Category: Poetry

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

The February Coffee House DADA Poem

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February dada poem
February dada poem

Here it is! this poem was a group creation. Rebekah and I cut out words and phrases and put them into a bag . Then the audience at the February Peace Region Songwriters, Coffee House at Faking Sanity Cafe (Dawson Creek, BC) selected snippets randomly. We then put the snippets together into this poem. (a little ‘poetic license’ was used by using the ‘you’re’ as ‘your’. Yes we are aware it’s the wrong form of the word for this context, but hey, it’s a ransom note poem!)

DaDa Poem
You’re period of mourning uncovered death in the fifth position.
Illuminate yourself.
Morning. slipped into her robe
and heard a masculine voice say: “What can we do?…especially if he’s innocent,
Stronger than a season
Between home and night that never slips away
moment by moment, slowly, looking,
do you look inside the flowers blooming last.

It is either very profound or very bizarre, or perhaps a bit of both but it was fun to do and it brought up some interesting images. Images like ‘morning slipping into a robe’ and ‘a season between home and night.’ I like these images and perhaps they, or modified versions of them, will eventually find their way into my poems. You’ll never know until you look inside the flowers blooming last…

Goddess in the Garden Rewrite.

lindastudley2 Comments
Emergence Indigo-drawing by L Studley
"Emergence in Indigo" - Pen and Ink-Indigo variation. By L Studley

As always, I received some very insightful feedback from my writing group on Saturday! I submitted ‘Goddess in the Garden’ for them to critique and was inspired to do a rewrite. Rebekah mentioned that, although I include references to ‘singing to’ the ‘sun’, ‘stars’, and ‘ocean’ as well as to the ‘earth’,  most of the poem seems to talk about the earth only. She suggested that I expand the poem, and I think she was right.
I am including the rewrite here but the first draft is still in its original post if you want to compare them. The rewrite is obviously longer, but it also explores the Goddess in her relationships with these other elements.

Goddess in the Garden
Goddess-Spirit-Essence-Kernel-Seed-Sow-Propagate-Grow-Garden

The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of snakes.
She strides barefoot, browned by sun, washed by rain.
Nakedly unashamed of the miracle, she lies
upon the open ground and leaches her essence
into the greedy earth, renewed, reborn through a million petals unfurled.
Burgeoning in tempting fruit and wanton weed alike
she sings the earth a song of plenty

The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of the light.
She sways, heliotropic, eyes wide to the sky.
She steams from Earth to arc in apogee
to turn, prisms tangled in her hair.
Becoming the light and flooding back to Earth
she sings the sun a song of power.

The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of the dark.
She dances to the rhythm of the moon, lambent steps
through dusky depths undaunted.
Limned with icy fire she spins the long night
into blessed dreams.
And smiling sweet abandon
she sings the stars a song of wonder.

The Goddess in the Garden is not afraid of water.
Dissolute she melts into the tidal swell.
Cradled in creation she floats in seaweed,
Hair streaming out behind.
A perfect balance of blood and brine and breath,
she sings the ocean a song of life; deep, immortal, ancestral home.

It is no sin to sing.

Oh, Child of Perfection

lindastudley3 Comments
Child of Perfection 2
Child of Perfection 2 - Digital Photographic Art by L Studley

Oh, Child of Perfection
‘Growing up poor is not the same
as growing up deprived.’

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the days when you were a babe in arms?
Of the large cardboard box,
rescued from the grocery store, carried home
covered inside and out with pretty mactac
Flannelette covered foam,
yellow giraffes and green bears, bought at the Sally.
Your little nest till we could afford a second hand crib. 

What can I tell you, oh, child of perfection?
Of the days when you were a tot in the stroller
I pushed along the gravel drive.
The drunken couple shoving and cursing
three feet from the back door.
Her with her shirt off, brandishing it at him,
Whipping him with it
“I don’t want this shirt you bought me” she slurs.
He hiccoughs a sheepish grin.
Neither notices as I roll your stroller
around them and into the house.
Lock the door behind us.
We eat lunch and play and laugh in the sunbeam in the living room.

Child of Perfection 1
Child of Perfection 1 - Digital Photographic Art by L Studley

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the days when you left my side to study.
Of watching, from a distance, as you stepped into the world
Of biting my lip, holding my tongue.
Closing my eyes so yours could open.
And when you came home; reading together, laughing and playing still.

