Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “winter”

The Long, White Struggle

It’s a long, slow slog;
this stuttering transition
from winter to spring

with hopes of greenery
thawed and frozen all along
the dirty, white way

until you cave in,
like a collapsing igloo,
and believe the ice

age has come for you;
encased you eternally,
one hand on the box

labelled ‘Spring Clothing”
the other on your down filled coat,
desperate with hope

even through nightmares
of hard, white piles crushing
your warm breath to mist.

“It’s supposed to get up to plus eleven by next Friday” he says.
I’ll believe it when I see it

Aubade to Spring

A nervous twitch of heavy curtains,
a wary peering into first light.
What song will I sing? A trill
of joy thrilling at a pool of sunlight
warming my bare
feet or a dirge for dreams
of spring, battered
by northeast winds and smothered
in yet more snow.
Is it all bad?
No, today the sun shines and, at least
for a while, it is ‘aubade’.

Frozen Pride

There’s a northern sense of pride
in battling winter and surviving
minus forty, minus fifty,
icy fog and snowy drifts. We
soldier on in our uniforms;
long underwear to keep us warm,
and scoff at tender souls who live
in milder climes and shake and shiver
at minus five and have to close
the city down for an inch of snow.

We post the current temperature;
a brag of what we can endure;
a challenge to post a lower number,
to northern soldiers in other bunkers.

Year after year we earn our stripes
through furnace fails and frozen pipes,
when trucks die and the power goes out
you discover what cold is all about.
We’ve fed the woodstove through the night
and melted snow by candlelight.

We’ve earned our medals in the ice and cold
but the years roll on and we’re getting old
and we’ve paid our dues and we’ve fought our fight
and we just want a little bit more sunlight.
It’s not retreating, just retiring
to a place where the temperature is higher.
I leave the struggle to the young
who have the strength to carry on.

Old soldiers who’ve battled winter and won,
Deserve their moments in the sun.


Winter Dawn

Dawn peers past cloudy
cataracts with pale blue eyes.
Snowblind; cold comfort.


Morning Song

The morning dawns with a pale, flat light
and eases out the last of night,
tired of black, you’d think she might
squeeze out a little spark.

But no, her bland illumination
consists of gray and its gradations.
You’d think there’d be some small temptation
to make the world less stark.

Lightening now, the grays turn whiter
as though the celestial lamplighter
decided graciously to right her
obvious shortcomings

And now a hint of blue I see
emerging o’er the snow clad trees
and a band of peachy red that seems
to set the sky a humming.

The light grows stronger now and gleams
on silent, stately evergreens
who rouse themselves from winter dreams
and start to switch and sway.

And as the wind begins to shake
their cloaks of snow to falling flakes.
Pink clouds begin to thin and break
and simply float away.

Winter white returns full force
and day progresses in its course
I’ll let it go, with some remorse;
this fleeting, lovely thing.

Another winter sunrise gone.
But I’ll recall the day that dawned
and spread her colours on my lawn
and made the morning sing.



Solstice Solace 

Darkling comforter;
tucking the night around my shoulders,
whispering long day lullabyes,
and drawing dreams of flowers and sunshine
within the flickering of firelight
on fresh fallen snow.


It’s a Freakin’ Winter Wonderland Out There

The woods outside my window
that not too long ago
were green and lush and filled with birds
are now just filled with snow.

I’m hoping this is just a drill
a sloppy, wet ‘dry run’
‘cause I’m not done with autumn yet,
there’s still a lot of fun

I haven’t had and bonfires
I never got to light.
It’s still too soon to trade the leaves of gold
for piles of white.

If I was in charge of things,
if I could have my say,
snow would fall on Christmas week
then quickly melt away.

Brisk autumn weather would prevail
with lots of sunny skies.
But nature is a fickle twit
who likes to improvise.

The woods outside my window
are white but I still dream
that twixt Chinooks and El Nino
we may still see some green.

We all cope in different ways
to overcome our trials,
so for the next six months I think
I’ll slip into denial.
# 110

Patagonia in the Winter

If I lived in Patagonia in the winter
I could avoid the snow and cold and dark. A
happy camper I
as back and forth I fly
sans heavy boots and mitts and hooded parka.

If I lived in Patagonia in the winter
I wouldn’t slip and slide in ice and snow.
The most I’d slip on is a sweater
as I enjoyed the weather
‘cos their summer is our winter don’cha know.

I could live in Patagonia in the winter
Speak Spanish and never have a care.
For the rest of the year
I’d just live here.
But first I’ll have to be a millionaire.



Just Peachy

Blanch and flay
pull the stone away
slice and save for another day.
When winter winds fret
and you almost forget
the sweetness of summer I`m willing to bet
those peaches will melt
winter`s snowy white pelt,
and remind you again how August once felt.



Sun falls through the trees
raven shadows call to me,
flicker ‘cross my face.

I will hold this day;
The smell of the forest floor,
soft wind on my face,

rough bark ‘neath my hand.
The tang of wild raspberry
lingers on my tongue.

I will hold this day.
Take it out and set it free
some cold winter’s night.


Post Navigation