Hope springs eternal
Spring hopes are eternal too
That’s why we garden.
Though deer nibble shoots,
bugs skeletonize leaves and
aphids slurp plant juice,
late frosts breath icy death,
too much rain, or too little,
drown and parch in turn.
Quack grass strangles roots,
the wind sucks the soil dry,
and slugs vandalize.
Northern gardening
has it’s challenges, it’s true
but hope springs, Spring hopes.
#163
Truth is sometimes found
at the bottom of a glass
of apple cider,
where secrets bubble
to the surface and escape
to become desires.
and sensible plans
must defer to the longings
and dreams of the soul.
#162
Know where you’re going.
Make sure there is a soft and comforting bed
with all the flower needs to thrive at hand.
Work quickly.
The limbo between old home and new home
is a dangerous place and flowers wilt easily.
Sever as few roots as possible.
Flowers need roots to grow, severing too many
will stunt them and make them terribly sad.
Avoid high winds and blazing sun.
Tender little roots will shrivel under the onslaught
of nature’s volatile moods. Choose a cool, soft day.
Transplant into a nourishing environment.
Soft soil to dig their wee toes in, rain puddles,
sunshine; these are the things a flower needs.
It’s maintenance from there on.
A flower depends upon you for protection from weeds,
and pests, and unkind hands that pluck pretty flowers.
Be prepared to train the flower in how it should grow
with a loving hand, prune away the bad stuff,
provide frameworks for them to climb upon.
That’s how you transplant a flower.
#161
Sometimes I think I think too much
I lean upon my comfy crutch
and, in introspective vanity
diagnose my own insanity.
I’d like to toss the crutch away
I’d like to stand up straight and say
‘I understand my true calling.”
but I’m so afraid of falling
that all I strengthen is my clutch
upon the ever present crutch.
The crutch I built year after year
from self inflicted guilt and fear.
Sometimes, in retrospect I see
that crutch has been no friend to me.
It’s not a very comfy crutch.
and sometimes I think I think too much.
#160
Mother Ship this is the Poet at the Bottom of the Well,
I have landed in the middle of my brain.
Sit rep, Poet.
Atmosphere is thick, turning on the fog lamps. Whoa,
pretty cluttered in here, lots of things to trip over.
What kind of things Poet at the Bottom of the Well?
Mostly garbage but, oh, hang on, here we go
some very nice engrams here, definitely worth saving.
Should I send in a clean up team?
Negative, Mother Ship. Just send in some of those big orange
trash bags and a sandwich and I’ll clean it up myself. A clean up team would probably wreck as much as it saves.
Take the weekend, Poet, and get it done.
Affirmative Mother, better send down a couple of sandwiches, Poet out.
#159
Asleep I am aware
Awake I can ignore
And in the drowsy place between
the two there is a door.
I know it leads to answers but
I cannot seem to find
the strength or the ambition
to unlock my mind.
Or maybe I’m afraid
of what’s behind the door.
Asleep I am aware
Awake I can ignore.
#158
One day when the weather is perfect
and my chores are all caught up and done
when my aches and pains have all vanished
and there’s nothing to do but have fun
I’ll enjoy it for maybe ten minutes,
before tiring of this reward,
then turn to you and say “C’mon,
let’s start something new, I’m bored!”
#156
Beginnings are hard.
No one cares about your plans,
begin, just begin.
Middles are harder.
Carry on carrying on
though no one watches.
Ends are hardest.
Knowing when to say ‘enough’,
rest, and start again.
The three hardest things,
beginning, middle, and end,
are all that matters.
#154
The waves are higher now
they have eaten the sand at my feet
and knocked me down day after day.
But not this day.
This day I paddle out to meet them,
harness them, ride them, become them
feel their power, see their course,
and when they fall I will have learned to
cast myself forward into dreams,
knocking down obstacles,
but, unlike the waves and
unlike the obstacles,
I will not fall.
#153
Perhaps art is just
the child of the Universe
drawing with crayons;
dance, her innocent
skipping to the beat of the
Universe’s heart;
music, her humming
in the darkness until sleep
crawls in beside her;
poetry, just her
crayons accidentally
forming random words.
#151
Linda Studley 