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Best Poems Written by Susan Linn

Below are the all-time best Susan Linn poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Susan Linn Poem

How Are You Feeling I

How Are You Feeling? I

I feel yellow to-day.
I feel as playful as a child’s “Do you like butter?”
	amid a field of yellow, waving buttercups.
I feel as naughty as the spiky haired, boldly invading	
	dandelion’s yellow head, nodding cheekily in the yard.
I feel as pucker up and kiss me as the tart and 
	tangy lemon’s yellow juices promising to quench my thirst. 
I feel as brilliant as a sunbeam shining everywhere at once
	without casting the faintest shadow.
Yes, I feel yellow to-day!

Details | Susan Linn Poem

Olives

Olives

I like olives - so smooth and round, 
wrinkled or puckered, by the pound, 
from the deli or in a jar,
savory flavours, the best by far.
Firm and juicy, large or small,
ripe or salty, I like them all.
Stuffed with garlic, pimento slice,
those saucy tongues are pretty nice.
I like them as a tapenade.
On salad or pizza, they make me glad.
I like them ripe, I like them green,
sliced in marinara, petite or Queen.
Sprinkled on nachos, straight from the shelf,
green, black or purple, all by them self.
I eat them slowly, one at a time.
Or chomped on in pairs is equally fine.
Alfonso, Mission, Manzanilla,
Beldi, Gordal, Cerignola
Amfissa too and Kalamata,  
Castelvetrano, and Taggiasca. 
Dry cured, salt cured, soaked in brine,
to me they all are just - sublime.

Written 2017
'I'm Crushing On You'
Julie Leigh Rodeheaver

Details | Susan Linn Poem

Ode To Spring

O Spring, I thought you’d never come.
The winter seemed so long.
And now I sense your presence near
in colour and in song.
The cardinal sings a lyric tune;
the crocus are in bloom.
Hyacinth and Daffodil
compete to greet the morn.
The bashful Blood Root 
nods her mute accord.

O Spring!  O Spring! 
You are my smiling world.
Maple leaves escape their bud
as gently they unfurl.
Rhubarb bursts her gnarly crown;
a dream of pies renown.

O Spring!  O Spring!
I see your face
in every corner, every nook.
It matters not
how long you took.

Details | Susan Linn Poem

The Organ and the Flame - St James Anglican Cathedral, Toronto

The Organ and the Flame - St James Anglican Cathedral, Toronto

The organist, practicing, 
and I are alone; 
unseen by one other. 
The pews tremble. 
The vast volume of air vibrates with each note.
The morning sun illuminates 
the works of mercy in brilliant colours.
Brass and marble plaques adorn the solid stone walls
proclaiming magnificent deeds, selfless sacrifice, pitifully young lives ended.
My heart, 
my consciousness,
my spirit,
(Dare I say my soul?) 
are awakened.
A bank of glowing candles beckons.
As the organ reaches a crescendo
the tiny flames flicker in time
and I am revived.

Details | Susan Linn Poem

Birch Tree In Early Spring

Birch Tree in Early Spring

Every breath of wind
stirs the branches,
each 
with a drop of
yesterday’s rain,
frozen in the moment,
sparkling now in the sun, 
like a thousand diamonds,
and I,
I am dazzled.

Details | Susan Linn Poem

Flying Machines

Flying Machines

It’s Father’s Day and the Hamilton Airshow 
has been buzzing around our house
the whole weekend long.
I’ve seen all sorts of planes fly overhead before
but, something about these magnificent 
flying giants stirs my spirit.
I hear the rumble of the Mitchell
and scan the sky ahead of the place
where I think the sound is coming from.
The silhouette, so easily identified;
two prop-engines, stubby body and 
twin fins on the tail, 
seems to crawl across the sky.
And then I hear a deep-throated growl.
This silhouette, unique to North America,
is longer than the Mitchell’s,
with four prop-engines and 
the same distinctive twin tail;
it can only be the Lancaster.
Unbelievably, incredibly, 
its enormous bulk lumbers above
and somehow stays aloft.
The air itself reverberates as this
amazing, mechanical marvel executes
a slow banking turn, directly above my head.
The noise is deafening as I recall 
Dave telling one of the very few “war stories”
he ever shared.
Being on a base in England,
his squad, having loaded bombs onto
twenty Lancs during the day and then 
waiting through the night for their return.
Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, 
then silence.
Finally hearing the next day
that the twentieth crew had ditched in the channel.
I can’t imagine the fear and awe 
that hundreds of Lancs flying in formation
would evoke.
The sky is quiet now.
All the fathers and families
heading home to their BBQ celebrations
knowing that these two old warriors and their crews
are safely home tonight too.

