Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “memories”

Future Past

I wrote down the year today
as nineteen instead of twenty.
as though some errant, swirling time warp
tapped me on the shoulder.
New memories came like visions
from temporal cognoscenti,
and transcended the divisions
between now and then and older.

Which made me wonder what would happen
if one day the time warp hit
straight on, full force, and pulled me
deep into the eerie vortex.
Would it be a hurricane’s eye
where once and future engrams flit
like flying cows and spinning barns
whizzing past my quaking cortex?

Would patterns form and fray and fade,
emerge, then merge again to form
the multiverse of maybes
that spawned my personal, perfect storm?
The brainstorm of the century.
The wormhole to what’s never been.
The one way ticket, first class seat,
to the nearest loony bin. 

“Two thousand twelve, two thousand twelve,
not nineteen anything” I say.
I grip the pen as if an anchor
to my actuality.
“I have too much to do to ride
time’s crazy centrifuge today.
the future past is soon enough
to face my own reality.”




Wild roses still bloom
even when I close my eyes.
Petals do not wait.

I still hear my heart
even when I plug my ears.
I sense the beating.

Past breezes still play
through forgotten memories
waiting to be felt.




When I was a child I rode a centrifuge.
Excitement keening in my stomach,
strapped in, giggling,
wide eyed to new sensations.

Then whirling,
the dip and swoop,
the sunny amusement park
careening around and around.
Colours blurring into squeals
of delight and fear.

Then dizzy,
staggering back to the
routine pace of the day to day,
clutching memories to be taken out
on gray days.

How was I to know?
Life is a centrifuge.



Memories of the Sea

Once upon a million years ago or maybe more
some of us climbed dripping from the ocean to the shore.

Some of us breathed in the air and stood on new fledged  limbs
and turned our backs upon the home where we once used to swim.

And some of us remember still the ebb and flow and tide
of our ancestral home where our siblings still abide.

Some go back to the water, some stay away in fear,
but all of us have memories of the sea that salt our tears.


Glory Days

The younger you are
the more future you anticipate.
Glory days all waiting in
treasure chests and you hold the key,
like a queen in your garden of dreams.
Some days my head hurts with dreams.
I am overwhelmed by who I might become.

Glory days are forever in a moment
a moment in forever.

The older you get
the more past you accumulate.
Glory days all locked in
individual cells and you hold the key,
like a warden in your prison of memories.
Some days my head hurts with memories.
I am overwhelmed by who I have been.


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