Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “longing”

The Long, White Struggle

It’s a long, slow slog;
this stuttering transition
from winter to spring

with hopes of greenery
thawed and frozen all along
the dirty, white way

until you cave in,
like a collapsing igloo,
and believe the ice

age has come for you;
encased you eternally,
one hand on the box

labelled ‘Spring Clothing”
the other on your down filled coat,
desperate with hope

even through nightmares
of hard, white piles crushing
your warm breath to mist.

“It’s supposed to get up to plus eleven by next Friday” he says.
I’ll believe it when I see it

Aubade to Spring

A nervous twitch of heavy curtains,
a wary peering into first light.
What song will I sing? A trill
of joy thrilling at a pool of sunlight
warming my bare
feet or a dirge for dreams
of spring, battered
by northeast winds and smothered
in yet more snow.
Is it all bad?
No, today the sun shines and, at least
for a while, it is ‘aubade’.

How to Read Another Person’s Poetry

With anticipation of magic,
imagery, and thought provoking
plot twists and double entendres.

Hopefully, with a wistful longing
for some word or phrase
that will speak to your heart and set you free.

With acceptance of the consequences
for what the words kindle within
as the poet bravely holds the mirror to your soul.


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.



How Like the Masts of Sailing Ships

How like the masts of sailing ships
are the tops of the bare bone trees.
And how like the creak of deck boards
is their groaning in the breeze.

How like the seething ocean
is the song of trees in the wind.
And how many days must pass
before I see the sea again?

How many days must pass away
Ere I see the sea again?

How like the wind carved sand dunes
is the snow in sculpted drifts.
And how like the tang of salt spray
are the tears upon my lips.

How like the lost gull’s crying
is the yearning in my dreams.
And how many months must fade
before I go back to the sea?

How many months must fade away
Ere I go back to the sea?

How like the foam upon the wave
Is the frost on the swaths of hay
How like the fog that shrouds the shore
Is the wood smoke, low and gray.

How like the ocean’s ebbing tide
does my journey backwards flow.
And how many years must pass
before I find my way back home?

How many days and months and years
Till the sea calls me back home?


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.


The Dirt Beneath My Nails

Yesterday I went home again and
felt the dirt beneath my nails.
The light was rare and clean and
I saw everything so clearly,
even the ghosts of potential,
like shadows of the future,
stood out in stark relief.

Yesterday I went home again
and everything that is,
or could ever be right,
came to greet me,
eager and loving,
like a loyal dog waiting
at the end of the driveway for my return.

I will go home again soon
and become one with those friendly shadows,
pat that loyal dog, and dream
dreams that sprout
from the dirt beneath my nails.



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