Category: Poetry

Rhymed and unrhymed, form or free, this is where the poetry lives.

Hidden Miracles

lindastudleyLeave a comment

I am not a flatlander.
Honest open fields give me vertigo
and a feeling of eyes looking over my shoulder.
Drunken grasshoppers, launch
haphazardly and land on their heads,
lurching towards some kind of freedom.

I want trees, lots of trees
and the communities within
their branches, the worlds beneath
their boughs, and chickadees so close
you can make eye contact.

I want horizons that swell and surprise,
and hint of mysteries and possibilities tangled
in every game trail and sudden stream.
I don’t want to know every nook
and cranny of my landscape.
I want hidden miracles.
 

#12

Red Wine and Good Conversation

lindastudleyLeave a comment

Red wine and good conversation make
the years fall away
and sometimes it’s the telling
over of the past that makes the future
tenable
Sometimes.
Brushing away
cobwebs, sweeping aside
twigs, and kicking stones
can make a path easier;
make the choice of turn
or twist clearer, but
horizons being what they are,
all roads lead to ruin.
But for now there is red wine
and good conversation.

 

#11

Praying on the Willows

lindastudleyLeave a comment

The willows are brown again this year.
Skeletonized leaves hang crisp and curled and I wonder
how many years in a row can this happen
before they truly die?
How long can they survive with only the tinge
of pale green on so few leaves?
I wonder what disease or parasite is so selective,
sweeping through the woods and only
preying upon the willow.
Maybe next year will see the resurgence.
Maybe next year the green lanceolate loveliness will spring again
and quiver in time to the breeze, thrill
to the stormy gale and bob happily
in the gentle rains.

 

#10

Orange Nasturtiums

lindastudleyLeave a comment

There is something about an orange nasturtium.
Is it the colour,  so piercingly deep and clean
and paint-box perfect?
Or maybe it’s the graceful arcs the stems describe,
like pale green, wrought iron standards.
It could be the plump little buds
with their cheeky wee spurs.
Or the open, honest leaves bouncing
merrily in the slightest breeze.
Perhaps it’s the peppery bite they add to my salad,
and yet the bugs don’t seem to relish them.
Even the seed head is perfectly turned out
in scrolled elegance,  a lined matriarch
proudly bestowing her legacy upon the world.

 

#9

Hats Off

lindastudley1 Comment

Many women are accused
of having far too many shoes
I haven’t fallen prey to that
but I know I have too many hats.

The hat I wear when I’m at work;
in charge and self-assured.
The hat I don when I’m alone
and feeling insecure.

The singer hat is large enough
to hide behind on stages.
The ‘Mother Hat’ endows me with
the wisdom of the ages.

My friend hat is much smaller
and is more for decoration.
My artist hat is paint stained
with high-lights of frustration.

My writing hat is comfortable
I wear it every day.
The hat I wear to clean the house
I’d like to throw away.

But I’m happiest going hatless,
the way you taught me to.
Today I’ve made the time to take
all my hats off to you.

 

#7

Doodling

lindastudley2 Comments

I doodle when captive.
When I am shackled to the phone by a curly cord,
my ear tired and sweaty from close
contact with plastic and monotony.

I grasp at post it notes and edges of envelopes.
The fine line black felt is my weapon of choice
But any cheap ball point will do
in a pinch.
Start with a line, a curve, a hat with a feather.

“Yes, I’m listening.” I assure the droning in my ear
as strokes become longer, curling into petals
and dragonfly wings.
The drone becomes a staccato as it lists point
after point and the pen dashes out rays of starlight
in time.

Finally a face evolves from chaos and little eyes look
a question at me.
“I’ll have to call you back. I have someone here.”
And I smile at the little person I’ve created,
my escapist release.

 

#3