Tag: poem

Sunshine after Rain

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Roses and RainWhat a state of grace is the first sunlight glinting on the wild rose. What a sigh of relief after days of droning rain!

Just as predicted the sun came out this morning and bathed the sodden landscape with warmth and the promise of summer bliss.

Sunshine After Rain
Earth steams and streams
from beneath the rains,
pendant prisms
quiver in the breath of darkness passing
casting rainbows aside,
they dive down the back of my neck,
cool clean rivulets, I become
just one more facet of her terrain,
my name a distant whisper
drowned in the sound of wind in the trees
as she shivers them free
and sighs.

Between Forever and Long Ago

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Between Forever and Long Ago

Between forever and long ago
There’s a song I used to know.
I sang it loud to calm my fears
Or soft to cushion tears.

Between forever and long ago
There’s a word I used to know.
Forcing me to make a choice
To stand and raise my voice

Between forever and long ago
There’s a path I used to know.
Clear and smooth or full of stones
It always led me home. 

Between forever and long ago
There’s love I used know.
From life to life I followed him
To meet and love again. 

And the song I sing is the beating of my wings
And the word I cry is freedom.
And the path I choose is the one less used
And the man I love’s the reason.

Between forever and long ago again.

Angels Bowling in Fort St John

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Tina Tompkins and Peter Fehr reading "Angels Bowling"
Tina Tompkins and Peter Fehr reading "Angels Bowling"

My partner, Bill, and I were recently asked to perform at the first “Everyone Belongs” Coffee House at ‘Patch Java’ in Fort St John (BC Canada) and while we always enjoy getting out and performing our music, I was also very happy to have some talented young people recite one of my poems, “Angels Bowling”. Apparently they had heard of it through one of my friends and this blog, liked it and asked if they could recite it at the coffee-house. It was a very special moment – hearing someone else recite my poetry – knowing that something about it touched them. Thank you Tina Tompkins and Peter Fehr, for your lovely reading of my poem!

“Angels Bowling” is about how my father explained thunder and lightning to me when I was a child. The Back Story to Angels Bowling was discussed in a previous blog post.
There are many different styles that can be used to write a poem. I believe that the style you choose can and should complement the message. “Angels Bowling” is a rhymed poem with a very regular meter and rhythm and I feel that style projects the childlike innocence that the message requires. That is not to say that all rhymed, rhythmic poetry is childlike – certainly not – but in this instance, I think it worked that way.

The February Coffee House DADA Poem

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February dada poem
February dada poem

Here it is! this poem was a group creation. Rebekah and I cut out words and phrases and put them into a bag . Then the audience at the February Peace Region Songwriters, Coffee House at Faking Sanity Cafe (Dawson Creek, BC) selected snippets randomly. We then put the snippets together into this poem. (a little ‘poetic license’ was used by using the ‘you’re’ as ‘your’. Yes we are aware it’s the wrong form of the word for this context, but hey, it’s a ransom note poem!)

DaDa Poem
You’re period of mourning uncovered death in the fifth position.
Illuminate yourself.
Morning. slipped into her robe
and heard a masculine voice say: “What can we do?…especially if he’s innocent,
Stronger than a season
Between home and night that never slips away
moment by moment, slowly, looking,
do you look inside the flowers blooming last.

It is either very profound or very bizarre, or perhaps a bit of both but it was fun to do and it brought up some interesting images. Images like ‘morning slipping into a robe’ and ‘a season between home and night.’ I like these images and perhaps they, or modified versions of them, will eventually find their way into my poems. You’ll never know until you look inside the flowers blooming last…

February 2011 Coffee House

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Great Coffee House at Faking Sanity Cafe! As the final stop on the Spirit Arts Festival tour the ranks of our audience were swelled by some wonderful, arts lovin’ people and we were also pleased to have a new face front and centre with Lana Sloane and her very entertaining cowboy poetry. We hope she will come back and read again soon!

Karen McGowan
Karen McGowan, featured performer at Feb coffeehouse

Our featured performer was Karen McGowan, who performed both cover songs and her own original music. Karen’s sense of humour is a treat; she really knows how to entertain an audience! An interesting note for those of you who may not know: Faking Sanity Cafe used to be called Under the Willow and was started by Karen. It passed from Karen on to Jennifer Singer, Karen’s daughter , and then to Angele and Cindy, the present owners, who changed the name to “Faking Sanity”.  
At last month’s coffee house, we created a pantoum poem from suggestions from the audience. This month we had our audience participate in creating a Da Da Poem (or as I like to call them, ‘ransom note poems’!) We cut out words and phrases from discarded books/magazines, threw them into a bag, then the audience drew out the ones we’d use for the poem. It’s always quite amazing, and often a little odd, what you can make out of these snippets. I’m getting the original poem scanned and I’ll include it in my next post.

