Tag: poem

Noun-ectomy

lindastudleyLeave a comment

I have a friend who tells me
that her vocabulary
has undergone a radical noun-ectomy
which makes it rather hard for her
to give lucid instructions,
unless she uses gestures. I suspect that she

may well be inventing
a new, interactive language
where all the nouns are gradually replaced
by “thing”, the handy word
that means everything and nothing
I see exasperation on her face.

as the nouns all slip away
and everything’s a thing
conversation becomes a game of cold to hot
as you try to figure out
to which noun she is referring
you touch things to see if she nods or not…

“No, no, get the thing over there. You know, the thing, the little thing behind the big thing. Not that thing, the other thing…”

#214

Brain Crumbs

lindastudley3 Comments

When my mind goes wandering
and my thoughts begin to roam
I leave a trail of brain crumbs
to find my way back home.

But sometimes they get picked up
and carefully tucked away
by those who have no crumbs
of their own with which to play.

So if you see some brain crumbs
on some existential plane
let them lie, or I might not
find my way home again.

 

#213

The Number of Our Days

lindastudley2 Comments

If our days are numbered
by the times that our heart beats
it seems an awful shame that
so much is spent in sleep,

so much spent cleaning bathrooms,
or washing up the dishes,
too little spent in berry picking
rambles in the ditches.

so little time spent searching
for the rainbow’s end,
for beauty or for wonder,
or for time spent with a friend.

So if our days are numbered
by the times that our heart beats
please let me use each second left
to make it twice as sweet.

 

#211

We Dream

lindastudley2 Comments

Slugs dream of leaves.
Bats dream of bugs.
Bugs dream of sleeping
All snug in a rug.
Birds dream of worms.
Worms dream of loam.
Rabbits dream of carrots
and I dream of home

Foxes dream of mice
Mice dream of cheese.
Deer dream of nibbling
my apple trees.
Cats dream of fish.
Dogs dream of bones.
Horses dream of apples
and I dream of home.

Pigs dream of mud.
Cows dream of barns.
Frogs dream of flies
and kittens dream of yarn.
Fish dream of streams.
Bees dream of combs.
Bears dream of honey
but I dream of home.

Home with my honey
yes I dream of home.

#210

Thunder Storm Rolling Again

lindastudley4 Comments

Flash
count to five.
Crash
close my eyes.
Thunder storm’s rolling again.

Flash
count to four.
Crash
can’t ignore
the spider lights arc through my brain.

Flash
count to three
Crash
and I need
to run but I’m rooted in place.

Flash,
count to two
Crash,
look at you
asleep with a smile on your face.

And I’m waiting for one, I’m completely undone
Tears in my eyes and fears the size of a…

Flash,
count to three
Crash,
it recedes
muscles begin to relax

Flash,
count to four
Crash,
sounding more
like it’s doubling back on its tracks. 

Flash,
count to five
Crash,
close my eyes
Thunder storm’s rolling again.

#206

I Am a Camera/Am I a Camera?

lindastudleyLeave a comment

If life can only play out in a preordained progression
and if we’re nothing but a bunch of mobile camera stands
I’d like to take this moment to express my discontentment
to the entity who placed the stupid camera in my hands.

I’d turn my camera inward then I’d see if I can find it;
that preordaining entity that’s averse to taking risks,
the one who closed the off ramps and boarded up the windows,
who thinks life is unfolding fine and nothing here needs fixed.

I’m pretty sure it lives inside ‘cause that’s the only place
my camera cannot see when I hold it to my eye.
I’ll take my metaphysical camera in my very physical hands
and film a pataphysical documentary about why

philosophers waste our time on theories that simply can’t be proved
or disproved either, does the term futility ring a bell?
I am a camera/Am I a camera – the greatest minds cannot decide.
I think the greatest minds should get a job or go to Hell.

#203

Thanks to Jack, again, for the seed of the idea for this poem.

Can You Tell Me the Time?

lindastudley4 Comments

I hereby revoke
time’s untimely yoke
and assert that time travel
is mine to invoke.

If clocks can be set
back or forward, I bet
I could set a calendar
without much regret.

And the time that I choose
would be mine to reuse
or rethink, or relive,
to gain or to lose.

A million years will go by
past the day that I die
and I’ll meet myself travelling
and ask for the time.

#201