Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “snow”

Sir Beeps-a-lot

Sir Beeps-a-lot, Sir Beeps-a-lot,
your grader is a wonder
of brute strength over nature
where she’s got us all snowed under.
I love your marvellous machine
That leaves the avenue so clean.

The graceful arc, the pirouette
as front wheels leave the ground,
your full weight on the blade
makes a loud and scraping sound.
Which invades my REM
at approximately four a.m.

You are so cautious careful
Whenever you reverse
You beep, and beep, and beep, and beep
to warn us to disperse.
But I don’t think you have to dread
‘cause most of us are home in bed.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a fan
of your fine machine
as you drop your blade and scrape away
what Mother Nature leaves.
But next time, Sir, what do you say
to arriving later in the day?

And now you’re gone, the snow’s  piled up
all neatly in a heap
I’ll miss you, dear Sir Beeps-a-lot,
But I will not miss your beep.
And as I tossed, deprived of sleep,
I’m sorry I called you a creep.

#344

The Next Ice Age

There’s always a chance
it will never stop snowing.
We won’t know till spring.

Do ice ages start
with winters that seem too long?
Did the mammoths know?

One day, at breakfast,
they froze, grass still in their mouths
ice cubes in mid munch. 

Next millennia
we may thaw out from icebergs
toast still in our mouths.

#343

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

Masquerade

Shapes shift in the long darkness
of winter’s front porch.
“Is it time yet?” rustle the crisped leaves
as they skitter around and around in anticipation.
“is it time yet?” groan the stark trees,
their gnarled, grasping fingers
clawing the ragged hem of the grey clouds.
“Soon” breathes the drifting snow.
“Soon” chime the falling ice crystals.
“Soon” sighs the gate to the underworld.

Light fades, colours melt, night throws
his velvet blanket,
“Now” the blanket snaps.
“Don your disguises and walk.
The masquerade has begun.”

 

#312

Change in the Wind

It isn’t you it’s me, I changed but you just stayed the same.
I don’t know how much longer I can play this silly game
and look the other way when you rage and act so cold.
My heart is getting harder and your temper’s getting old.

There was a time when I could handle all your flighty ways,
the long nights were a novelty that made up for the days
of unpredictability, of blowing cold then hot.
Back then it made me feel alive, alas, now it does not.

I know you’re never going to change, it’s more than I could hope.
So I’ll just have to be the one who has to learn to cope.
I think we need some time apart, a trial separation.
Perhaps a few months on our own, separate vacations. 

When we first met I thought you were the only place to be
This snug nest ‘neath Northern Lights, this lovely Peace Country.
But now the nest is far to thin when nights are cold and black
This Snowbird needs to stretch her wings, don’t worry, I’ll be back.

 

#303

 

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

Late Snow

Late snow should be more apologetic,
tentative, shamefaced,
a thin melting gauze
not a pushy, overbearing blanket.

Late snow should fall and be done,
spotty, wistful,
a drift of confetti
not a gloating pall.

Late snow should be warmer
clear, drippy,
a simple rain shower
not a frozen flash from the past.

 

#146

‘yes, I looked out the window this morning to a white world, sigh’

Guess Who?

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

Seasons of Love

Our love sings to my heart
in the trickling chuckle of a redwing blackbird
proclaiming the promise of a dawning spring.

Our love clings to my heart
with the sweet scent of lilacs, nodding, langourous
in the still warmth of a summer garden.

Our love plays on my heart
like a phantom melody at the edge of memory,
and the sound of leaves falling.

Our love cradles my heart
as a layer of snow protects the slumbering lilac,
patiently awaiting the seasons of love.

 

#89

Post Navigation