On days like these
I’d like to be
at home with a quilt upon my knees
with a cup of tea,
just you and me,
and a cat that wouldn’t make you sneeze.
On days like these
I need a squeeze
and, because it’s just that season
a Christmas tree
and something sweet
to nibble on while we both read.
On days like these
We need not leave
our home to go outside and freeze
I do believe
We should take our ease
indoors in indolence on days like these.
#345
Sir Beeps-a-lot, Sir Beeps-a-lot,
your grader is a wonder
of brute strength over nature
where she’s got us all snowed under.
I love your marvellous machine
That leaves the avenue so clean.
The graceful arc, the pirouette
as front wheels leave the ground,
your full weight on the blade
makes a loud and scraping sound.
Which invades my REM
at approximately four a.m.
You are so cautious careful
Whenever you reverse
You beep, and beep, and beep, and beep
to warn us to disperse.
But I don’t think you have to dread
‘cause most of us are home in bed.
Don’t get me wrong, I am a fan
of your fine machine
as you drop your blade and scrape away
what Mother Nature leaves.
But next time, Sir, what do you say
to arriving later in the day?
And now you’re gone, the snow’s piled up
all neatly in a heap
I’ll miss you, dear Sir Beeps-a-lot,
But I will not miss your beep.
And as I tossed, deprived of sleep,
I’m sorry I called you a creep.
#344
There’s always a chance
it will never stop snowing.
We won’t know till spring.
Do ice ages start
with winters that seem too long?
Did the mammoths know?
One day, at breakfast,
they froze, grass still in their mouths
ice cubes in mid munch.
Next millennia
we may thaw out from icebergs
toast still in our mouths.
#343
Upon examination I find
the unexamined life is still worthwhile
but it’s too late now
because I’ve already examined it…
#342
Sometimes the pencil moves on its own,
it knows the way it wants to go
and nothing I can do will stop it.
I reach for the eraser and then pause.
Perhaps the pencil knows something I don’t.
A shape emerges and somewhere at the back
of my mind a switch is thrown,
a light goes on.
Ah, so that’s where we’re heading.
And I continue on down this new path,
herding my pencil like a recalcitrant cat,
until the next epiphany.
#341
An inventory of my purse
would probably reveal
an odd accumulation that
you wouldn’t want to steal.
There’s grocery lists and dried up pens
and faded old receipts.
There isn’t even anything
in there that’s good to eat.
Dead batteries, torn envelopes
with scribbles in the corners.
It’s like a pocket version of
confessions of a hoarder.
And don’t forget the loose breath mints
in fuzzy, linty coats,
and programs for special events
that happened months ago.
Money? There may be a few loose
pennies in the lining
but nothing that would justify
the plotting or designing
required for pilfering my purse,
it’s actually quite huge.
To sneak away with it, unseen,
would really be a coup.
Cards I carry in my pocket,
I rarely carry cash.
William Shakespeare had it right,
‘who steals my purse, steals trash.’
#340
T’was on a night, a night like this,
ice crystals in the dark
effervescing ‘round the glow
of street lamps in the park,
and chiming lightly ‘gainst the glass,
a million temple bells
pealing out a gentle prayer that
all would soon be well.
But stepping past the lamp light’s glow
another world appears
where chimes of falling ice crystals
are more like frozen tears
that steam then stiffen, salty drops
littering darkened trails
where winter sharpens icy claws
on frosty iron rails.
Along this trail a stranger came
all huddled in a cloak,
her breath puffed out along the way
like breadcrumbs made of smoke.
She looked back o’er her shoulder twice
while heading t’wards the light
but as she neared her outline blurred,
and vanished in the night.
But just before she disappeared
it seemed I caught a glance
of green leaves twined around her brow,
of flowers in her hands,
and for a second caught the scent
of some sweet garden spice
and thought I heard a silv’ry voice
sing through the chiming ice.
Oh, Summer’s walking Winter’s trails
and carries ‘neath her cloak
the seeds of warmer days to come
from moss to mighty oak.
More patiently than I am, she
is waiting for her chance
to overthrow the icy king
she’s plotting to supplant.
