The Wind O’er the Roses
Remember, my darling, the wind o’er the roses
The scent of pink you breathe into your soul
The bluebell’s small sweetness, the raspberry blossoms
and more shades of green than your great heart can hold.
Remember, my darling, the bright sun of summer
the soft breeze that cools and caresses your brow
Birdsong and bee buzz and butterflies dancing
the hare that lies hidden, the fox on the prowl
Remember, my darling, the wind o’er the roses
when the north wind howls and the nights are too long
Close your eyes, take my hand and think of the solstice,
Remember the words to summer’s sweet song.
and remember, my darling, the wind o’er the roses again.
In late June the scent of the wild roses along the road that leads to my home is almost intoxicating. There is a purity and innocence to the fragrance of the wild pink roses. It is a thing one stores in one’s memory, to tell over when the snow and the temperature falls.
Linda Studley 
The February Coffee House DADA Poem
February dada poem
Here it is! this poem was a group creation. Rebekah and I cut out words and phrases and put them into a bag . Then the audience at the February Peace Region Songwriters, Coffee House at Faking Sanity Cafe (Dawson Creek, BC) selected snippets randomly. We then put the snippets together into this poem. (a little ‘poetic license’ was used by using the ‘you’re’ as ‘your’. Yes we are aware it’s the wrong form of the word for this context, but hey, it’s a ransom note poem!)
DaDa Poem
You’re period of mourning uncovered death in the fifth position.
Illuminate yourself.
Morning. slipped into her robe
and heard a masculine voice say: “What can we do?…especially if he’s innocent,
Stronger than a season
Between home and night that never slips away
moment by moment, slowly, looking,
do you look inside the flowers blooming last.
It is either very profound or very bizarre, or perhaps a bit of both but it was fun to do and it brought up some interesting images. Images like ‘morning slipping into a robe’ and ‘a season between home and night.’ I like these images and perhaps they, or modified versions of them, will eventually find their way into my poems. You’ll never know until you look inside the flowers blooming last…