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the day you stood apart from me.
So strong and stubborn,
Eyes wise in wonder and dreams.
Of the battle I fought between loss and pride.
Of the battle I fight between loss and pride.
Oh, what can I tell you?

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection
that you won’t soon find out for yourself?

Bamboo Soul

lindastudley5 Comments
pen and ink drawing "Bamboo Soul" by L. Studley
pen and ink drawing "Bamboo Soul" by L. Studley

Bamboo Soul was originally a poem, then it became a song, and now it resides, apparently quite happily, in both worlds. Sometimes I speak it, sometimes I sing it.

Bamboo Soul

I’d rather have a bamboo soul
Singing in the dark
Than one of oak, hard and hid
Beneath an inch of bark.
 
You tell me time is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong
But I’d rather live deep and now and here
Than never live at all.
 
I’d rather have a duck down heart
Floating free and soft
Than one of stone; dead and cold
Beneath an inch of moss.
 
You tell me love is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong
But I’d rather be crushed and start again
Than never start at all.
 
I’d rather have a water will
Trickling stone to dust
Than one of iron that tears have left
Beneath an inch of rust
 
You tell me life is a dangerous place
You tell me that I must be strong.
But I’d rather be flesh and blood – and bruise
Than never feel at all.
 
With my water will
My duck down heart
And my bamboo soul
Singing in the dark.

Silent Legacy

lindastudley2 Comments
wild white violets
wild white violets

Perhaps, despite all our plans, schemes, and best intentions, all we really leave behind is silence. But perhaps we can at least, during our lives, define the type of silence we will leave.

Silent Legacy
If all I leave behind is silence
Let it be the silence of my eyes opening
To violets on my pillow.
Let it be the silence of the first pussy willow of spring
brave in the snow
Let it be the silence of sunlight
melting across our bed
Let it be the silence of the last line drawn
The last word written
The ringing eternity between final note and first applause.

Shelide’s Gift – The Poem

lindastudley2 Comments
Shelide's Gift
"Shelide's Gift" pen and ink by L. Studley

Long ago when time still slept
And night was dark, too dark to breathe
Nameless terrors slunk and crept
And noxious vapours seethed.

Man stayed home to tend the fire
And wholesome creatures shunned the night
Shelide shook her wings and vowed
She would not rest till there was light.

Light enough to banish fear
And bathe the night in joy and wonder.
Light to dazzle eyes and hearts
To tear night’s veil asunder.

“How shall I do?” She asked her kin.
“With gossamer trails” they cried.
“How shall I do?” She asked the sea.
“With waves of shimmering light.”
 
“How shall I do?” She asked the sun.
“Like me, but not the same.”
“How shall I do?” She asked of man.
“Like sparks that leap from flame.”
 
Shelide spread her wings and flew.
She flew into the dark.
Weaving light from drops of hope
And the pulsing of her heart.
 
A thousand years and a thousand more
She spilled the Milky Way.
She wove the glittering curtains
The Northern Lights let play.
 
A thousand years and a thousand more
And she forged the silvery moon.
And sparked the stars from the flinty hearts
Of the creatures of the gloom.
 
And when the night was set ablaze
And darkness set to rout
Shelide fell to earth again
To watch the stars come out.
 
She rested in the coolness
By a misty, moisty pond
Looked back across her shoulders
And saw her wings were gone.
 
“You took so long” the creatures cried.
“You took so long” said man.
“You must be the slowest thing
Since e’re the world began!”
 
And Shelide cried and crept away
Tears sparkling on the leaves
Remembering her lovely wings
She bows her head and grieves.

Whatifs and Whynots

lindastudley4 Comments

whynotWhynots were wondering loudly one day
“Who thought up this language I wonder?
There, their, and they’re in our personal view
Are etymological blunders”

Clarity suffers we really believe
One spelling would do very nicely.
Why not just spell it as ‘thayr’ and have done
T’would do the job much more precisely.” 

Whatifs were list’ning and shaking thayr heads
As Whynots continued thayr mewling
“Why do we use double leters at all
This language could use some retoling.”

Whatifs said “What if the word’s incorrect?
The last word you said was confusing”
“Fine” said the Whynots it’s easy to fix
We’l just start to spel it ‘retewling’ 

While we’re on doubles, why have duble vowels
When one wud work as wel or beter?
Why not cut down on the time riting takes
By leving out al silent leters? 

Whatifs just side and sed “What if yor plan
Becomes more confusing than ever”
“Nonsense, now let’s drop that dum leter ‘c’
Wel thayr, don’t yu think that sownds klever? 