I wait for her to spring the coup,
for Winter, overthrown,
to melt before her radiance
as she sits on his throne.
and with a smile that melts the snow
her vernal court convenes.
The Winter King is dead and gone
Long live the Summer Queen.
But until then I watch ice crystals
play in lamp light’s beams.
and keep her plots of coup d’été
tucked safe within my dreams.
#339
The garden of my dreams is green on green,
every step alive with sighing shadow.
Each twig and leaf a real and sentient soul
whispering peace with every snap and bruise,
forgiveness in each drop of sap it bleeds
to heal my heart and send me out renewed.
Pondering the cost of my renewal
I wonder how I could have been so green
to worry those old wounds until they bled.
Mem’ries pool upon the floor like shadows
that in the morning light will leave a bruise,
a dark patch on the floor boards of my soul.
It must be such a tender thing, this soul,
to be in constant need of renewal,
easy to hurt and all too quick to bruise,
to bloom in shades of yellow, mauve, and green
not unlike the garden, deeply shadowed,
the only place I can staunch the bleeding.
It’s dawn now in the garden, daylight bleeds
through leaf and bough and lands upon my soul
spreading warmth and dazzling the shadows.
I rise to face the world again, renewed.
and watch the rising sun lick the trees green,
purple night recedes like fading bruises
The coffee sings and hiccoughs as it brews,
dribbling stains like rings of ochre blood
across a tablecloth of white and green
sprinkled with daisies that some lonely soul
stitched upon it long ago renewing
faith that simple things can banish shadows.
I close my eyes and I see the shadows,
the green on green where every blooming bruise
becomes a flower in a world renewed,
where strength to carry on runs in the blood,
where one can always save a wounded soul
within the sacred garden, green on green.
There is no shadow so dark or bleeding,
so damaged, so bruised, that the tired soul
can’t find renewal in the garden green.
#338
Okay, I’m throwing it out there – who knows what form this poem is written in? The first one to answer correctly gets a copy of the book.
As the fulfillment of the self imposed quota of poems looms closer, I consider the possibilities. 366 poems. Obviously not all of them are/or will be worthy of publishing – some were just me, grasping at something that rhymed with straw, but all of them helped me to reach the original objective. To write without filters, to ignore the inner critic.
I believe that this year of verse will be a personal acheivement that I will use to propel myself into more and different artistic challenges. It is not simply an achievement because of the 366 poems it spawned, but because I actually managed to summon up the dicipline to write and post something every day for 366 days running. Aside from the usual inescapables (like eating and sleeping) I can’t really think of anything I’ve done every single day in the last year. If I can do this then I can attempt other goals too, and I can reach them. And the reason I posted this and all the poems to my writing blog was because I wanted company when I reached the goal – I wanted other people to say “Hey, I can do that too!” as they set their own personal goals. I still have 29 days to go and I can’t tell you how much your kind words and comments have meant to me along the way. They were often the drop of water in the desert that kept me going.
So – possibilities – I want to publish the book and somehow I will make that happen. It will most likely not contain all of the 366 poems. Rather, it will be a ‘best of’ book. But the poems will live on here at the blog. I may also select about 10 of the poems that seem to lend themselves to being songs, and arrange and record them (I could put the CD into the book!).
I have toyed with the idea of doing a year of ‘a poem a week’ accompanied by artwork. That, perhaps, will get me back to the drawing board – literally!
But whatever I do and whichever artistic turn I take – thank you for joining me on the journey. This journey may be coming to a close but I guarantee there’ll be more!
Stay tuned for the final 29.
Linda
“The Poet not Quite at the Bottom of the Well Anymore”
We are the ones who take the chance
Who sing the song, who step the dance
Who dare to try, who lose control
and don’t care who might see our soul,
the ones the world’s sweet song enchants.
And in our search for true romance
We take a stand, a lover’s stance
Against indifference, hard and cold.
We are the ones.
Come sing the song, come step the dance
Give up your heart and take the chance
And open up your eyes, behold
as possibilities unfold.
take back your dreams from circumstance.
We are the ones.
#337
Not a rondel, but a rondeau – inspired by a comment from Tony!
Linda Studley 