Change is inevitable.
But perhaps a shift in expectations
may allow me a little control over that change.
Control is an illusion.
But perhaps a shift in perception
may allow me to see past that illusion.
Perception is subjective.
But perhaps that bias
may allow me to see what I really need
to face the changes.
Tag: poem
Apricity
A word for the sun’s warmth on a winter day.
Because words like blessedness, bliss, paradise, delight, savor, and revel
Are not enough to encompass the pure joy
Of the unexpected warmth bathing my face
on a bright winter’s day.
Retrospective
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.
Flat Glass
Computer screen
Windshield
Camera lens
Glasses
Mirrors.
The world comes to me through
a pane of flat glass.
If what I see through my television screen
isn’t real,
is anything?
I will take off my glasses and walk outside
and look.
That will be real.
Fuzzy,
but real.
Ashes
I forgot to post this poem – it was written on the 6th as we were travelling through the Cariboo. The haze made the background seem two dimensional.
Treed mountains, layered in smoke,
recede into the haze; cut-out silhouettes; mere jagged,
misty dreams of the real terrain beneath.
And in the foreground emerge the trees, clearer now,
more defined, more detail in their sweeping boughs and
pendant moss; skeletons of their ancestors propped up
in their arms, standing witness.
There is a sense of waiting in the air
and a taste of ashes on the tongue.
Han Shan Conundrum – Part 1
Even though I didn’t see
my poem hanging from a tree
The Han Shan poetry project saved
a rainforest from the ‘dozer blade.
Now I have a choice to make
Should I agree to let them take
my poem and hang it up again?
I must consult my poet friends
and speak of poetry and of ethics
to see if I can gain perspective
on conflicting thoughts and issues.
Stay tuned readers, to be continued…
#25
Coconut Man
Chop, chop, chop.
The machete falls.
He trims off the top.
Chop, chop
He flattens the bottom.
A deft twist and out pops a plug.
We pour coconut water into a travel mug
Gracias.
A peso, a smile,
and he pushes the coconut laden wheelbarrow
to the next tourist,
the next peso and smile.
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.
Phoenix Without Fire
I will shed my skin
wiggle, slip, kick, and it’s gone
as I slide away.
I will dream it first,
deathless reincarnation,
not me, but still me.
I will rise from ash,
stretch newly fledged wings, and fly.
Phoenix without fire.
Rituals
I have missed the morning ritual,
the gentle coaxing of words
from my sleepy subconscious,
the quest for image and rhyme.
The challenge met, there is a void
where discovery used to dwell,
a sense of loss, a loss of senses
honed to a comfortable habit.
There is no challenge now,
only the joy of knowing
the poem is already written.
I just need to remember it.
Perhaps I won’t be writing them every day anymore, but I guess the morning poem is a habit now.
Linda Studley 