She Dreams

lindastudley1 Comment

She dreams of half squeezed tubes of oils,
the scent of turpentine, and the loose, paint smudged shirt
draping her body.

She dreams of the vacant stare of the canvas,
waiting on the easel, the perfect light slanting, and
the thumbnails scattered on the speckled table.

She dreams of the handthrown pot, bristling with brushes,
the pallet knives, the rags and scraps of yesterday’s news,
like leaves waiting to turn and fall.

She dreams of the pallet perched on her arm like a hawk, fierce
and unafraid, raises the loaded brush, takes a deep breath,
then wakes up and goes to the office again.

 

#72

Glory Days

lindastudley2 Comments

The younger you are
the more future you anticipate.
Glory days all waiting in
treasure chests and you hold the key,
like a queen in your garden of dreams.
Some days my head hurts with dreams.
I am overwhelmed by who I might become.

Glory days are forever in a moment
a moment in forever.

The older you get
the more past you accumulate.
Glory days all locked in
individual cells and you hold the key,
like a warden in your prison of memories.
Some days my head hurts with memories.
I am overwhelmed by who I have been.

#70

Flame Dancer

lindastudley6 Comments

Fatal moth went flying,
flying through the night,
nightly through the dark,
darkly t’wards the light.

Light pulled like a magnet,
magnetic north, it called,
called the blind to follow,
follow, one and all.

All the moths flew vainly,
vainly t’wards the moon,
mooning for her touch,
touched since the cocoon.

Cocooning through the day,
daily grey moths sleep,
sleep until the moon rise,
rises them to fleet.

Fleet from grey bark nest,
nestled in the brush,
brush dust from their wings
in the frantic rush.

Rush to this new light,
alight on candle’s flame,
flame dancer writhe and fall,
fall and end the game.

 

#69

In The Top of My Dome

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This could be the day
when the words run away
and the poetry gets ugly ‘cause
there’s nothing left to say.

So I’ll try to keep it short
and I’ll try to keep it sweet
but I can’t make any promises
I’m not equipped to keep.

I didn’t promise gems
I only promised poems
and sometimes though the lights are on
there’s really no one home.

In the top of my dome.

#68

The Number

lindastudley2 Comments

I’m thinking of a number.
do you know what it is?
A number between make believe and make-up,
between three and twentyone,
between toys and poise.
Sweet petulance
confused enlightenment
contradicting certainty that only wants
to be left alone
at the centre of the Universe.
Do you know the number?
Have you been the number?
Fourteen.

 

#67

for my sweet, sophisticated fourteen year old granddaughter

Truth

lindastudley4 Comments

Truth isn’t not there because it can’t be seen
anymore than air isn’t not there
because it’s invisible or the world isn’t not there
when our eyes are closed.

Truth is fact not fancy,
proof not pudding.
Truth is hard to find because it hides in plain sight.
Truth echoes in hollow arguments.

Unaltered by focus, rationalization, or cherished outcomes,
truth cannot be bent;
rather, we bend ourselves around the truth, hoping
it will set us free.

#66

Bad

lindastudley2 Comments

When I was bad they sat me in the corner
my back turned to them all
my eyes upon the walls
untill I was recalled.

They didn’t know how interesting I’d find it;
that intersecting line
where cool white planes collide
I lost myself in time.

I was bad and they handed me some chalk
in penance was assigned
to write a hundred times
the measure of my crimes.

They didn’t know how interesting I’d find it;
comparing every line
for cursive curve design
all perfectly aligned.

So if I’m bad and you really want to hurt me
it’s normalcy I dread
where squirrels in my head
have to deal with you instead.

#65

Letters from a Northern Shut In – part II

lindastudley2 Comments

 Dear Universe,

I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you…

1. At what point did it seem like a good idea to sabotage my knees so any attempt at a regular exercise regime was doomed to failure?

2. When did you decide to relocate the hair from the top of my husband’s head to my chin?

3. This law of gravity thing, I pride myself on being law abiding, but I really think that some things should be exempt; at least two that I can think of offhand.

4. I’m pretty sure you knew I was going to live this long so why arrange things so the warrantees expire just when I was getting the hang of it?

In short, Universe, I don’t particularly enjoy your sense of humour but in the absence of any other Universes to choose from, you seem to have a mortal lock on the monopoly. So, I will continue to inhabit you but only under duress.

Sincerely

The Writer at the Bottom of the Well

“This is an automated out of office reply. Thank you for your letter to the Universe. I will be on vacation and away from the office for the next millennia. Your message is important to us and will be answered, in the order in which it was received, as soon as I return. Thank you”

 

#64

I Need to Be That Other Me

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I need to be that other me for a while, the me who smiles wide and thinks large and stands in the middle of the page, not in the margin. The me who dusts off yesterday’s remains then calls the rains to wash it away and yet I won’t get wet unless I want to, I just walk away, no, the rain can’t touch me unless I say so. That other me is free to think unconventionally, painting my world with thoughts curled around dreams hurled at walls where they spread and glow and pulse and show the way to be this me permanently. I need to be that other me.

 

#66