Something is happening.
A beginning where I thought only endings lived.
An awakening from a long troubled sleep.
A quickening of synapses.
It is a moment to be seized,
an opportunity to be exploited
so don’t be surprised
if my goals and attitudes change
course. You are still
my oars and anchor,
my lodestone,
the star by which I steer,
my travelling partner of choice
forever.
#99
Every now and then she breaks out
in tattoo ink.
Her body a shrine to what she holds dear.
Her children, music, even flowers remembered
from her grandmother’s garden – all imprinted
on her memory and on limbs and back.
It’s only rational that someone who wears
her heart on her sleeve
would not flinch at wearing her love
on her skin.
# 85
Baltimore Album
Hand appliqued, hand quilted
Legacy of love.
Testament to skill.
Tribute to perseverance.
Homage to patience.
A source of comfort
beyond words or memories,
soft beneath my hand.
#36
It starts with a spark.
A blinding synapse
that focuses your gaze
through a magnifying glass hovering over
combustible potential.
The rest of the world becomes small and insignificant
compared to the sparking tinder.
So still, so quiet
you can hear your own breathe
and his
fanning the flame within.
Flames that grow and sear away
sorrow, lick away tears, and
leap through the darkness.
The tinder is long gone but the years,
banked up in a comforting glow, remain
a warm bed to cradle embers.
You and I,
this life,
the spark, the flame, the ember.
#13
I look wistfully at my empty cup.
“More tea?” you ask, already knowing the answer,
lazy Sundays and second cups of tea
being a tradition of sorts.
You read, I write,
laying abed late, relaxing into the morning.
You stand and I read your body.
Your back is out again.
Not a lot, just enough to make your normally
straight stance a tad crooked.
“Back sore?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
You don’t admit to pain lightly.
“I’m alright” you answer.
I read you
right.
#309
Thank you
For never giving up on me.
You give a fool hope that a way will come.
Thank you
For the words you said that set me free
And the ones you didn’t when you bit your tongue.
Thank you
For always being there by my side
except when you turned to protect my back.
Thank you
For slowing down when I was tired
As we move on down life’s rutted track
Thank you
#289
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
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
After all these years I still delight in your laughter,
still live in your eyes, as you live in mine.
After all these years, going forward to forever
is the same as going backwards, or just standing side by side.
After all these years, how did life get sweeter
when we were so certain it was perfect at the start?
After all these years our souls have grown together
two trees that twine their branches, impossible to part.
After all these years, it seems like a hundred,
and it seems like a second, all at the same time.
After all these years, one more is just a number,
cause we count our lives in other ways, after all these years.
#269
Happy Birthday to my darling partner.
Blue moons are few and far between
hardly ever seen
generally mean
it’s time to do something rare.
I’m writing this early to give you a chance
to plan in advance
so that, perchance,
you can do something on a dare.
The trick is finding something to do
beneath the blue moon
that’s completely new
but you never want to do again.
Like bungee jumping or herding cats
or wearing silly hats,
kooky actions that
make people think you’ve gone insane.
I haven’t quite decided what I’ll do
when the moon turns blue
but I know that you
can’t be included in what’s done
’cause if I’m not allowed to re-do
until that silly moon
turns that shade of blue
It’s better if it isn’t too much fun.
#249
Linda Studley 