older
I see I never saw at all.
The hardest thing they ever did
was stand aside and let me fall.
And the hardest thing I’ve ever done
was stand aside and let you fall.
#40
Damn It
There is a valley in the Peace where summer lingers
where the soil is deep and rich
and melons grow sweet and luscious.
There is a valley in the Peace where the corn stands tall
when all around the frost
marches through in frozen hobnail boots.
There is a valley in the Peace.
And they want to dam it.
#39
(me eating cantaloupe melon purchased just a few miles down the road from here; overlooking the beautiful Peace River on the road from Fort St John to Hudson’s Hope)
Poetic License
Sometimes I worry
that one day I’ll be pulled over
at a book signing by a literary critic…
“May I see your poetic license please, M’am?” he’ll say.
“I know I have it here somewhere” I mutter
as I rummage through my purse.
“I clocked you at 3 clichés per hour, M’am.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to cite you.”
He pulls out a note pad and clicks his pen impatiently.
I retrieve my poetic license, dog-eared and tattered
and hand it to him.
“I’ll just hang on to this for a while.” He says while
scribbling on his note pad.
“I’m recommending a refresher course in creative writing but
until then I’m going to have to revoke your poetic license.”
“Seriously? Just because of a few clichés?” I whimper.
“If it was just the clichés I might let you off with a warning.
But I’ve read your book.
Repeat violations. Ma’m do you truly understand Haiku?
You can’t just take a form and change it to suit yourself.”
“But… isn’t that a form of growth…”
“Don’t banter semantics with me – I could do a lot worse than
revoking your license.”
“Go ahead, critic. Do your worst.” I sneer. “You’ll only drive
poetry underground.”
I grab my books and run for the door.
“No one will ever publish you with an attitude like that.” He yells.
“Ha! The joke’s on you.” I cry over my shoulder.
“No one will publish me now!”
#38
Beauty
Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder,
the eye being just a single minded messenger who
can’t convey any but visual images.
The eye can’t breath the wild rose scent
or hear the oriole’s quavering call echo in the valley.
The eye can’t feel the damp cool of a green wood oasis
on a blazing summer day.
The eye can’t savour the hidden tang
of tiny wild strawberries bursting on the tongue.
Beauty is not in the eye, but in the soul.
It is the thrumming connection that happens
when our senses are not enough
and we forever link our heart to the beauty,
take it into ourselves and become
beautiful.
#37
My Mother’s Quilt – Part II
Baltimore Album
Hand appliqued, hand quilted
Legacy of love.
Testament to skill.
Tribute to perseverance.
Homage to patience.
A source of comfort
beyond words or memories,
soft beneath my hand.
#36
Opening Doors
Opening doors is a risky business.
A certain amount of reflection is required
before throwing open doors and
dashing through them.
Cats know this.
That’s why they linger at open doors,
with last minute thoughts,
pondering the wisdom of crossing
thresholds.
#35
After the Fire
After the fire there were pools
of aluminum, puddles and runnels
of molten metal had hardened
where they ran.
Like all who follow the path of least resistance,
they got nowhere.
They became featureless blobs,
most looking like lower intestines
or scat from some
diarrheic metal animal.
Just more things to trip over.
But then I found one,
an ingot, a delicate pendant,
a diamond in the rough.
a small cabochon, slightly askew,
but with twin aspen trees growing
from the top.
Slender, leafy, powdery gray.
So I took it home,
contemplated its essence,
pondered on its trials,
and gave it some respect.
The way we should treat all those
who have dealt with the fire
and come out transformed.
Something beautiful.
#34
Linda Studley 