Bill Studley
Bill Studley

 Bill Studley held the audience spellbound with his incredibly fast rendition of ‘I’ve been everywhere’.
Wayne Ezeard not only played and sang but also regaled us with some poetry from his book ‘Where Eagles Soar’.  Rebekah Rempel-Chorney and Marilyn Belak read several selections from their exceptionally fine original poetry.

Dave McGowan
Dave McGowan

Dave McGowan, the man whose voice I’ve often referred to as “sounding like melted chocolate”, delighted us with some old favourites. 

As MC I spent a lot of time trying not to place my foot squarely in my mouth but I also had time to play a few songs. I’ve included a video of my redition of Siúil a Rúin, an old Irish traditional.

Oh, Child of Perfection

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Child of Perfection 2
Child of Perfection 2 - Digital Photographic Art by L Studley

Oh, Child of Perfection
‘Growing up poor is not the same
as growing up deprived.’

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the days when you were a babe in arms?
Of the large cardboard box,
rescued from the grocery store, carried home
covered inside and out with pretty mactac
Flannelette covered foam,
yellow giraffes and green bears, bought at the Sally.
Your little nest till we could afford a second hand crib. 

What can I tell you, oh, child of perfection?
Of the days when you were a tot in the stroller
I pushed along the gravel drive.
The drunken couple shoving and cursing
three feet from the back door.
Her with her shirt off, brandishing it at him,
Whipping him with it
“I don’t want this shirt you bought me” she slurs.
He hiccoughs a sheepish grin.
Neither notices as I roll your stroller
around them and into the house.
Lock the door behind us.
We eat lunch and play and laugh in the sunbeam in the living room.

Child of Perfection 1
Child of Perfection 1 - Digital Photographic Art by L Studley

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the days when you left my side to study.
Of watching, from a distance, as you stepped into the world
Of biting my lip, holding my tongue.
Closing my eyes so yours could open.
And when you came home; reading together, laughing and playing still.

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection?
Of the day you stood apart from me.
So strong and stubborn,
Eyes wise in wonder and dreams.
Of the battle I fought between loss and pride.
Of the battle I fight between loss and pride.
Oh, what can I tell you?

What can I tell you, oh child of perfection
that you won’t soon find out for yourself?

Shelide’s Gift – The Poem

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Shelide's Gift
"Shelide's Gift" pen and ink by L. Studley

Long ago when time still slept
And night was dark, too dark to breathe
Nameless terrors slunk and crept
And noxious vapours seethed.

Man stayed home to tend the fire
And wholesome creatures shunned the night
Shelide shook her wings and vowed
She would not rest till there was light.

Light enough to banish fear
And bathe the night in joy and wonder.
Light to dazzle eyes and hearts
To tear night’s veil asunder.

“How shall I do?” She asked her kin.
“With gossamer trails” they cried.
“How shall I do?” She asked the sea.
“With waves of shimmering light.”
 
“How shall I do?” She asked the sun.
“Like me, but not the same.”
“How shall I do?” She asked of man.
“Like sparks that leap from flame.”
 
Shelide spread her wings and flew.
She flew into the dark.
Weaving light from drops of hope
And the pulsing of her heart.
 
A thousand years and a thousand more
She spilled the Milky Way.
She wove the glittering curtains
The Northern Lights let play.
 
A thousand years and a thousand more
And she forged the silvery moon.
And sparked the stars from the flinty hearts
Of the creatures of the gloom.
 
And when the night was set ablaze
And darkness set to rout
Shelide fell to earth again
To watch the stars come out.
 
She rested in the coolness
By a misty, moisty pond
Looked back across her shoulders
And saw her wings were gone.
 
“You took so long” the creatures cried.
“You took so long” said man.
“You must be the slowest thing
Since e’re the world began!”
 
And Shelide cried and crept away
Tears sparkling on the leaves
Remembering her lovely wings
She bows her head and grieves.

Whatifs and Whynots

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whynotWhynots were wondering loudly one day
“Who thought up this language I wonder?
There, their, and they’re in our personal view
Are etymological blunders”

Clarity suffers we really believe
One spelling would do very nicely.
Why not just spell it as ‘thayr’ and have done
T’would do the job much more precisely.” 

