Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “seasons”

My Yard

My yard lives a sheltered life,
shielded from the wind
Convenient
on those cool and blustery
days in early spring.

My yard lives a sheltered life,
shaded from the heat.
Pleasant
on those summer days
when pavement burns your feet.

My yard lives a sheltered life
guarded by the trees.
Lovely
in the autumn, shuffling
through the piles of leaves.

My yard lives a sheltered life
gathering up the snow.
Perversely
storing winter’s drifts;
reluctant to let go.

12 Months in 8 lines

Muddy mess
Bird nest
Long days
Heat haze
Brown leaves
Frost heaves
Long nights
Wind bites

#122

Calendars

It’s that day when the sun comes out
and melts the skiff of snow into muddy
puddles and the sky is that soft shade
of blue and you can’t remember
whether it’s late fall or
early spring.
That’s when you catch a fleeting glimpse
of why calendars are such
stupid things.

#117

Tree Dreams

Trees dream of summer too.
Of days filled with the laughter of tender leaves
and singing rain.
Alive with the heart beat of hummingbird wings
and the mingled perfume of warm earth,
wild flowers, and ripe berries.
Stripped and slumbering the trees bide, knowing
one day the sun will rise with new warmth,
the wind will have dulled his teeth
from gnawing on ice and snow,
and water will chuckle once more.
But for now, the trees sleep on,
visions of summer yet to be
safe within their rings.

#102

Coup d’été

T’was on a night, a night like this,
ice crystals in the dark
effervescing ‘round the glow
of street lamps in the park,
and chiming lightly ‘gainst the glass,
a million temple bells
pealing out a gentle prayer that
all would soon be well.

But stepping past the lamp light’s glow
another world appears
where chimes of falling ice crystals
are more like frozen tears
that steam then stiffen, salty drops
littering darkened trails
where winter sharpens icy claws
on frosty iron rails.

Along this trail a stranger came
all huddled in a cloak,
her breath puffed out along the way
like breadcrumbs made of smoke.
She looked back o’er her shoulder twice
while heading t’wards the light
but as she neared her outline blurred,
and vanished in the night.

But just before she disappeared
it seemed I caught a glance
of green leaves twined around her brow,
of flowers in her hands,
and for a second caught the scent
of some sweet garden spice
and thought I heard a silv’ry voice
sing through the chiming ice.

Oh, Summer’s walking Winter’s trails
and carries ‘neath her cloak
the seeds of warmer days to come
from moss to mighty oak.
More patiently than I am, she
is waiting for her chance
to overthrow the icy king
she’s plotting to supplant. 

I wait for her to spring the coup,
for Winter, overthrown,
to melt before her radiance
as she sits on his throne.
and with a smile that melts the snow
her vernal court convenes.
The Winter King is dead and gone
Long live the Summer Queen.

But until then I watch ice crystals
play in lamp light’s beams.
and keep her plots of coup d’été
tucked safe within my dreams.

#339

Seasonal Siblings

Spring, the pampered baby of the seasonal family,
spoiled and cossetted. Every sunny smile a miracle,
every quivering green leaf a first step.  Even her  sudden
warm tears are welcome and end in rainbows. 

Summer, the simmering sister with the California smile,
all light and flowers and lazy self indulgence. The golden girl
that everyone wants as their friend. The seasonal
celebrity, paparazzi in her wake in campers and motorhomes.

Autumn, serenity with an edge, the generous big brother
with the fatalistic sense of humour. The sadness behind the
beauty of fallen leaves and soft winds. He shares his bounty freely
but behind each cornucopia lurks the knowledge that even he
can’t protect us from the other one…

Winter, the evil twin, all temper and disdain.
The long thin sneer on the calendar,
The ice tiger with a taste for frozen blood.
Howling paranoia that feeds on fear and rejection
piling wrath at our doors, gnawing exposed flesh
like a crazed piranha until, sated at last,
he expires into puddles at spring’s tiny feet.

#306

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.

#292

Weather Diagnosed

Weather is not a normal noun,
it’s a paranormal personification
of abnormal personalities.

Winter, the un-empathic; the anti-social bully
with his snow swirlies, daring you to venture out
to watch the northern lights. Passive aggressive,
freezing the world with a billion unique snowflakes.

Spring, hesitant, all PTSD over winter’s bullying,
constantly trying to start anew. All false
starts and flowers, chilly showers
and warm breezes. gumbo and promises.

Summer the narcissist, all sweetness and lightning,
sunshine and wasp nests. manipulative, deluded with
grandeur she floods on a whim then inundates
her victim with sunny smiles and bouquets.

Fall, depressed pessimist with bi-polar swings of
glorious sensory displays and frosty intolerance.
Identity crises, moody, paranoid, leaving countless
trails of leaves and still getting lost.

 

#287

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.

 

#282

The Fleeting Season

I
The honking wakes me.
Geese slice summer to ribbons
like Damocles’ sword.

II
Winter is the sword
suspended over our heads,
the autumn spoiler.

III
The fleeting season,
autumn glows in the last light
of a waning sun.

#270

Post Navigation