Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “painting”

What I Paint

Sometimes I paint what I see.
Sometimes I paint what I feel.
Sometimes I paint figments that grow in my mind.
Sometimes I paint figs that are real.

When flowers begin to spawn dragons,
and dragon ships sail upside down,
when trees have eyes and snails sprout wings
You know that I’ve finally found

that niche in my psyche that whispers
of worlds on different planes,
and tells me to capture them quickly
or they’ll never be seen again.

Yes, sometimes I paint what is
and sometimes I paint what could be.
Sometimes I paint the world.
Sometimes the world paints me.




How would it feel to splash
a cactus into being?
To scratch spines through the dried paint
with the end of my knife?
To pool shadows on the parched ground
and watch the thirsty paper drink them in,
leaving a crust of pigment
like dust waiting to fly.
How will it feel to wash the sky
with desert blue
then dab away invisible tears
with my tissue,
leaving perfect puffs of stark white
cloud, too thin for shade.
How must it feel to stroke the broken hills
with fleeting immortality?
To carve caves in deepest umber, layering
striation upon striation.
It’s all a glorious trompe l’oeil,
a delicious way to immerse my soul again
in the Arizona sunshine.
The painting will just be a bonus.



Painting a New Home With an Old Life

A new home is like an empty canvas.
Aside from the obvious fresh paint
on the walls,
there is a sense of potential,
a re-evaluation of the corporeal things
that populate our lives, shape
our routines, and represent us
to the world.

We hang a painting on the pristine wall,
place prisms in the windows to spark rainbows,
throw down a hand made rug,
and suddenly the canvas is not so empty anymore.

Some things make the cut,
others languish in liquor boxes
until the next garage sale or are abandoned
on the back doorstep of the nearest
thrift shop.
Only to be discovered by another soul
looking for new colours to splash
upon their own
empty canvas.


Colour Me

“Men can only differentiate between 16 colours.”
he explained to me as we scanned the paint chips.
I was busy trying to decide between ‘Rusty Nail’
and ‘Bull’s Eye’.
“It’s red.”
Thank you, Dear, but I need a completely irrelevant name
to give to the lady who mixes the paints.
Back to the 16 colours – he likes 8 and so do I,
but, apparently they aren’t the same 8.
We agree to divide the house.
He will choose for the studio.
I will choose the rest.
And yet somehow the studio
will be painted “Chipotle”,
not orange.



Today I need to play a poem
write a picture
paint a song.
Today I need to step outside
and let the world come to me.



Wet on Dry

Thirsty paper swells.
Pigment irrigates the nubby surface,
depositing brilliant silt;
fertile soil on the banks of the Nile.

Gems bloom at the end
of squirrel hair brooms
that swish and sweep the bubbles of colour into trees
and rivers, and cloud speckled skies.

But beware the heavy hands of gravity,
clawing the sparkling rivulets
into muddy puddles
at the bottom of the stillness.


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