Whatifs were list’ning and shaking thayr heads
As Whynots continued thayr mewling
“Why do we use double leters at all
This language could use some retoling.”

Whatifs said “What if the word’s incorrect?
The last word you said was confusing”
“Fine” said the Whynots it’s easy to fix
We’l just start to spel it ‘retewling’ 

While we’re on doubles, why have duble vowels
When one wud work as wel or beter?
Why not cut down on the time riting takes
By leving out al silent leters? 

Whatifs just side and sed “What if yor plan
Becomes more confusing than ever”
“Nonsense, now let’s drop that dum leter ‘c’
Wel thayr, don’t yu think that sownds klever? 

Drop the apostrofe, lews p h to
Its sily when ‘f’s what yor after”
Whatifs kryd “Stop now, yor making a mes.
But Whynots just burst owt in lafter. 

 “Why not fonetiks? wel rite wat we here
I no that yull no wat Im thinking.”
“But if I dont?” “wel it isnt mi falt
Thayrs no nede for yu tu start drinking” 

“What if” sed Whatifs “its sumthing rel big?
And what if I cant understand yu?
What if the klarity yu thot yu had
Duz not go just kwite as yu pland tu?

whatif“Wat now?” sed Whynots “now wat did yu sey?
A kwite yu kan fli? or a pland pot?
How kan I tel wat yor trying tu say
If yu kant speke klerely, I kan not” 

“What if” ses Whatifs “I giv yu a slap?
Yu think it wud help komprehenshun?”
“Why not” size Whynots “mi hed hurts so bad
Its stuffed full of misaprehenshun 

“What if” said Whatifs, we left it alone
This language, so full of confusion,
Doesn’t take kindly to radical change
I’ve come to a perfect conclusion;

Learn it correctly and learn it with pride
This language that gives us such trouble,
Reading and writing till we understand
Which letters are single or double.

 Where do the silent ones live in a word?
Apostrophes, how do we use them?
‘C’, I embrace you, your ‘sss’ and your ‘k’
I’ll study so I won’t confuse them.

This is my language, it’s my Mother Tongue,
I love her in spite of her foibles.
Why not delight in the shading and tints
That make her so deep and enjoyable 

“Why not” sighed Whynot.

Goddess in the Garden

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Goddess-Spirit-Essence-Kernel-Seed-Sow-Propagate-Grow-Garden

Immortal warmth that cradled Eve, the Goddess
in the Garden is not afraid of snakes.
She strides barefoot, browned by sun, washed by rain
Nakedly unashamed of the miracle, she lies
upon the open ground and leaches her essence
into the greedy earth, renewed, reborn through a million springs.
Burgeons in tempting fruit and wanton weed alike.

She sings the sun a song of power
She sings the stars a song of wonder
She sings the earth a song of plenty
She sings the ocean a song of life; deep, immortal, ancestral home.

It is no sin to sing.

Two Apparently Unrelated Things and a Poem

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Unrelated thing #1
I wear glasses. I hate wearing glasses but since I’m up to 3.00 magnification, reading etc… just doesn’t happen without them. I have about a dozen pair lying around at any given time in various stages of deterioration.  Some have scratches right in the middle of the left lens (the only one I use since my right eye has been on strike all my life); some have only one arm; some have both arms but have joints of jello, wobbling in a palsy of pre-collapse. Can I FIND any of these denizens of the home for challenged optical appliances? No, not usually.

Unrelated thing #2
I love Science Fiction by Issac Asimov. Short stories and novels. Mr. Asimov was my first science fiction read and he spoiled me for the rest. He was my introduction to grand themes like the multiverse.

Unrelated Things… that turn into poems.

‘Cross the Existential Track

There is, I think, a universe
That’s parallel to mine.
Where someone else who looks like me
Lives in a different time.

She looks and thinks a lot like me
Her eyes are hazel green
But she has witnessed many things
My eyes have never seen 

For one small thing is different
I’m not sure what or why
And that conspires to alter how
Her life goes flashing by.

Consider now the other ones
Who cross her path each day.
Each of them with their small thing
That’s altered in some way

It all adds up to make a world
That’s quite unlike my own
Where alternate realities
Have taken root and grown. 

I wonder what she thinks about
And does she think of me?
Does she wear glasses when she writes,
Or draws, or paints, or reads?
 
I’d like to send a message ‘cross
That existential track
“If you have seen my glasses could
You kindly send them back?”