Category: Poetry

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

The Thing is

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The thing about a circle is it never ends
but it always ends up where it started.
So maybe this ‘circle of life’
lionized by Disney is just a series
of bends in the road; the drunken,
accidental extra steps to the right
in the long journey that pulls us
back the spot where the plane
crashed in the desert.

The thing about a spiral is it ends
in a different place
than it begins yet it still wends
its way like a circle, minus the futility.
Spirals nest and dance
where circles are solitary,
can only join with others if they’re
broken and twisted first like
rings in chain maille.

The thing is
I’d rather be a part of a spiral of life
and dance and nest with you for a while
Than spin forever in a solitary circle.

 

#62

Perfect World

lindastudley4 Comments

My perfect world never gets colder than
wearing a light sweater will handle.
The sun is warm, not scorching, and it only rains at night.

My perfect world is very green with
generous dollops of flowers and fruit trees.
Cats and dogs don’t scratch or bite – just wag and purr.

My perfect world is home to people who smile
a lot and always have time to play scrabble.
Poets and musicians are admired and stay for free.

And I don’t know if my perfect world is Heaven or
a high end seniors’ home, but Canada’s
the closest to it that I’ve found so far.

 

#61

Message in a Bottle

lindastudley10 Comments

I find a bottle bobbing in the water by the shore,
A dark green bottle with its label gone.
the cork is tight, the glass is wet, which makes it quite a chore
to hold the bottle while the cork is drawn.

In fact it takes me longer than I think it will because
I just can’t pry the cork out of the neck.
I shake it and it rattles like a paper message does
I sigh and smash the bottle all to heck.
 
And there, amongst the green glass shards, the cursive missive rests
So finally I have the words I seek.
“Congratulations! You are rich” the silly note attests
“This bottle is a priceless, rare antique!”

#60

My Brain – Part II

lindastudley1 Comment

‘You here again? I just gave you a poem yesterday.’
“Yes, but I did make that promise about one every day.”
‘You could have discussed this with me first, and this year is a leap year too’
“Sorry. Maybe just a haiku or two?”
‘Haiku are tricky. How about a limerick?’
“As long as there’s no reference to Nantucket, I guess that would be alright.”

‘There once was a poet from BC,
Who was constantly bothering me.
For sonnets and ditties
and verses so witty
to blog with. Now go drink your tea.’

“Um… okay. Sorry for being so demanding, Brain.”
‘Ah, that’s okay, kid. I’ll try to work out something better for tomorrow.’

 

#59

Last Call

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Don’t tell me it’s time to lay it all down,
and leave it for someone else to haul.
Don’t tell me it’s time to give up my ghost
of a dream of having it all.
Last call. Last call.
Not much time left to read the wall.

Don’t say that it’s time to drink up and go
so someone else can clean it all away
Don’t tell me it’s time to put away the dice
there’s still too much game to play.
Last call. Last call.
Not much time left to watch them fall

So don’t stand there smiling and tell me it’s time
to walk away and leave what I’ve begun.
Don’t tell me to sit in the corner and watch
‘cause I’m just starting to have fun.
Last call. Last call.
Get on home child, I hear your Mama call.

 

#58

Morning Pockets

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My morning coat has pockets
stuffed with wonders and what ifs
I thrust my hands into them
and blindly tell them over in my mind.

There are roads still to be followed,
like a tangled skein of string,
words to say, and turns to take,
and faces waiting to be given names.

There are cherished outcome wrappers
like disappointment bookmarks
that rustle when I touch them,
empty, yet still vying for attention.

There are keys that jingle snippets
of songs I don’t remember,
existing as a promise
of opening that  special door one day.

There are folded bits of paper,
numbered patterns on their wings,
like butterflies at rest, they
wait for my decipherment to fly.

I could empty all my pockets
throw the contents on the bed
but the magic might escape and
I rather have the wonder than the truth.

 

#56

Playing on Words

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Take a sharp tongue and mince your words.
These should be honeyed and taken with a grain of salt.
Eat them or keep them to
put into someone else’s mouth.

Using the rough side of your tongue, mark your words,
weigh them, and load them with irony.
Let them sink in. Twist or break if necessary so they can be
thrown back in your face.

 

#55

Too Far Ahead

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Sometimes I wonder if I look too far ahead.
I make my imagination run on
acting out dozens of potential scenarios,
trying to predict the future
through some sort of psychic role play.

Sometimes I wonder if one day I’ll get so far ahead of myself
that I’ll be able to look back and watch
myself slogging along behind.
Will I look back  in sympathy or irritation?
Will I really be able to see any more from that forward position
than I can see from here?

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I lost sight
of my forward self, if she just disappeared
over the hypothetical horizon.
Would she ever look back?
Would she get so far ahead that she’d forget
she’s just an advance scout?
Would she begin to function as the real me and then
one day start thinking too far ahead?

 

#54

I Am the Captain of My Soul

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I am the captain of my soul, as such I must decide
My heading for this journey across this ocean wide.

I am the captain of my soul, I strike a pose so dashing
Then slip upon my hubris and into the waves go splashing.

As soon as I get back on board, and dry my hair and pride
I’ll check my charts and compass too, and once again decide.
 
I am the captain of my soul, though she can be capricious,
her gait is like a bucking bronc with streaks of downright vicious.

I’ve tried to  reason with her but she finds me rather droll
because I wear my captain’s hat and think I’m in control.
 
I am so the captain of my soul. Not you, darn soul, but me
And I’m going to hold my breath until I’m blue or you agree.

But she just laughs and sends a gull to poop upon my hat
That’s not why it’s called a poop deck, I tell the flying rat.

I am the captain of my soul I whine and stamp my feet
Till finally she humours me and gives me back my fleet

And I don’t know how long this time she’ll let me pose and strut
Before she finds it funny and she dumps me on my butt

I am the captain of my soul, I whisper from the bowsprit.
I am the captain of my soul, as long as she allows it.

 

#53