Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “poem”

02 Aug 2021
3 Comments

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.

Posted in Writings and tagged , , , , ,
24 Jul 2020

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

Posted in Writings and tagged , , , | Leave a comment
10 Sep 2017

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.

 

ashes-smallTreed 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.

Posted in Life with a Capital L, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment
08 Aug 2015

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

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning #2, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , | Leave a comment
15 Feb 2014
2 Comments

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.

Posted in Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , ,
14 Jul 2013
2 Comments

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.

Posted in Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , ,
28 Mar 2013
1 Comment

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.

Posted in Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
11 Jan 2013
2 Comments

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.

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , ,
16 Oct 2012
4 Comments

It’s All Your Fault

It’s all your fault you know.
The way you packed us up in the car
and dragged us across Canada and back.
If it’s Tuesday this must be Swift Current.
First the tent, then the tent trailer
then the bumper dragger.
I slept in the top bunk and hit my head on the ceiling
every morning.

It’s all your fault.
Those summers on the east coast,
lobster dinner in a Nova Scotia church basement,
Green Gables, Cavendish Beach,
the Reversing Falls, the Magnetic Hill.
The dip into the US; Maine, New Hampshire.
Stacks of snapshots and a few jerky regular 8 movies,
mostly of me and Mum standing beside
landmarks and signs to prove we were there.

It’s all your fault that my feet itch.
That I get that late night, headlight,
count the tar strip by the bumps longing
for the open road.
Your fault that when I’m on the coast I yearn for the mountains
and when I’m in the mountains I yearn t’ward the plains.
It’s all your fault, Dad.
Thank you.

 

#297

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
15 Oct 2012
2 Comments

An Interstitial Life

There are events that consume us,
that we point to as if they were big black dots on our
lifeline, and we say “after this or after
that, I will have time.” So we defer,
delay, detour around the stuff in between
the big black dots but as soon
as one dot recedes another appears and we
race towards it, blinders on, somehow knowing
that this event will be a turning point, a
special place where the light bulb turns on and
all the silly little pieces fall into place.

I am tired of big black dots.
I want to live between.
I want an interstitial life, sweetly rocked in the
swaying hammock formed by the lines
between the dots.

 

#296

Posted in A New Poem Every Morning, Poetry, Writings and tagged , , , , ,

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