Beauty

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Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder,
the eye being just a single minded messenger who
can’t convey any but visual images.
The eye can’t breath the wild rose scent
or hear the oriole’s quavering call echo in the valley.
The eye can’t feel the damp cool of a green wood oasis
on a blazing summer day.
The eye can’t savour the hidden tang
of tiny wild strawberries bursting on the tongue.
Beauty is not in the eye, but in the soul.
It is the thrumming connection that happens
when our senses are not enough
and we forever link our heart to the beauty,
take it into ourselves and become
beautiful.

 

#37

After the Fire

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After the fire there were pools
of aluminum, puddles and runnels
of molten metal had hardened
where they ran.
Like all who follow the path of least resistance,
they got nowhere.
They became featureless blobs,
most looking like lower intestines
or scat from some
diarrheic metal animal.
Just more things to trip over.

But then I found one,
an ingot, a delicate pendant,
a diamond in the rough.
a small cabochon, slightly askew,
but with twin aspen trees growing
from the top.
Slender, leafy, powdery gray.
So I took it home,
contemplated its essence,
pondered on its trials,
and gave it some respect.
The way we should treat all those
who have dealt with the fire
and come out transformed.
Something beautiful.

#34

The Power of Strings

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I wrote this poem in ‘concrete’ form and, of course, the blog won’t let me use my formatting. So I’ve saved it as a picture and posted it below.
I’ll try to save it to a higher resolution on my other computer but wanted to get it onto the blog – after all – it is ‘poem a day’ !
33-The Power of Strings graphic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#33

 

Editing

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Extra words in poems are like the scaffolding
surrounding a building. They support the workers as they go,
helping them rise from one level to the next,
allowing them to bring along their tools and extra materials.

But scaffolding is about the worker
not about the work. It is a buffer
and a barrier, obscuring the work from the world.

It can be a fearful endeavour, this baring one’s soul,
putting it on display for prying eyes to interpret.
It’s hard to be brave when you fear to fall,
it’s hard to be honest when no one has to be honest back, but
never hesitate to tear down the scaffolding that
hides your heart.
Let go of the words the way you’d tear down scaffolding.
 

Poems rise from baring
one’s soul.
Be brave.
Be honest.
Never hide your heart.
Let go of the words.

 

#32

Fate

lindastudley2 Comments

I’ve been wondering of late
why I try to change my fate
when I can never know  or see
what my fate will really be.

If I don’t really know for certain
who or what’s behind the curtain
how can I know  the default or
if my future has been altered

or if I’m naively treading
the very path that I’ve been dreading
towards the fate that was laid out
before I started on about

embracing change,  chasing dreams.
or switching horses in mid-stream.
If all my paths lead back to me,
I make my own reality.

 

#31

Remembrance

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Sun falls through the trees
raven shadows call to me,
flicker ‘cross my face.

I will hold this day;
The smell of the forest floor,
soft wind on my face,

rough bark ‘neath my hand.
The tang of wild raspberry
lingers on my tongue.

I will hold this day.
Take it out and set it free
some cold winter’s night.

#29