Rhymed and unrhymed, form or free, this is where the poetry lives.
This is my apology for projecting
my fears and frustrations onto you.
You are not a blank wall or a white sheet.
This is not the Can’t Film Festival.
No one’s getting an award for best angst.
This is life.
The only true awards will be the smiles along the way.
This is me taking a deep breath, sucking it up, and carrying on.
This is a good morning because we believe it to be so.
#315
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
Everything’s happening right now.
Never a matter of if or when
No time to gain or to lose.
Visions are memories,
Déjà vu is yesterday’s news.
#314
Half empty, half full,
but it’s really not that easy to express.
because everything’s full of something else,
even if it’s only emptiness.
Empty dreams, empty promises too,
empty words and empty eyes.
The sadness is not what they’re emptied of
it’s what fills the void that makes you cry.
Half full, half empty, clouds or silver lining,
but it’s really not that easy to explain.
It’s not what left when it disappeared,
it’s the mem’ry of what trickled down the drain.
Because everything’s full of something else, I guess,
even if it’s only emptiness.
#313
Shapes shift in the long darkness
of winter’s front porch.
“Is it time yet?” rustle the crisped leaves
as they skitter around and around in anticipation.
“is it time yet?” groan the stark trees,
their gnarled, grasping fingers
clawing the ragged hem of the grey clouds.
“Soon” breathes the drifting snow.
“Soon” chime the falling ice crystals.
“Soon” sighs the gate to the underworld.
Light fades, colours melt, night throws
his velvet blanket,
“Now” the blanket snaps.
“Don your disguises and walk.
The masquerade has begun.”
#312
Last night I went in search of sleep
but sleep I could not find.
I closed my eyes, I counted sheep
but still, my racing mind
raced on until I thought I’d weep
and just would not unwind.
At last I fell into a heap
with all the stars aligned
I fell into a slumber deep
an hour before the time
that the alarm was set to beep
Just a nap, I whine.
I think I’m still in search of sleep
I rise but do not shine.
#311
I woke to bird song
and thought it was still summer
Thank you for the dream.
#310
I look wistfully at my empty cup.
“More tea?” you ask, already knowing the answer,
lazy Sundays and second cups of tea
being a tradition of sorts.
You read, I write,
laying abed late, relaxing into the morning.
You stand and I read your body.
Your back is out again.
Not a lot, just enough to make your normally
straight stance a tad crooked.
“Back sore?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
You don’t admit to pain lightly.
“I’m alright” you answer.
I read you
right.
#309
Your aura contracts
and pain skates across your face
like a water bug.
#308
Technology, the two edged sword,
LOL – OL
A million apps and still we’re bored
LOL – OL
with an app, app here, and an app, app there
Here an app, there an app everywhere an app, app
My phone’s smarter now than yours
LOL – OL
Solutions to those problems that
LOL – OL
We never realized we had
LOL _ OL
with an app, app here, and an app, app there
Here an app, there an app everywhere an app, app
My phone is dead and I am glad
LOL – OL
I’m gonna get a simple phone
Plug it in the wall
And if I’m not right by its side
I won’t get your call
with a hap, hap here, and a hap, hap there
here a hap, there a hap, everywhere a happy hap
free at last from cell phone’s thrall
LOL – OL
#307
(sung to the tune of ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’)
Spring, the pampered baby of the seasonal family,
spoiled and cossetted. Every sunny smile a miracle,
every quivering green leaf a first step. Even her sudden
warm tears are welcome and end in rainbows.
Summer, the simmering sister with the California smile,
all light and flowers and lazy self indulgence. The golden girl
that everyone wants as their friend. The seasonal
celebrity, paparazzi in her wake in campers and motorhomes.
Autumn, serenity with an edge, the generous big brother
with the fatalistic sense of humour. The sadness behind the
beauty of fallen leaves and soft winds. He shares his bounty freely
but behind each cornucopia lurks the knowledge that even he
can’t protect us from the other one…
Winter, the evil twin, all temper and disdain.
The long thin sneer on the calendar,
The ice tiger with a taste for frozen blood.
Howling paranoia that feeds on fear and rejection
piling wrath at our doors, gnawing exposed flesh
like a crazed piranha until, sated at last,
he expires into puddles at spring’s tiny feet.
#306
Linda Studley 