Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “soul”

Just One More Revolution

No life is wasted if it can move a heart.

No heart is hardened if it can touch a soul.

No soul is lost if it can still reach out,

grab hold, hang on to life,

and move a heart, and touch a soul

and roll around the circle

just one more revolution.




How to Read Another Person’s Poetry

With anticipation of magic,
imagery, and thought provoking
plot twists and double entendres.

Hopefully, with a wistful longing
for some word or phrase
that will speak to your heart and set you free.

With acceptance of the consequences
for what the words kindle within
as the poet bravely holds the mirror to your soul.



Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder,
the eye being just a single minded messenger who
can’t convey any but visual images.
The eye can’t breath the wild rose scent
or hear the oriole’s quavering call echo in the valley.
The eye can’t feel the damp cool of a green wood oasis
on a blazing summer day.
The eye can’t savour the hidden tang
of tiny wild strawberries bursting on the tongue.
Beauty is not in the eye, but in the soul.
It is the thrumming connection that happens
when our senses are not enough
and we forever link our heart to the beauty,
take it into ourselves and become



Let Go the Wind

Leaves applaud the wind
in sudden outbursts of joy.
Wild adulation.

Harder to impress,
bough and bole just nod and sway.
Grudging approval.

But roots slumber on,
unmoved by windy speeches.
Blithely unaware.

And I let it go.
I take it into my soul
Then I let it go.




I Am the Captain of My Soul

I am the captain of my soul, as such I must decide
My heading for this journey across this ocean wide.

I am the captain of my soul, I strike a pose so dashing
Then slip upon my hubris and into the waves go splashing.

As soon as I get back on board, and dry my hair and pride
I’ll check my charts and compass too, and once again decide.
I am the captain of my soul, though she can be capricious,
her gait is like a bucking bronc with streaks of downright vicious.

I’ve tried to  reason with her but she finds me rather droll
because I wear my captain’s hat and think I’m in control.
I am so the captain of my soul. Not you, darn soul, but me
And I’m going to hold my breath until I’m blue or you agree.

But she just laughs and sends a gull to poop upon my hat
That’s not why it’s called a poop deck, I tell the flying rat.

I am the captain of my soul I whine and stamp my feet
Till finally she humours me and gives me back my fleet

And I don’t know how long this time she’ll let me pose and strut
Before she finds it funny and she dumps me on my butt

I am the captain of my soul, I whisper from the bowsprit.
I am the captain of my soul, as long as she allows it.



The Reinvention

“It’s time to reinvent.”

“Okay, so what first?”

“The inventory, what do we have to work with? What does our source material look like?”

“Well, some decent skills and experience here, some talents but they’re pretty well buried under paperwork and redtape.”

“Here, you grab that end of the paperwork and I’ll get this end, now, shift.”

“Hmm… they’re a little flattened but I think they’ll bounce back.”

“They’ll have to do, they’re all we’ve got.”

“What about this over here?”

“Well I’ll be! A soul! I never noticed it was missing.”

“Could be why the crushing was so extensive, the soul wasn’t in it, couldn’t mitigate the damage.”

“Look, it’s in really good shape. Yeah, we can do something with this. And look what it’s sitting on top of, a heart.”

“Maybe it was shielding the heart.”

”Could be. The heart is still quite strong for a model this old.”

“Okay, we’ve got skills, talent, experience, one soul, and one heart. Anything else we need to do this reinvention.”

“Yep, and it’s all around you.”

“What, this gooey stuff?”

“Yep. That, my friend, is the the glue that hold it all together, the creative spirit. Get the wet vac, this is going to take a while.”



“Your Eyes Meet Mine” A Poem That Photographers Might Appreciate

Not the photo from the poem but one that 'meets my eyes'

Not the photo from the poem but one that 'meets my eyes'

I’m not a photographer-I just take pictures. But I have a real appreciation for the creative energy that real photographers invest in their art. The energy that means the difference between a snapshot and a work of art. It’s usually easy to spot the difference – the work of art will take your breath away. That happened to me one time at an exhibit of old photographs in our local art gallery. The young girl, on a bike beside the parade, looking straight at the photographer and me. I don’t have a copy of that photograph, but the one featured here, of my father, feels similar to me in that it “Meets my Eyes”. To all my photographer friends I offer this poem.

Your Eyes Meet Mine
Your eyes meet mine.
You ride your bicycle beside the black and white parade.
Did they have colour back then or did
everyone live in black and white?
Was life really simpler, or does distance lend a mellow myopia?
Shades of grey more vivid than any rainbow.

Your eyes meet mine.
“Why are you taking a picture of me?” they say.
“The parade’s over there.”
But what’s one more picture of a parade compared to this
moment of suspended bemusement; human connection.

Your eyes meet mine.
You’re not looking at a camera; you’re looking at a person.
Surrounded by frame after frame of majorettes and marching bands
Face after face of flat eyes looking at the machine.
They are still looking at the machine.
Your eyes are still looking at a person.
They are looking at me.
I look back.
I see you, the person.

Your eyes meet mine.
Was it still a novelty to have your picture taken?
Before swiveling surveillance cameras
documented our daily desperation,
and amateur videographers captured our lapses in sanity
for the consumption of the jaded masses
Does the camera really capture part of our soul?

Your eyes meet mine.
You understand.
It’s not the camera that takes the photograph
but the person behind the camera.
and even if we can’t deny the camera access to our image;
We can still allow or deny the photographer, and the viewer,
access to our soul.

Your eyes meet mine
I am honoured.


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