Drop the apostrofe, lews p h to
Its sily when ‘f’s what yor after”
Whatifs kryd “Stop now, yor making a mes.
But Whynots just burst owt in lafter. 

 “Why not fonetiks? wel rite wat we here
I no that yull no wat Im thinking.”
“But if I dont?” “wel it isnt mi falt
Thayrs no nede for yu tu start drinking” 

“What if” sed Whatifs “its sumthing rel big?
And what if I cant understand yu?
What if the klarity yu thot yu had
Duz not go just kwite as yu pland tu?

whatif“Wat now?” sed Whynots “now wat did yu sey?
A kwite yu kan fli? or a pland pot?
How kan I tel wat yor trying tu say
If yu kant speke klerely, I kan not” 

“What if” ses Whatifs “I giv yu a slap?
Yu think it wud help komprehenshun?”
“Why not” size Whynots “mi hed hurts so bad
Its stuffed full of misaprehenshun 

“What if” said Whatifs, we left it alone
This language, so full of confusion,
Doesn’t take kindly to radical change
I’ve come to a perfect conclusion;

Learn it correctly and learn it with pride
This language that gives us such trouble,
Reading and writing till we understand
Which letters are single or double.

 Where do the silent ones live in a word?
Apostrophes, how do we use them?
‘C’, I embrace you, your ‘sss’ and your ‘k’
I’ll study so I won’t confuse them.

This is my language, it’s my Mother Tongue,
I love her in spite of her foibles.
Why not delight in the shading and tints
That make her so deep and enjoyable 

“Why not” sighed Whynot.

Goddess in the Garden

lindastudley1 Comment

Goddess-Spirit-Essence-Kernel-Seed-Sow-Propagate-Grow-Garden

Immortal warmth that cradled Eve, the Goddess
in the Garden is not afraid of snakes.
She strides barefoot, browned by sun, washed by rain
Nakedly unashamed of the miracle, she lies
upon the open ground and leaches her essence
into the greedy earth, renewed, reborn through a million springs.
Burgeons in tempting fruit and wanton weed alike.

She sings the sun a song of power
She sings the stars a song of wonder
She sings the earth a song of plenty
She sings the ocean a song of life; deep, immortal, ancestral home.

It is no sin to sing.

Angels Bowling

lindastudley2 Comments

 “What makes the thunder, Daddy?” I asked.
“Angels bowling,” my father replied.
“Then what is the rain?” I persevered.
“Angels crying,” he sweetly lied.

 And then I asked him “What about lightning
That jumps through the darkness so sudden and frightening?”
“That’s when the angels bowl in the dark,
When the ball hits the pins it makes a big spark.”

Many long years have passed since that day.
My father has long since passed away.
But I wonder, at times, when a storm comes rolling,
Is he up there now with the angels bowling?

Two Apparently Unrelated Things and a Poem

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Unrelated thing #1
I wear glasses. I hate wearing glasses but since I’m up to 3.00 magnification, reading etc… just doesn’t happen without them. I have about a dozen pair lying around at any given time in various stages of deterioration.  Some have scratches right in the middle of the left lens (the only one I use since my right eye has been on strike all my life); some have only one arm; some have both arms but have joints of jello, wobbling in a palsy of pre-collapse. Can I FIND any of these denizens of the home for challenged optical appliances? No, not usually.

Unrelated thing #2
I love Science Fiction by Issac Asimov. Short stories and novels. Mr. Asimov was my first science fiction read and he spoiled me for the rest. He was my introduction to grand themes like the multiverse.

Unrelated Things… that turn into poems.

‘Cross the Existential Track

There is, I think, a universe
That’s parallel to mine.
Where someone else who looks like me
Lives in a different time.

She looks and thinks a lot like me
Her eyes are hazel green
But she has witnessed many things
My eyes have never seen 

For one small thing is different
I’m not sure what or why
And that conspires to alter how
Her life goes flashing by.

Consider now the other ones
Who cross her path each day.
Each of them with their small thing
That’s altered in some way

It all adds up to make a world
That’s quite unlike my own
Where alternate realities
Have taken root and grown. 

I wonder what she thinks about
And does she think of me?
Does she wear glasses when she writes,
Or draws, or paints, or reads?
 
I’d like to send a message ‘cross
That existential track
“If you have seen my glasses could
You kindly send them back?”