There is a valley in the Peace where summer lingers
where the soil is deep and rich
and melons grow sweet and luscious.
There is a valley in the Peace where the corn stands tall
when all around the frost
marches through in frozen hobnail boots.
There is a valley in the Peace.
And they want to dam it.
#39
(me eating cantaloupe melon purchased just a few miles down the road from here; overlooking the beautiful Peace River on the road from Fort St John to Hudson’s Hope)
Sometimes I worry
that one day I’ll be pulled over
at a book signing by a literary critic…
“May I see your poetic license please, M’am?” he’ll say.
“I know I have it here somewhere” I mutter
as I rummage through my purse.
“I clocked you at 3 clichés per hour, M’am.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to cite you.”
He pulls out a note pad and clicks his pen impatiently.
I retrieve my poetic license, dog-eared and tattered
and hand it to him.
“I’ll just hang on to this for a while.” He says while
scribbling on his note pad.
“I’m recommending a refresher course in creative writing but
until then I’m going to have to revoke your poetic license.”
“Seriously? Just because of a few clichés?” I whimper.
“If it was just the clichés I might let you off with a warning.
But I’ve read your book.
Repeat violations. Ma’m do you truly understand Haiku?
You can’t just take a form and change it to suit yourself.”
“But… isn’t that a form of growth…”
“Don’t banter semantics with me – I could do a lot worse than
revoking your license.”
“Go ahead, critic. Do your worst.” I sneer. “You’ll only drive
poetry underground.”
I grab my books and run for the door.
“No one will ever publish you with an attitude like that.” He yells.
“Ha! The joke’s on you.” I cry over my shoulder.
“No one will publish me now!”
#38
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
Baltimore Album
Hand appliqued, hand quilted
Legacy of love.
Testament to skill.
Tribute to perseverance.
Homage to patience.
A source of comfort
beyond words or memories,
soft beneath my hand.
#36
Opening doors is a risky business.
A certain amount of reflection is required
before throwing open doors and
dashing through them.
Cats know this.
That’s why they linger at open doors,
with last minute thoughts,
pondering the wisdom of crossing
thresholds.
#35
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
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
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
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
Earworm, Earworm,
measuring my sanity.
You and your repeating tune
are going to drive me mad.
Earworm, Earworm,
measuring my sanity
This is the result, it seems,
when melodies go bad.
#30
Linda Studley 