Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “new poem every morning”

And the Dance Goes On

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.



Why I’d Rather Hold a Guitar Than a Baby

Babies wiggle.
Guitars occasionally slip off their straps, but not very often.
Babies wail.
Guitars can too but generally only when you want them too.
Babies puke.
Guitars do not do this.
Babies need their diapers changed.
Guitars need their strings changed but not as often and it smells better.
A guitar will never wake you in the middle of the night
(unless someone else is playing it).
Babies grow up and leave.
Guitars grow old with you and never leave.
I love my babies but they’ve grown up knowing
I’d rather hold a guitar than a baby
and I’m pretty sure they understand that it’s nothing personal.



Dear Square Peg,
I believe you possess something that belongs to me.
And I’m pretty sure I’ve got something of yours
perhaps we could meet and see

if you’d like to swap me your round hole
for the square one that drives me insane
I simply can’t fit where I don’t belong
I’m guessing you’re feeling the same.

I’m sure you would find it more comfy
Please say yes and don’t make me beg.
Straight swap – round hole for a square one,

Yours truly,
Round Peg.



When It’s Over

“It’s not over till the fat lady sings.”
Pretty sure I’ve done that.
“It’s all over but the crying.”
Pretty sure I’ve done that too.

But “It’s not over till it’s over”
has locked me in a circular reference
that denies the possibility of closure
or of starting over.

I propose a new adage:
“It’s over when I say it’s over.”




Live a perfect life.
Rethink your definition
of the word ‘perfect’.




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.


Beginnings and Endings

Every beginning holds within it
shadows of an ending.
Pine cones foreshadow firewood.

Every ending holds within it
seeds of new beginnings.
After fire the fireweed blooms.

Live in the middle as much as possible
Climb a pine tree, pick the fire weed,
let beginnings and endings fend for themselves.



The Five Stages of Food Grief

Eggs can’t be bad for me
I’m sure I read an article
that told me that they wouldn’t hurt
my ventricles and hearticles.

Drat it! Everything I like
has cholesterol and salt.
I should smack the manufacturer.
It’s all his gol dern fault.

I could eat a steak today
then for the next two weeks
drink water, and browse melba toast,
and  salads laced with leeks.

Oh, I give up. If it tastes good
I should probably spit it out.
I won’t live any longer but
it’ll feel that way, no doubt.

What is this? Guacamole?
Whole grain bread, home made jam?
Food’s better when it’s fresh
and doesn’t come out of a can.


Medical Degree

A medical degree is a powerful piece of paper that
can convince you to drive 100 kilometers and
wait in a hard chair for an hour
so a total stranger can shoot
a laser into your eyes,
not once, but several times,
even if it hurts – and he gets paid for it.
Should have been a doctor instead of a poet…



The Fleeting Season

The honking wakes me.
Geese slice summer to ribbons
like Damocles’ sword.

Winter is the sword
suspended over our heads,
the autumn spoiler.

The fleeting season,
autumn glows in the last light
of a waning sun.


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