Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “life”

Perils of the Overachiever

Never go first down the garden path
life’s a journey, it isn’t a race,
and the person who’s first is always the one
who gets cobwebs in her face.


Ripples and Wrinkles

Ripples in a lifetime.
Wrinkles in a dream.
Choices like a pebble
tossed into a stream.
See which way the wind blows
by the bending trees.
Ripples in a lifetime.
Wrinkles in a dream.

Ripples in a lifetime
Wrinkles in a dream
Don’t be looking down
when you’re climbing up a tree.
Hold your breath and float
like a feather on a breeze.
Ripples in a lifetime.
Wrinkles in a dream.

Ripples in a lifetime.
Wrinkles in a dream.
How deep is the water?
Deeper than it seems.
Rainbow’s to the ripple
as the sky is to the sea.
Ripples in a lifetime.
Wrinkles in a dream.


The Path

When I think I know how the path unwinds,
know the twists and turns like the back of my mind,
even now, and now and then
the path turns back on itself again.


Bread as Life

There is a point in the bread-making process
when the ragged tags and the sticky strings
of dough coalesce.
A point when the dusty, broken surface heals
and become soft and pliable,
a complete entity imbued with life.

Perhaps I am close to that point
because I often feel ragged;
constrained by strings that have just enough
stretch to make me think I’m going forward.
A little more pummelling and
the dusty cracks in my soul will heal.
I will become serene and know
how to bend instead of break.
A complete entity imbued with life.


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.


Red Wine and Good Conversation

Red wine and good conversation make
the years fall away
and sometimes it’s the telling
over of the past that makes the future
Brushing away
cobwebs, sweeping aside
twigs, and kicking stones
can make a path easier;
make the choice of turn
or twist clearer, but
horizons being what they are,
all roads lead to ruin.
But for now there is red wine
and good conversation.



Life Does Not Compute

There is no back button on life,
no control alt delete.
And hard boots are just hard boots,
not do-overs.
Control X won’t erase mistakes
and control Y won’t bring back what’s been lost
and the worms will get us all eventually.


# 5

Wherein I Try to Piece My Life Together Like a Jigsaw Puzzle

Start with edges, straight lines of reason
terminating in sharp, 90 degree corners.
But there are too many corners, the edges blur,
and the scene shifts from white clouds on pale blue to stars on velvet indigo.

Pieces of life can be treacherous.
They do not interlock securely.
Knobs wear down, pockets grow holes,
and the shiny, thin veneer lifts at the edges, exposes the dull grey beneath.

The original box is long gone and with it the picture
of what  this life should look like.
Only fragmentary hints of overlapping true colours, larger truths,
and persistent trial and error will ever get this thing finished.

And what then?  A window? A mirror?
A slowing fading postcard crying “Wish you were here” ?
I think I shall spend less time straining to find the big picture,
and more time enjoying the  potential of the little pieces.

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.

The Voyage

What is a year but an unwieldy barge
that drifts on a river of dreams?
What is desire but a broken oar
that we use to stem the stream?

What are words but a patchwork sail
that occasionally catches a breeze?
What is hope but a tattered chart
of strange, exotic seas?

But the river is wide, and I’ll sail my barge
I’ll ply my oar, and search my charts,
I’ll raise my sail at each passing wind
and if I see you flounder, friend,

I’ll heave to and lend a hand
and together we’ll set sail and
disappear into the setting sun,
Until another year is done.


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