Hats Off

lindastudley1 Comment

Many women are accused
of having far too many shoes
I haven’t fallen prey to that
but I know I have too many hats.

The hat I wear when I’m at work;
in charge and self-assured.
The hat I don when I’m alone
and feeling insecure.

The singer hat is large enough
to hide behind on stages.
The ‘Mother Hat’ endows me with
the wisdom of the ages.

My friend hat is much smaller
and is more for decoration.
My artist hat is paint stained
with high-lights of frustration.

My writing hat is comfortable
I wear it every day.
The hat I wear to clean the house
I’d like to throw away.

But I’m happiest going hatless,
the way you taught me to.
Today I’ve made the time to take
all my hats off to you.

 

#7

Doodling

lindastudley2 Comments

I doodle when captive.
When I am shackled to the phone by a curly cord,
my ear tired and sweaty from close
contact with plastic and monotony.

I grasp at post it notes and edges of envelopes.
The fine line black felt is my weapon of choice
But any cheap ball point will do
in a pinch.
Start with a line, a curve, a hat with a feather.

“Yes, I’m listening.” I assure the droning in my ear
as strokes become longer, curling into petals
and dragonfly wings.
The drone becomes a staccato as it lists point
after point and the pen dashes out rays of starlight
in time.

Finally a face evolves from chaos and little eyes look
a question at me.
“I’ll have to call you back. I have someone here.”
And I smile at the little person I’ve created,
my escapist release.

 

#3

Dreamy

lindastudley2 Comments

Dreamy: Giving pleasure or contentment to the mind or senses. (Merriam-Webster Dictionary Definition)

Whoever  defined the word dreamy
never spent a night in my head.
Or watched my dreams go reeling by
in dozens of tangled threads.

A frightening film festival
of scenes not conducive to rest.
Where every night I win the award
for best self-distressed.

The toddler who runs the projector
has attention deficit disorder
and the one in charge of designing the props
is an unrepentant hoarder.

It’s a messy place in there.
Nothing ‘dreamy’ about it.
Maybe one day I’ll have a ‘dreamy’ dream
but I seriously doubt it.

 

#2

Pushing Snails

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We’ve decided to set a goal,
an ultimatum if you will,
to end this futile habit
of pushing snails uphill.

Of slowing our pace for slugs,
of tailoring dreams to fit
into a life that somehow shrank
more than we like to admit.

You may not notice at first.
You may not see us begin.
But turtles preparing to fly
must first learn how to grow wings.

Very soon we’ll take to the sky
and laugh at the people who still
think they’re accomplishing something grand
by pushing a snail uphill.

 

#1

Wherein I Try to Piece My Life Together Like a Jigsaw Puzzle

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Start with edges, straight lines of reason
terminating in sharp, 90 degree corners.
But there are too many corners, the edges blur,
and the scene shifts from white clouds on pale blue to stars on velvet indigo.

Pieces of life can be treacherous.
They do not interlock securely.
Knobs wear down, pockets grow holes,
and the shiny, thin veneer lifts at the edges, exposes the dull grey beneath.

The original box is long gone and with it the picture
of what  this life should look like.
Only fragmentary hints of overlapping true colours, larger truths,
and persistent trial and error will ever get this thing finished.

And what then?  A window? A mirror?
A slowing fading postcard crying “Wish you were here” ?
I think I shall spend less time straining to find the big picture,
and more time enjoying the  potential of the little pieces.

Poem for Moonlit Night

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The moon shone bright
in the middle of the night,
rolling ‘round a starry sky,
brushing her hand
‘cross a snowy, sleeping land
she heaved a jaded sigh.

“There’s no one
to play with and have fun
since the water froze below.
And the only sparks
I can kindle in the dark
are the pale ones on the snow.”

Then peering ‘round
a window ledge she found
a dark cascade of prisms.
A beam she cast
sparked a rainbow, and she laughed
as the colours gleamed and glistened.

She played all night
with the prisms and the light
and she never once suspected
that a wakeful eye
was a witness to the sight
and bathed in the light reflected.

The Awakening

lindastudley2 Comments

It begins with a brief awakening;
an unguarded moment when the scales slip sideways
and the light reaches into your soul.
The glint from a glimpse of possible paths is in your eyes
and in blindness you can see
that no matter how tightly the scales slide back into place
you will never be complete until you shed them forever.