Pink clouds on blue sky,
sunrise gently traces a
lingering caress.
#78
Patagonia in the Winter
If I lived in Patagonia in the winter
I could avoid the snow and cold and dark. A
happy camper I
as back and forth I fly
sans heavy boots and mitts and hooded parka.
If I lived in Patagonia in the winter
I wouldn’t slip and slide in ice and snow.
The most I’d slip on is a sweater
as I enjoyed the weather
‘cos their summer is our winter don’cha know.
I could live in Patagonia in the winter
Speak Spanish and never have a care.
For the rest of the year
I’d just live here.
But first I’ll have to be a millionaire.
Sigh
#77
As You Sighed
I gave the full moon prisms and watched her
paint rainbows on your shoulders in the night.
Living tattoos of silver light sifted through
pendant diamonds and spread in sparks of colour
across the bed, slowly creeping
closer as you slept, like a lover
attracted to the warmth
of your body, the gems caressed your skin
and rippled as you sighed.
#76
Knowing What Comes Next
It’s why we watch a movie twice,
reread a book, walk the same route home.
The familiar calls,
comforts,
and sometimes it hurts.
So easy to default to bad habits;
what goes into our mouths,
what comes out of our mouths.
The choices we make,
who we are,
who we love,
the illusion of control in a random,
uncontrollable world where knowing
what comes next is the biggest illusion of all.
#75
…But Is It Poetry? (not a poem)
So, I just posted my 74th poem in this second “poem a day for a year” challenge and I thought I’d pause and talk a little about the phenomenon, lol.
I write and post these poems first thing in the morning, before I get out of bed (I have my trusty netbook by my side) and only rarely have I ever broken that ritual; like when I’m on vacation and away from home etc…
Consequently, I rarely take more than 15 to 20 minutes to write the poem, number it, save it, and post it to the blog.
I am under no illusions that every poem will be a ‘gem’. Some end up being hurried haiku, others will be humorous allusions to how hard it is to find something to write about. But it all goes down on (virtual) paper. That’s the main reason for the challenge; to circumvent the inner critic and just get something down, no judgement, no critique. I do try to keep the punctuation reasonable and the typos down to a minimum (although I can always trust Tony to let me know when I’ve tripped up, Lol).
These poems are not the end product. The end product of my last year-long challenge was my first book of poetry “Falling Awake and other poems” which I published a year or so ago. And I’ll probably publish another book based on what I subjectively consider to be the best poems from this year’s challenge.
But before that will happen, the real work will take place. Poems will be proofed, edited, screened, perhaps shortened, perhaps lengthened, perhaps sent to that purgatory where misfit poems go to languish.
Thanks for joining me on the journey.
291 poems to go.
🙂
Linda
Hurdles
Gone are the days of running top speed
at hurdles, leaping, landing, launching off
towards the next one.
That is not to say the hurdles have won.
Time brings wisdom that
suggests a more thoughtful,
coordinated attack.
Bring out the step stool, detour
around the hurdles, or perhaps
just plant climbing roses at their base
and watch the hurdle bloom.
#74
Listing Right
When writing a list I often find
I don’t figure in the amount of time
it will take me to get all the chores completed
and the leftovers make me feel defeated.
As I gaze at all of the things left undone
I tend to ignore the other ones,
the ones I accomplished, the ones scratched off
of the list with a flourish, and I really ought
to forget feeling guilty for stuff left undone
and make up a list, as I go, of the ones
I’ve accomplished, then scratch them off of the list
that will always get longer but always be finished.
#73
My Daughter
In all the years
I’ve watched you grow
from my sweet baby girl
to a strong, proud woman
many things have changed.
But not your smile,
not the irresistible,
infectious giggle; deep,
rich, and totally spontaneous.
My daughter.
What did I do to deserve this honour?
#72
And I Wonder
For every pseudo factoid there’s
someone waiting to de-bunk it.
For every thought, idea, or cause
someone originally thunk it.
And I wonder if the thunkers
are the same as the de-bunkers
excepting that, from where they sit,
they only see the opposite.
#71
Tabula Plena
Start with a blank slate
and there’s nothing to build on.
It’s better to choose.
Choose sun warmed berries,
the songs of running water,
and moonlight shadows,
The warmth of the sun,
the way aspen leaves flutter,
and wild violets.
Fill your slate and find
there’s always room for beauty,
always room for joy.
#70
Linda Studley 