Details | Susan Linn Poem

Not Stanley

Not Stanley

Laughing, I said “My stone’s name is Stanley.”
But as soon as the words left my mouth,
I knew that I was wrong.

My name is not Stanley.
You may call me abinoojinh aki
earth child.
I was torn from my home
many lifetimes ago.
The great white destroyer pushed me
where I would not have chosen to go.
I bore the oppressive weight and show the scars,
but I am still myself.
Tiny hands found me and 
gave me a new life.
Wrapped with rawhide around a stick
I became a childish tool;
given to Grandmother,
I became a useful tool.
Together we stripped 
the cedar roots for canoes
and cleaned the flesh from skins.
She named me wiidookaagewinini
helper.
When her life time was ended,
she returned me to Grandson
to remind him of their summers:
open sky, roaring water, giving land.
She named me gizhaadige
guardian.
He carried me on a thong
around his neck - across his chest;
to work in the fields,
to war in the far places,
to the last days.
His hand closed over me,
fingers feeling my cool smoothness.
The rounded edges
fitting into the hollow of his palm
the one, blunted side facing out
as it did when he first plucked me
from the riverbed.
He named me nisayenh
brother.

My name is not Stanley.

Details | Susan Linn Poem

O Moon of My Memory

O Moon of My Memory

O new moon of my day-time sky
Reflection of earthshine
Craters and mountains
Vague images floating
Reminding of days gone by

O waxing moon of my memory
Graceful and slender
Teasing and flirting 
Uncertain faces 
Shadows are being
Pushed slowly away

O gibbous moon of my memory
Gathering sunlight 
Expanding horizons
Details exposed
Features revealed
Images clearing

O full moon of my memory
Shining so brightly
Glorious detail 
Craters and mountains
Laser precision 
Easy recall

O gibbous moon of my memory
Sliver of ebony
Creeping across 
Freezing my heart
Pulse pounding
In a cloak of obscurity 

O waning moon of my memory
Darkness descending
… enveloping 
Shielding my view
Concealing my life

O new moon of my day-time sky
Twinkling of star light
Alone in the void 
Dimmed to my sight

O great moon of my memory
Paschal moon of my soul
Orange orb of the harvest
Blue moon of my life
O fickle moon of my memory
Return to me once more
Before I bid my final 
farewell

Details | Susan Linn Poem

Tea

Tea

“Can I get you a cup of tea, Sylvia?’

An old woman,
old in years, but not in spirit,
silently curses her body
as she lays there, 
betrayed.
Why couldn’t it have held on
a little longer?
There were so many things still left undone.
Letters to write, friends to call, paintings to finish.
The popular theory,
that your life flashes before you
is incorrect, 
or maybe,
maybe she’s not dying after all.
There’s no flashing going on;
her mind is stuck in a moment.
A moment so long ago, 
she had to pause to count
the decades.  
…… six, no seven,
A young man with a crooked smile, 
wavy brown hair and a guitar,
tried to kiss her.
What would her life have been 
if she hadn’t chosen that moment
to turn away?
Would love have grown from friendship?
Would she have danced through life, 
dressed in multi-coloured, billowing skirts, 
bare-faced, long hair bedecked with daisies, 
surrounded by laughing, curly haired children?
Would they have lived happily 
as hippies in a commune?
Would he have serenaded her each morning,
kissed her each night,
written songs about their ideal life?
Or would she have succumbed to the cancer
in her twenties, 
unable to combat the illness with herbal teas?
Tea, hundreds of cups, no, tens of thousands of cups of tea swirl past;
tea at weddings, tea at funerals, tea at birthday parties,
tea with friends, tea alone, tea in waiting rooms.
China cups with matching saucers, steaming mugs with biscuits and paper cups 
all filled with tea.
The tea cups dance and spin around a distant vortex.
A life-time written in tea leaves.
“No!  Not now.” she shouts in her mind.
The words leave her lips as a sigh.

“Maybe later,” says the nurse, though Sylvia is already gone.

Details | Susan Linn Poem

Autumn Joy and Sorrow

Autumn steals across my land
long shadows now are seen.
I never seemed to notice 
dying leaves among the green.
Until one day a cold wind blows
and nodding heads lay down.
The landscape has a different look
my garden’s turning brown
Geraniums still stand up straight,
the dahlias did their best,
with heavy heads weighed down by rain, 
they want to have their rest.
And so I trim, and clip, and rake
and put the beds to bed. 
It breaks my heart to let them go,
to treat them as if dead.
I thank each flower, shrub and tree
for blooming in the sun.
I thank the birds and worms and bees
for all the work they’ve done.
Just as summer follows spring,
the winter snows must come, 
and soon enough the land will green
when Circadian’s cycle’s run.