Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “beauty”

Morning Song

The morning dawns with a pale, flat light
and eases out the last of night,
tired of black, you’d think she might
squeeze out a little spark.

But no, her bland illumination
consists of gray and its gradations.
You’d think there’d be some small temptation
to make the world less stark.

Lightening now, the grays turn whiter
as though the celestial lamplighter
decided graciously to right her
obvious shortcomings

And now a hint of blue I see
emerging o’er the snow clad trees
and a band of peachy red that seems
to set the sky a humming.

The light grows stronger now and gleams
on silent, stately evergreens
who rouse themselves from winter dreams
and start to switch and sway.

And as the wind begins to shake
their cloaks of snow to falling flakes.
Pink clouds begin to thin and break
and simply float away.

Winter white returns full force
and day progresses in its course
I’ll let it go, with some remorse;
this fleeting, lovely thing.

Another winter sunrise gone.
But I’ll recall the day that dawned
and spread her colours on my lawn
and made the morning sing.




Words speak
Notes ring
Paint blooms
Voice sings

Ethereal moments
exist in forever.
Forever exists
in the moment
we choose to be free.



Frost feathers on leaves.
A last chance for withered ones
to be beautiful.

# 104

Tabula Plena

Start with a blank slate
and there’s nothing to build on.
It’s better to choose.

Choose sun warmed berries,
the songs of running water,
and moonlight shadows,

The warmth of the sun,
the way aspen leaves flutter,
and wild violets.

Fill your slate and find
there’s always room for beauty,
always room for joy.


To Find the Rainbow’s End

First a blindfold because everyone knows
if you chase a rainbow with your eyes
open it will run away.
Like a butterfly startled by your shadow or
a wave that flattens on the shore.

Then a good friend. One who won’t play
tricks or laugh if you fall down.
Someone who knows right from
left and can give good directions.

Now walk.
With your friend calling cold,
warm, hot, or not.
Guiding your stumbling steps
to the root of the rainbow.
But beware.
Pull off the blindfold and
the rainbow will run.

But your friend will see it still,
see it ripple over you in a multi-hued state of grace.
The beauty of the rainbow is fleeting and vicarious,
to be enjoyed by those who rejoice
in the happiness of others.



Thank you, Tony, for the inspiration. 

Breathing Free

The best things in life are fleeting;
the savour of a home grown melon, dripping sweetness,
the caress of a soft chinook wind on a winter cold face,
the oriole’s song vibrating down the ravine,
the prismatic gems on a raindrop studded lawn,
the good earth breathing humus into the dusk.
The best things in life are fleeting and worthy
of remembrance so that in dark moments
we may close our eyes, hold them close,
and breathe free again.



Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder,
the eye being just a single minded messenger who
can’t convey any but visual images.
The eye can’t breath the wild rose scent
or hear the oriole’s quavering call echo in the valley.
The eye can’t feel the damp cool of a green wood oasis
on a blazing summer day.
The eye can’t savour the hidden tang
of tiny wild strawberries bursting on the tongue.
Beauty is not in the eye, but in the soul.
It is the thrumming connection that happens
when our senses are not enough
and we forever link our heart to the beauty,
take it into ourselves and become



After the Fire

After the fire there were pools
of aluminum, puddles and runnels
of molten metal had hardened
where they ran.
Like all who follow the path of least resistance,
they got nowhere.
They became featureless blobs,
most looking like lower intestines
or scat from some
diarrheic metal animal.
Just more things to trip over.

But then I found one,
an ingot, a delicate pendant,
a diamond in the rough.
a small cabochon, slightly askew,
but with twin aspen trees growing
from the top.
Slender, leafy, powdery gray.
So I took it home,
contemplated its essence,
pondered on its trials,
and gave it some respect.
The way we should treat all those
who have dealt with the fire
and come out transformed.
Something beautiful.


Wet on Dry

Thirsty paper swells.
Pigment irrigates the nubby surface,
depositing brilliant silt;
fertile soil on the banks of the Nile.

Gems bloom at the end
of squirrel hair brooms
that swish and sweep the bubbles of colour into trees
and rivers, and cloud speckled skies.

But beware the heavy hands of gravity,
clawing the sparkling rivulets
into muddy puddles
at the bottom of the stillness.


What It Is

Life is like a watercolour painting;
lots of pretty colours to play with
but work it too hard and you get mud.

Mud is like love;
soft and fun to play in
but it’s slippery and tends to leave stains.

Stains are like road maps;
clues to who or what we’ve been
but sometimes they smother beauty.

Beauty is like a watercolour;
glowing and capricious
but only a reflection of life.



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