Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “poem”

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.

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.

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

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

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.”

#295

Looking Over My Shoulder at Winter

The wet stuff.
Lumpy rain.
The ‘S’ word.
Or, as I like to call it,
‘that white shit’
litters the parking lot.
The first warning shot of winter has been fired.

We pick our way
through slush.
Bow our heads
before sleet.
Refuse to wear
our winter boots.
‘This will be gone by the weekend’ we declare.

And it will be.
The sun will shine
and the snow will melt.
But the wooly gauntlet
has been thrown down
making it hard to enjoy
what is left of a Peace Country Autumn.

#292

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