The keys of B and E have no sharps.
B&Es are done on flats by people who don’t have keys.
Black is absence of reflected light while white is the acceptance.
To see things in black and white reflects an absence of acceptance.
Tempered metal doesn’t break when you hit it
People with tempers tend to break and hit back.
Other than that it’s all pretty much by guess and by golly.
#116
Being responsible:
The rite of passage defining maturity.
The gradual acceptance of the burdens and the consequences
our actions engender.
The curse of knowing what needs to be done and doing it.
The rightness behind decisions that seem so wrong,
so hard, so sad. Bitter pills building character.
Is it any wonder so many of us slip into forgetfulness
with the years? Lose the ability to make decisions?
There are days when senility looks inviting
There are days.
#115
What I would not take:
Phones, computers, or watches with insistent little lights.
Anything that starts with a lower case ‘i’
followed by a capital letter; ‘nuff said.
Clothing that might accidentally be considered fashionable.
Crossword puzzle books, board games, or anyone
who talks too loudly.
What I would take:
Comfortable shoes for shuffling through leaf mold, scrambling up banks, and slithering over slick stepping stones.
Layers. Layers are good.
Tank top, tee shirt, sweater, windbreaker.
Peel them off like onion skins when the sun gets high.
A guitar, some paper and a pencil,
Matches and a candle or two.
A toothbrush, a sense of wonder, and someone
who understands the eloquence of silence.
I might bring a comb.
#114
There are holes in my heart made by those who depart
this life without saying goodbye.
And the holes drizzle pain like a cold fine rain
and I try, but can’t figure out why.
And I try to let go and I try to step back
but the holes just get deeper and then start to crack
I feel like a penny left on a train track.
There are holes, there are holes in my heart.
My brain’s started lapsing, developing gaps
in the places that cause too much pain.
The truths that it hides turn to fiction and lies
And it’s just too damn hard to explain.
and the lapses are growing and I’m starting to find
that fiction’s no comfort in troubling times
and I can’t find important stuff there in my mind.
There are gaps, there are gaps in my brain.
There are holes, there are holes in my heart.
There are spots on my soul where I’ve fought for control
over things that I should have let lie.
Of the battles I’ve won I’m pretty sure some
were just me, in a war with my mind.
And the spots never shrink, and the spots never fade
they don’t lessen or loosen or just go away
They’re a curse to be lifted and a ghost to be laid
There are spots, there are spots on my soul
There are gaps, there are gaps in my brain
There are holes, there are holes in my heart.
#113
Wet snow fell in April.
We brushed it from the truck windows
and slushed our way downtown
talking and laughing, you slowed
for the red light and a wide, white
blindfold of snow slid off the roof and
over the windshield,
as though winter had snuck up behind us,
clasped her cold white hands
in front of our eyes, and
exclaimed “guess who!”
Oh, honey, we know ‘who’,
we were just trying to ignore you.
#112
I
Morning light on snow
My sense of humour fails me
Is it Spring or not?
II
I imagine geese
who just honked in from parts south
shaking their slim heads
III
And the red robin,
perhaps somewhere turning blue.
April morning sigh.
#111
Half of my heart yearns for
high beamed highways,
a map in my lap,
you beside me.
Half of my heart sighs for
candlelit cabins,
a cat on the mat,
you beside me.
Half of my heart and
half of my heart.
The only thing they can
agree on is you.
Half of my heart and
Half of my heart.
All that keeps it from
breaking is you.
#110
Strum and pluck and hammer on jingling
strings ring and jangle on, mingling
melodies lifting, harmonies swell in
surprising falsetto and sweet a’capella,
Lyrical treasure like fresh minted coins
spill for your pleasure, you nod and you join
in the chorus, your toe, with a life of its own
taps out a rhythm your smile starts to grow.
What is this joyous occasion you say?
Live music, live music, come hear it play!
#109
Come close.
Put your ear next to mine.
Can you hear the sound of the ocean?
I can.
I hear waves on a beach I’ll never visit,
gulls on a horizon I’ll never see.
The trick is to not care anymore.
To let it trickle away
like the sand pulled backwards
by the surf.
Come close.
Put your ear next to mine and sigh.
I showed you my ocean,
now you show me yours.
#108
Within every meeting are sown seeds of parting.
Hi echoes goodbye.
Rot follows ivy as
hobbled humanity (yes, us) flees time
although accidents happen with every eccentric tick
of a clock have hope,
you’ll cry,
but eventually you’ll be happy.
Spamagram: Below lurks the bizarre spam message that I anagrammed into the poem above.
“Even though you’re any of the lucky enough choices, it comes evidently, although capture the fancy with the certain coveted by ly folks other valuable you you meet may possibly possibly well have hard times this specific problem. pre owned awnings”
#104
Linda Studley 