Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “dream”

30 Jun 2016

My Mother’s Garden

Sometimes, in dreams, I wander
half remembered woods.
Sunlight casts flickering shadows of light
over the forest floor.

I am searching for the flowers;
the wild flowers and the tame flowers.
Flowers from every garden she ever grew,
blooming together in unlikely harmony.
I stoop, I pick, I fill my arms with the fat, fragrant blossoms.

Especially the blue ones.
She loved the blue ones.
I am picking this bouquet for her.
My life is a procession of flowers and memories.
A patchwork of the things she taught me
as we worked in her garden
Weeding, culling, training the vines
in the way they should go.
Training me
in the way I should go.

And I know she’s gone
but still I wander half forgotten woods,
content in the cognitive dissonance of dreams
that one day I’ll hand her that bouquet and
she’ll smile and say
“Well done.”

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15 Feb 2016
3 Comments

Redemption Dream

Last night I had a dream that a rapture had occurred
and all the Gods and Deities had swooped down on the world.
They called their loyal followers and took them all away
but Mother Earth said ‘Hold on. I’ve got something to say.”
“What about the evil ones? You’ve gotta take them too.
Send them all to Hell ‘cause the Devil must have his due.”

So with saints and sinners nestled in their eternal homes
the ones the Earth held on to didn’t wail and didn’t moan.
Mother Earth had chosen all the ones who loved her best
She said ‘Hang on, little children, it’s time to clean this mess.
And with a shake she scattered the pollution from her skin;
the filth and the corruption went flying in the wind.

She said “I know you’re capable of doing these things right.
so please keep our home tidy, and for goodness sake don’t fight.
Because if there’s a next time I won’t clean things up for you.
So don’t make me come back there – whatever you do!’
Don’t want to  go to Heaven on wings or to Hell on skids.
I just want a world that’s clean that I can leave my kids.

#216

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning #2, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , , ,
31 Jan 2016
2 Comments

Garden Dreams

Garden dreams start early.

Barely out of January,

I imagine the earthy tang of potting soil,

the cool sweetness of spring rain on my tongue,

the weathered roughness of terra cotta pots

beneath my fingers.

In my dreams, tangles of clambering peas and beans

twine themselves Heaven-ward,

waving their white and red flowers to flag

down wayward bees.

In my mind’s eye tomatoes hang heavy,

onions and garlic tilt their lances at the sky,

and the greens march crisply, row on successive row,

out of the garden and into my salad bowl.

Then into my dreams floats the scented glory

of roses, the rioting rainbow of hardy perennials,

the colours of laughter and abundance and joy.

Do not wake me from this reverie too soon,

at least not until the seed catalogues begin to sprout

in frigid mail boxes.

Garden dreams start early.

 

#201

 

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning #2, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , ,
18 Dec 2015

Solstice Solace 

Darkling comforter;
tucking the night around my shoulders,
whispering long day lullabyes,
and drawing dreams of flowers and sunshine
within the flickering of firelight
on fresh fallen snow.

#157

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning #2, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , | Leave a comment
16 Jul 2015
2 Comments

Dreamy

Dreamy: Giving pleasure or contentment to the mind or senses. (Merriam-Webster Dictionary Definition)

Whoever  defined the word dreamy
never spent a night in my head.
Or watched my dreams go reeling by
in dozens of tangled threads.

A frightening film festival
of scenes not conducive to rest.
Where every night I win the award
for best self-distressed.

The toddler who runs the projector
has attention deficit disorder
and the one in charge of designing the props
is an unrepentant hoarder.

It’s a messy place in there.
Nothing ‘dreamy’ about it.
Maybe one day I’ll have a ‘dreamy’ dream
but I seriously doubt it.

 

#2

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning #2, Poetry and tagged , , , , , , ,
29 Oct 2012

Dream

I woke to bird song
and thought it was still summer
Thank you for the dream.

#310

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13 Sep 2012

The Dream

I had a dream last night
of walking down a familiar street yet
the houses were old and gray
and I was young.
The air was cool and unbreathed and
seethed with ideas unthought,
dreams only starting to prickle the edge
of consciousness.

I had a dream last night
of a familiar place in an unfamiliar time.
Night fell like a silent blanket and no light shone
but the ghosts of candles
lighting the path for late wayfarers,
and the liquid glow of starlight and moonlight
playing on edges and dabbling ponds.

I had a dream last night,
then I awoke to the song of the wild goose calling
goodbye.

 

#264

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22 Jul 2012
2 Comments

We Dream

Slugs dream of leaves.
Bats dream of bugs.
Bugs dream of sleeping
All snug in a rug.
Birds dream of worms.
Worms dream of loam.
Rabbits dream of carrots
and I dream of home

Foxes dream of mice
Mice dream of cheese.
Deer dream of nibbling
my apple trees.
Cats dream of fish.
Dogs dream of bones.
Horses dream of apples
and I dream of home.

Pigs dream of mud.
Cows dream of barns.
Frogs dream of flies
and kittens dream of yarn.
Fish dream of streams.
Bees dream of combs.
Bears dream of honey
but I dream of home.

Home with my honey
yes I dream of home.

#210

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , , ,
16 May 2012
3 Comments

Other Jungles

Traffic roars in the dawn.
Vertical blinds rattle like bamboo in the breeze.
I arm myself with keys and cell phone for my trek to the office.
Later I stalk grocery aisles
with my trusty bank card and list by my side.
Successful, I haul home the spoils,
this evening we will feast upon fat free cottage cheese
and whole grain bread.
Darkness descends and we sit
in the flickering light of the 50 inch TV
and dream of other jungles.
The traffic growls us to sleep.

 

#144

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
05 Mar 2012
1 Comment

She Dreams

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

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , ,

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