Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “poem”

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.


Thank You

Thank you
For never giving up on me.
You give a fool hope that a way will come.

Thank you
For the words you said that set me free
And the ones you didn’t when you bit your tongue.

Thank you
For always being there by my side
except when you turned to protect my back.

Thank you
For slowing down when I was tired
As we move on down life’s rutted track

Thank you





You won’t be able
to stand or walk till you’re not
afraid of the floor.

Doors won’t open till
you’re ready to deal with what’s
on the other side.

Words are empty till
filled by context, coloured by
perspective’s bias.



Haiku Anagrammed

When our logic failed
reason gave me no answers.
Hearts filled in the blanks.
Like rainbows flashing
we ensnared the headlong lies
from nature’s alcove.




The second haiku is an anagram of the first haiku

Goldilocks and the Time Traveler

Goldilocks’ housebreaking career finally
brought her to the time travellers little house.
There was no porridge, no chairs, no beds,
only a calendar.

She tried yesterday but it was way too soon.
She tried tomorrow but it was way too late.
Then she tried today and it was just right.

She wasn’t quite sure what it was right for,
but she knew she’d never give it back.
She’d been stealing minutes for years so
pilfering an entire day was just the next logical step.



I Look Better Than I See

I had a pair of progressive lenses
that worked well for a while and then
my eyes had a spizwhifty spell
(that’s a technical term for “what the hell?”)

Now it’s glasses 1 to watch TV
glasses 2 for computer screens.
glasses 3 to see the music stand
and, when I’m  in bed, I can

wear glasses 2 and  3 to look
close enough to read my book.
It is a strange, ungainly sight
my layered bifocals of the night.

Perhaps some day along the line
when it’s cataract picking time
I may be allowed to re-progress
to the progressives, languishing in the chest.



Day and Life

Over, under, over, under
Like a twining Celtic knot.
Under, over, under, over.
Seed to plant to bloom to rot.

Curve and spin, curve and spin.
Like the giddy spiral dance.
Spin and curve, spin and curve.
Hope to thought to deed to chance.

Up and down, up and down.
Crashing wavelets crest and cream.
Down and up, down and up.
Stream to cloud to rain to stream.

Rise and set, rise and set.
Shimmer cold and blazing spark.
Set and rise, set and rise.
dawn to day to dusk to dark.



And the Dance Goes On

Leaves crunch underfoot.
Summer’s bones litter and drift
into the hollows.

Autumn’s ripe red scent
steeps the air cranberry rust
with a hint of loam.

She wears a golden
gown, rustling taffeta
with red petticoats.

Twitching up her skirts,
she swirls, flirts with the old man
who stands in the door.

He catches her hand,
joins her in the dance, icing
her pretty gold gown

as they waltz the night
and he draws her close to him
‘neath his snowy cloak.

Now they drift away,
fall into a restless sleep
and dream of a child

crying to wake up,
fretting for flowers and leaves
to twine in her hair.

Autumn gives her child
sunshine. Winter gives his child
a pure mountain stream

and he names her Spring
and knows that one day Summer
will woo her away.

Then they’ll call their child
Autumn, after her mother,
and the dance goes on.



Why I’d Rather Hold a Guitar Than a Baby

Babies wiggle.
Guitars occasionally slip off their straps, but not very often.
Babies wail.
Guitars can too but generally only when you want them too.
Babies puke.
Guitars do not do this.
Babies need their diapers changed.
Guitars need their strings changed but not as often and it smells better.
A guitar will never wake you in the middle of the night
(unless someone else is playing it).
Babies grow up and leave.
Guitars grow old with you and never leave.
I love my babies but they’ve grown up knowing
I’d rather hold a guitar than a baby
and I’m pretty sure they understand that it’s nothing personal.



Dear Square Peg,
I believe you possess something that belongs to me.
And I’m pretty sure I’ve got something of yours
perhaps we could meet and see

if you’d like to swap me your round hole
for the square one that drives me insane
I simply can’t fit where I don’t belong
I’m guessing you’re feeling the same.

I’m sure you would find it more comfy
Please say yes and don’t make me beg.
Straight swap – round hole for a square one,

Yours truly,
Round Peg.



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