Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “roses”


Does the scent of the rose garden, aflutter
with wayward petals,
waft  through your open door?
Does it bring back memories of wild roses in June?

You stand silent in the historical village,
a transplanted log cabin complete with furnishings,
a lonely anachronism waiting
for familiar footsteps at the back door.

Few tourists will climb your steep stairs.
Some whisper of a face they’ve seen,
peering from the second story window, curtains twitching.
Ghosts may linger in this house
but I feel only peace.
Peace with a touch of sadness.

I imagine seeing my life, my home,
through an outsider’s eyes as they shake
their heads at the wood cook stove,
the gas lanterns, and the crank telephone.
“ How did they live like this” they ask each other.

And I hear the ghosts cry back “Well.
We lived well.
By the strength of our own hands
we cleared the land, built our home, grew our food.
We worked, we sang, we danced.
We cried, we laughed, we loved.
All else is meaningless.”

And I smile and nod as the silence flows
back into the corners of the room.
Be content ghost.
I hear you.

Mother’s Day

She was a real person.
She would not have been happy on a pedestal.

She took chances.
“What have you got to lose?” she’d say.

She enjoyed every moment
and knew the time to laugh and sing was now.

She not only smelled the roses
she planted, grew, and tended them lovingly.

Every day in my life I loved my mother.
Every day in my life I always will.



My Mother’s Quilt

My mother’s quilt hangs on the wall.
Sometimes I touch it lightly as I walk by
Its softness reminds me of her skin and
the colours remind me of her gardens.
She loved her gardens.

I remember her rose trees,
tall as me and covered with blood red roses.
Come fall she’d loosen the soil around their roots,
lay them in a trench, and bury them.
Spring would bring the resurrection.
The stark, dirty sticks would waken,
leaf out, and bloom again.
A botanist would tell you it was a technique,
a method of wintering roses.
But I think they came back each year
because they loved my mother.

I touch the quilt again.



Sunshine after Rain

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.

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