The world is insane
with wee pockets of reason
trying to stay free.
Like scientists who
must observe objectively
to reach conclusions
about how insane
the world is and how futile
it is to change it
because a nudge here
starts the dominos of change
to fall over there
and over there seems
to be the place where we see
the most need for change,
not realizing
there connects to here by one
falling domino.
#205
I’ve been wondering of late
why I try to change my fate
when I can never know or see
what my fate will really be.
If I don’t really know for certain
who or what’s behind the curtain
how can I know the default or
if my future has been altered
or if I’m naively treading
the very path that I’ve been dreading
towards the fate that was laid out
before I started on about
embracing change, chasing dreams.
or switching horses in mid-stream.
If all my paths lead back to me,
I make my own reality.
#31
Leaves applaud the wind
in sudden outbursts of joy.
Wild adulation.
Harder to impress,
bough and bole just nod and sway.
Grudging approval.
But roots slumber on,
unmoved by windy speeches.
Blithely unaware.
And I let it go.
I take it into my soul
Then I let it go.
#15
The things I can’t change
fly to greet me from the screen;
daring me to care.
And so we wrestle.
Me versus things I can’t change,
in futile deadlock.
The difference is,
although I can’t change the things,
the things can change me.
#291
Leaves crunch underfoot.
Summer’s bones litter and drift
into the hollows.
Autumn’s ripe red scent
steeps the air cranberry rust
with a hint of loam.
She wears a golden
gown, rustling taffeta
with red petticoats.
Twitching up her skirts,
she swirls, flirts with the old man
who stands in the door.
He catches her hand,
joins her in the dance, icing
her pretty gold gown
as they waltz the night
and he draws her close to him
‘neath his snowy cloak.
Now they drift away,
fall into a restless sleep
and dream of a child
crying to wake up,
fretting for flowers and leaves
to twine in her hair.
Autumn gives her child
sunshine. Winter gives his child
a pure mountain stream
and he names her Spring
and knows that one day Summer
will woo her away.
Then they’ll call their child
Autumn, after her mother,
and the dance goes on.
#282
The grass is greener,
at least it’s greener longer,
on some other sides.
Is it wrong to crave
greener pastures, kinder skies,
a gentle lifestyle?
It can’t hurt to look
and if looking turns to change –
the grass is still green.
#251
The taste upon the tongue
The smoke within the lungs
that satisfies and numbs
the foolish cravings.
Adrenaline that rushes
through fear and near death brushes.
The candy coated crutches
not worth saving.
The long familiar rut
is comfortable but
a feeling in the gut
says change is needed .
The need to question why
we do these things and try
to be honest in reply
and then to heed it.
#131
“I love a mystery” she says
then delves into the mystery with the sole
intent of unravelling it.
“I love the view” he says
then builds a house with a big window facing the view
so he can pull the curtains.
“I love you just the way you are” they say
then point out reasons that way is wrong and how
you should change.
Beware of sentences starting with I love.
#74
My CD "New Traditions" is available for listening or digital download
My CD "Breathe" is available to listen to or for digital download
Linda Studley is a writer, songwriter, independent recording artist, and sometime graphic artist living in Northern BC, Canada
Linda Studley 