Change is inevitable.
But perhaps a shift in expectations
may allow me a little control over that change.
Control is an illusion.
But perhaps a shift in perception
may allow me to see past that illusion.
Perception is subjective.
But perhaps that bias
may allow me to see what I really need
to face the changes.
Tag: poetry
Tremble
Gazing through a ring
of aspen at cloud barges
sailing on a periwinkle sea.
Trembling branches reach out,
swaying, saying ‘hello’
or ‘goodbye’.
And I wonder.
Are the clouds sailing past us?
Or are we sailing past them?
I only know that I will never fear
to tremble again.
For after the trembling, and the
reaching out,
perspectives change.
I Had a Dream About Raspberries
Plump, garnet clusters peeping slyly
from beneath crisp, crenulated leaves.
Not the leaf green of spring aspens
or the soft green of hidden moss.
Raspberry leaves are a rich, dark green
with pale burgundy underbellies.
A perfect foil for the tempting fruit
bobbing seductively in the summer breeze.
Who needs apples when there are raspberries.
When I Think of Scotland
When I think of Scotland
I feel like a cut flower out of water,
a bird sighing for the egg,
a fish searching for that special inlet.
When I think of Scotland
There’s a fierceness in my heart
that longs to speak a language I don’t understand.
There’s a prickling in my finger tips
to touch the stones of crumbling castles.
There’s a thrilling in my soul
In a memory of pipes echoing through mist.
When I think of Scotland
There’s a sadness and a joy and a longing
To live my life in two places at once.
Retrospective
What is it you treasure?
You’ll know when it’s gone.
To see leaves on trees,
to hear the oriole’s song.
To sit on the ground
with nary a thought
of how you’ll get up again
or not…
To feel the strength
within your fingers
as you press the strings
and the music lingers.
And why do so many
things fall to the ground
and I make that noise
when I bend down.
And I thank all Gods
that I took the time
to do things I loved
when in my prime.
For even if I can’t
do them now
I can look back
and remember how
I made music with friends
I danced and wrote songs,
I painted, not caring if
I did it wrong.
What is it you treasure?
Enjoy it today.
Make memories now.
Don’t wait, no, don’t wait.
The Wind O’er the Roses
Remember, my darling, the wind o’er the roses
The scent of pink you breathe into your soul
The bluebell’s small sweetness, the raspberry blossoms
and more shades of green than your great heart can hold.
Remember, my darling, the bright sun of summer
the soft breeze that cools and caresses your brow
Birdsong and bee buzz and butterflies dancing
the hare that lies hidden, the fox on the prowl
Remember, my darling, the wind o’er the roses
when the north wind howls and the nights are too long
Close your eyes, take my hand and think of the solstice,
Remember the words to summer’s sweet song.
and remember, my darling, the wind o’er the roses again.
In late June the scent of the wild roses along the road that leads to my home is almost intoxicating. There is a purity and innocence to the fragrance of the wild pink roses. It is a thing one stores in one’s memory, to tell over when the snow and the temperature falls.
Summer of the Horse – a review
I used to be a voracious reader; often having two or even three books ‘on the go’ at any given time. Every night I’d read myself to sleep. I’d read for ten minutes while the cookies baked; packed a book in the vehicle to pass the time if I had to wait longer than two minutes for anything. Books were something into which I immersed myself, a respite from reality, a foray into the unknown. But lately my eyesight has not been cooperative of these forays. After half an hour the print blurs and I find myself straining to at least reach a ‘good place’ to stop until my eyes will focus again. Frustrated, I explored the world of e-books. At least I could increase the font size on the screen. Unfortunately, the screen is too small and reading a book when the lines are 4 words long with only 4 or 5 lines visible is ultimately unsatisfying. The e-reader is hard to hold too. Thin and sleek may look nice and fit into your purse, but it’s not comfortable to hold for any length of time.
So, slowly, my reading has dropped off. When something doesn’t satisfy anymore one tends to drift away from it. But this morning I read for an hour and a half. My eyes straining to get through each ensuing sentence, I couldn’t put the book down until finally I just couldn’t see the words anymore. Now here I am writing about the experience (with a large monitor jacked up to 200% zoom I might add) waiting for my eyes to adjust so I can go back and read some 
more.
What is the object of this obsession you might ask? It’s my newly acquired copy of Donna Kane’s book “Summer of the Horse”. I was privileged to be present at her book launch last evening and, enthralled by her reading of two excerpts from the book, I purchased a copy, eager to dive into a book where the words did not just convey information; they sparkled with all the potential of the English language to be beautiful, evocative, and engaging.
I was not disappointed. I’m only about a quarter of the way through the “Summer of the Horse” but I’m thoroughly hooked and enchanted. Writing poetry has become an essential extension of my life, and my mantra has always been “Be brave, be honest”. Donna has always done that in her poetry, and now she is doing it in her creative non-fiction.
Run, do not walk, to the Dawson Creek Art Gallery and purchase a copy of “Summer of the Horse”. I haven’t even finished it yet and I know you will love it.
My Mother’s Garden
Sometimes, in dreams, I wander
half remembered woods.
Sunlight casts flickering shadows of light
over the forest floor.
I am searching for the flowers;
the wild flowers and the tame flowers.
Flowers from every garden she ever grew,
blooming together in unlikely harmony.
I stoop, I pick, I fill my arms with the fat, fragrant blossoms.
Especially the blue ones.
She loved the blue ones.
I am picking this bouquet for her.
My life is a procession of flowers and memories.
A patchwork of the things she taught me
as we worked in her garden
Weeding, culling, training the vines
in the way they should go.
Training me
in the way I should go.
And I know she’s gone
but still I wander half forgotten woods,
content in the cognitive dissonance of dreams
that one day I’ll hand her that bouquet and
she’ll smile and say
“Well done.”
Arizona
Doves croon in the courtyard.
Desert blue pales to the horizon.
Palms, all smooth and shaggy;
all graceful and gawky,
sentinel the sky in silhouette.
Cacti bristle from sand and gravel.
Paddle and rod and barrel.
Green and red and yellow.
Quill and needle and barb.
Plump paddles, prickly pear pile-up.
Firestick tumble – fire crackers suspended in mid explosion.
Massive, ruinous saguaro – viejo – venerable one.
Arizona.
#184
Word Shadows
Words are just the beginning.
Behind them lie more important matters
like motivation, expectation, emotion.
And to make matters more confusing, words
can sound the same yet mean something
totally different.
Not your garden variety homonym where
both ants and aunts enjoy the flowers.
I speak of shadow words,
unspoken longing and loneliness,
envy and ennui, malice and menace.
Context will not help you here and you have but a split
second to assess, decide,
react, respond. The art
of conversation in nefarious hands
becomes an art worthy of
Sun Tzu rather than Lao Tzu,
more war than poetry.
So if we need to talk,
cast no shadows across my words
and I will cast none upon yours.
#153
Linda Studley 