Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “dreams”

A Day With the Sun On Its Brow

Give me a day with the sun on its brow,
with a breeze ‘round its shoulders.
A day with a rain-washed sky,
blue as your eyes and deep
like pebbles down a well.
A sky where clouds have wandered
off to some fold in the horizon.

Give me a night like a sigh in the dark,
where the sky is as close
as a lover’s caress
and I feel the breath
of a million stars stir my hair.
Then I close my eyes and dream
of the day with the sun on its brow.

 

#17

Pushing Snails

We’ve decided to set a goal,
an ultimatum if you will,
to end this futile habit
of pushing snails uphill.

Of slowing our pace for slugs,
of tailoring dreams to fit
into a life that somehow shrank
more than we like to admit.

You may not notice at first.
You may not see us begin.
But turtles preparing to fly
must first learn how to grow wings.

Very soon we’ll take to the sky
and laugh at the people who still
think they’re accomplishing something grand
by pushing a snail uphill.

 

#1

Reality, the Illusion

The sleight of mind that palms
truth up a sleeve and
replaces it with hope and horror
and so the illusionist dreams
reality out of anticipation and fear.
Reality, the illusion.

Phoenix Without Fire

I will shed my skin
wiggle, slip, kick, and it’s gone
as I slide away.

I will dream it first,
deathless reincarnation,
not me, but still me.

I will rise from ash,
stretch newly fledged wings, and fly.
Phoenix without fire.

Ordering a Seed Catalog

It’s an act of faith, really,
ordering a seed catalog in January,
at least it is when you live in the north,
rooted deeply in a cherished belief
that this might be the year the spinach doesn’t bolt
when it’s 3 inches tall.
It’s rather like buying a lottery ticket,
Most of the enjoyment lies
in visions of potential,
in dreams of green.

Coup d’été

T’was on a night, a night like this,
ice crystals in the dark
effervescing ‘round the glow
of street lamps in the park,
and chiming lightly ‘gainst the glass,
a million temple bells
pealing out a gentle prayer that
all would soon be well.

But stepping past the lamp light’s glow
another world appears
where chimes of falling ice crystals
are more like frozen tears
that steam then stiffen, salty drops
littering darkened trails
where winter sharpens icy claws
on frosty iron rails.

Along this trail a stranger came
all huddled in a cloak,
her breath puffed out along the way
like breadcrumbs made of smoke.
She looked back o’er her shoulder twice
while heading t’wards the light
but as she neared her outline blurred,
and vanished in the night.

But just before she disappeared
it seemed I caught a glance
of green leaves twined around her brow,
of flowers in her hands,
and for a second caught the scent
of some sweet garden spice
and thought I heard a silv’ry voice
sing through the chiming ice.

Oh, Summer’s walking Winter’s trails
and carries ‘neath her cloak
the seeds of warmer days to come
from moss to mighty oak.
More patiently than I am, she
is waiting for her chance
to overthrow the icy king
she’s plotting to supplant. 

I wait for her to spring the coup,
for Winter, overthrown,
to melt before her radiance
as she sits on his throne.
and with a smile that melts the snow
her vernal court convenes.
The Winter King is dead and gone
Long live the Summer Queen.

But until then I watch ice crystals
play in lamp light’s beams.
and keep her plots of coup d’été
tucked safe within my dreams.

#339

We Are the Ones

We are the ones who take the chance
Who sing the song, who step the dance
Who dare to try, who lose control
and don’t care who might see our soul,
the ones the world’s sweet song enchants.

And in our search for  true romance
We take a stand, a lover’s stance
Against indifference, hard and cold.
We are the ones.

Come sing the song, come step the dance
Give up your heart and take the chance
And open up your eyes, behold
as possibilities unfold.
take back your dreams from circumstance.
We are the ones.

 

#337

Not a rondel, but a rondeau – inspired by a comment from Tony!

And the Dance Goes On

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

Michelle

Once, when you were a tiny infant
asleep on a pillow on my lap,
a spider wandered too close and I brushed it away.
I remember wishing I could always be there
to brush aside anything that might cause you harm.
You were young then and so was I.

But you grew and were not the coddling kind.
A rebel with a sense of humour,
a dreamer with a streak of realism,
as stubborn as the knots in your hair that we both
cried over as I wielded the brush.
I remember hoping life would not throw you anything
you couldn’t handle.
You were older then and so was I.

As a woman, you discovered the world I’d been living in
and the revelation brought us closer together.
Promoted to mother, you began to see things
through the same lens.
And you shone. And you shine.
And I know that no brushing aside of life’s troubles
could have taught you how to be who you are now.
This you learned on your own.
We are older now, and perhaps a little wiser.

Happy birthday, darling daughter.

#275

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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