A dozen sprays
of a dozen roses,
by any other name,
would still be a gross.
#354
The Five Stages of Winter
Denial is that first skiff of snow.
“It’ll never stick, you’ll see!”
Anger starts when that little skiff
gets up past your knees.
Bargaining is when you shovel the walk
but the rest you just ignore.
Depression blows in when the drifting snow
Is halfway up your door.
Acceptance starts when you come to terms
That winter’s here to stay
and right after that the sun comes out
and the snow all melts away.
#353
Chinook
It starts as an arch out on the horizon.
Soft, aqua blue in milky, white skies and
I know that it’s coming,
Chinook is coming,
warm wind is coming today.
Then the first breath begins, the snow laden branches
quiver and start to release avalanches.
I know that it’s blowing,
Chinook is blowing,
Warm wind is blowing today.
Then the snow dervish swirls, all heedless abandon,
carving yesterday’s snow into sculptures at random,
I know that it’s dancing
Chinook is dancing
Warm wind is dancing today
I punch through the snow drifts, Chinook creeps behind me
and fills in my footprints. They may never find me
And I know that it’s restless
Chinook is restless
Warm wind is restless today.
Just before snow melts right down to the ground
Chinook loses interest and blows out of town
And I know that it’s leaving
Chinook is leaving
Warm wind is leaving today
#352
Built to Code
Me and the mice and our
best laid plans
are gonna have another go
at making some sense of our
plans and schemes
though you’d think by now we’d know
that this roller coaster freak show, life,
isn’t built to code.
#351
Heads on Spikes
I always leave the pruning too late.
When spring comes, there are so many seed
heads on spikes
of bleached and
pleached canes and stems.
It’s like clearing away after Vlad the Impaler.
But it’s still better than shovelling snow.
#350
Big Brother
Red hair and freckles.
Horsie-back rides.
The six foot long scarf you knit one winter,
bright red with white stripes at the ends.
The long waits for the school bus in the cold
and the day you made a fire to keep us warm.
The way you covered letters on the mailbox
with mittened hands and
changed James Carroll’s name into
‘Jam roll’.
A big brother is an anchor,
a deep well of comfort in the middle
of a life.
#349
Han Shan Project – Poetry in the Trees
I recently sent a poem in to the Han Shan Project – to save McLellan Park Forest from development. it, along with nearly 200 others, some from some fairly famous poets, like Lorna Crozier, is now hanging in the trees ( see news article in Globe and Mail , and the Vancouver Sun)
If you have a poem for the Han Shan Project – contact Susan McCaslin – it may not be too late to have your poem (preferrably one to do with nature/trees) hanging in the Han Shan Project.
The Poem I sent to the project was one I wrote several years ago, a very modified sestina called “I Go To the Woods”
I Go to the Woods
I go to the woods
For the hush
Of golden
Leaves falling, the lilt
Of birdsongs, the scent
Of darkness.
There is a darkness
Of leaf mold in the woods.
The rich, earthy scent
Deadens footfalls to a hush
And the lilting
Breeze stirs the leaves of gold.
As the sunset lingers golden
One moment before the dark
Descends, the creek’s lilting
Voice trickles through the woods,
Until evening’s hush
Cloaks all. Sight, sound, scent.
Dawn’s gentle breath is sent
In streamers of gold
To nudge the hushed
And darkened
Woods
With tiny twitters lilting.
Go!
I remember laughing at life
when I out ran it.
Standing there, well past the finish line,
winded, bent over and panting,
my hands on my knees.
Waiting for life to catch up to me.
We’ve run together for many years now,
neck and neck,
jockeying for position but,
in the end, taking turns
waiting for each by the finish line of each day.
Some days now life runs ahead of me
gives me an exasperated backwards glance,
stops for a moment and
taps its toe impatiently,
waiting for me to catch up.
One day I will tell it to go on without me.
I’ll tell it that I’ll catch up later
even though I know I won’t.
One day.
Not today though.
Today I’ll run along side life
for all I’m worth.
Go!
#348
Denial
Rosy glows bloom pinkly on cheeks
Snow flake petals fall, crisp and cold,
but after a few dozen weeks
those winter analogies get old.
They’re just a form of denial
wrapped ‘round a soft core of longing
A dream of a tropical isle
Sandal-ing and sarong-ing
An un-winter type place to go
where the sand is as white as snow.
#347
Sea Change
Waves will always break
Step into the surf once more.
Sea change is coming.
#346
Linda Studley 