Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “aging”


What is it you treasure?

You’ll know when it’s gone.

To see leaves on trees,

to hear the oriole’s song.

To sit on the ground

with nary a thought

of how you’ll get up again

or not…

To feel the strength

within your fingers

as you press the strings

and the music lingers.

And why do so many

things fall to the ground

and I make that noise

when I bend down.

And I thank all Gods

that I took the time

to do things I loved

when in my prime.

For even if I can’t

do them now

I can look back

and remember how

I made music with friends

I danced and wrote songs,

I painted, not caring if

I did it wrong.

What is it you treasure?

Enjoy it today.

Make memories now.

Don’t wait, no, don’t wait.

Time is a Relative

I am a firm believer in time warps.
In folding zones
and involuntary ticks
and talk about relativity…
It’s as clear as the gnomon on your face
that time shifts and passes
dependant upon the momentum of age.
Is the hourglass half full or half empty?
Time must be relative.
That’s the only way my grandbaby
could turn eighteen so soon.


Epic Ride

When bones get brittle
and even little things are hard to do
will I still crave the challenges
of learning something new?

Will a slower step or weaker grip
necessarily translate
to a slower mind or a weaker wit?
I dare not contemplate

the thought that I may one day be
content to step aside
and watch the world dispassionately
as it goes spinning by.

Will I not feel the artist’s urge
to create a lovely mess.
Will I be given crayons
and expected to regress

to trying to stay between the lines
in pathetic colouring books,
when lines were things I crossed for fun
not caring how I looked.

No, I’m afraid I won’t be one
who goes quietly goodnight;
I’m pretty sure when I check out
I’ll still be pondering why

the sky can be as pink
as cotton candy or as green
as willow buds, and wondering
where the wild geese have been.

So I guess it doesn’t matter much
where I live as long as I
can be myself in my right mind
right up until I die.

So take my hand and a deep breath
and stay here by my side.
Let’s rock out the golden years,
It’ll be an epic ride.

# 188


Everything New is Old

The back of my hand is changing.
I don’t know it anymore.
New freckles hiding in the wrinkles,
veins like fat rivulets of blue shadow,
knuckle joints ringed like holes in the boles
of slightly crooked trees
(I almost expect an owl or two to gaze back)
All these new things, just to remind me
I’m getting old.




Beware child.
At some point time speeds up.
I know, the scientists will deny
but one day you will look in the mirror
and cry
“Wait, what happened here?
When did yesterday become
twenty years ago?”
and your only
consolation will be
that your grandmother,
your great grandmother, and me
at some point thought the same.
But your daughter will remain
blithely unaware until that day
dawns on her and she’ll say
“Why didn’t she warn me?”
Even though you did.


A Biodegradable Old Bag

A plastic bag hangs in a tree,
billowing and startling, popping and snapping
at every gust of wind.
No breeze is too slight to escape
her rustling displeasure. 

The constant buffeting tears holes,
deflating her, shredding her to ribbons
until, voiceless, she can do nothing but
flutter helpless streamers,
as though signalling for help
as one by one,
the bio-degradable ribbons
slough away, to whisper a while
amongst the sighing grass before
dissolving into silence.

Across the Ages

“This is home now” middle-age tells age
“No, this is not home,” age replies, “and I will not stay.”
“Yes, you must. Give it a chance and you’ll find you like it here.”
“No, I won’t.“
“But you can’t live alone.”
“Says who?”
“You know you can’t. What if you fall?”
“What if a meteorite hit this place?”
Middle-age sighs.
“Is this because I wouldn’t let you have a pony?” Age asks.
“We lived in town, we couldn’t have livestock in town.”
“No, it isn’t about that. I’ll help you unpack.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be going back home tomorrow.”
“No, Mom, you won’t.”
“Stop treating me like a child.”


“I moved grandma today,” says middle-age.
“Was that today?” says youth.
“You know damned well it was. I could have used your help.”
Youth sighs.
Middle-age knows the eyes are rolling even with her back turned.
“I bet Gramma was pissed.”
“Go do your homework.”
“Stop treating me like a child.”


Alone, middle age looks into her mirror.
“I wish someone would treat me like a child” she whispers.



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