Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “memories”


What is it you treasure?

You’ll know when it’s gone.

To see leaves on trees,

to hear the oriole’s song.

To sit on the ground

with nary a thought

of how you’ll get up again

or not…

To feel the strength

within your fingers

as you press the strings

and the music lingers.

And why do so many

things fall to the ground

and I make that noise

when I bend down.

And I thank all Gods

that I took the time

to do things I loved

when in my prime.

For even if I can’t

do them now

I can look back

and remember how

I made music with friends

I danced and wrote songs,

I painted, not caring if

I did it wrong.

What is it you treasure?

Enjoy it today.

Make memories now.

Don’t wait, no, don’t wait.

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.


Does the scent of the rose garden, aflutter
with wayward petals,
waft  through your open door?
Does it bring back memories of wild roses in June?

You stand silent in the historical village,
a transplanted log cabin complete with furnishings,
a lonely anachronism waiting
for familiar footsteps at the back door.

Few tourists will climb your steep stairs.
Some whisper of a face they’ve seen,
peering from the second story window, curtains twitching.
Ghosts may linger in this house
but I feel only peace.
Peace with a touch of sadness.

I imagine seeing my life, my home,
through an outsider’s eyes as they shake
their heads at the wood cook stove,
the gas lanterns, and the crank telephone.
“ How did they live like this” they ask each other.

And I hear the ghosts cry back “Well.
We lived well.
By the strength of our own hands
we cleared the land, built our home, grew our food.
We worked, we sang, we danced.
We cried, we laughed, we loved.
All else is meaningless.”

And I smile and nod as the silence flows
back into the corners of the room.
Be content ghost.
I hear you.


Music, friends, and wine.
Enduring memories grow
from fleeting moments.




Things worth pursuing;
sun beams and prism rainbows.
Things worth sharing;
warm touch and  laughter.
Things worth giving away;
forgiveness and praise.
Things worth keeping;
true love and memories.


The Best of Times

Looking back I see
that the best of times were not
when I was looking behind or
looking forward but
when I wasn’t looking at all.

The times I was content
to co-exist with the past, present, and future,
no regrets, no expectations.
The times when time was not
an issue, a challenge, or an obstacle to be overcome.

The times when I wasn’t comparing
or rating the overall success of my current experiences,
so, in fact, the best times were never
really quantifiably measured to prove
they were the best.

But they were.
And they will be again.



Sun falls through the trees
raven shadows call to me,
flicker ‘cross my face.

I will hold this day;
The smell of the forest floor,
soft wind on my face,

rough bark ‘neath my hand.
The tang of wild raspberry
lingers on my tongue.

I will hold this day.
Take it out and set it free
some cold winter’s night.



Non linear time lines tangle
merging into one time,
the now time.
All things happening at all times
in a shoe box of photos and keepsakes ‘neath my bed.

Photos of children as they grow,
of weddings doomed and weddings blessed,
of loved ones gone and of times before
loved ones came to be.
Smooth skin, bright eyes, dark hair,
sapling and tree and firewood
phoenix and flicker
into and out of being.

There is no old, no young,
no tomorrows, no yesterdays.
All live in the shoebox amid the newspaper
clippings and children’s first teeth,
letters to Santa and letters from lovers,
curls of hair tied with red ribbon,
and a broken watch.

Red Handed

We caught the day red handed in
sun warm berries
winkled from shady green.
Tiny, achingly sweet first fruit,
a wild promise mounded
in summer starved hands.

Not enough for strawberry jam, we  stand
and count to three and laugh as we
cram our mouths full.

Eyes closed, we grin and
groan with ecstasy,
red juice and memories
trickling down our faces.
We caught the day,
red handed.

The Load

Dig deep, dig deep.
Memories keep
every beat
of your heart in a velvet vault.

Eyes wide, eyes wide.
See what’s inside,
between the lines
that are written all over the wall.

Pull back, pull back,
memories lack
every day’s knack
of adding bends in the road.

Hold on, hold on,
bend and be strong.
When is it wrong
to refuse to carry the load?



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