Category Archives: Judy Dykstra-Brown poems

Anything but Solitary

Simplicity

Simplicity is something that I rarely do.
Why have only one of something when you could have two?
It takes a lot of veggies to come up with a stew,
and we’d do a lot of limping if confined to just one shoe.

Multiples are awesome. Multiples are grand.
Look how many fingers we have upon each hand.
One finger could not do the job. Neither could two or three.
Simple cannot form a hand, did not form you or me.

Simplicity’s much touted but I think it is absurd.
Who ever heard of stories comprised of just one word?
With a single raindrop, the world could not get wetter.
Sparsity may be more chic, but I like clutter better.

I don’t get minimalism. I’m a hoarder to the core.
When I ran out of wall room, I put art upon my door.
There are no piles in hallways. Hoarding need not be a sin.
I’ve built three rooms onto my house just to store things in.

With so many lovely things in life, collecting is a joy.
With life’s manifold choices, why be niggardly or coy?
At the ice cream parlor, why does one have to choose?
You need not always limit yourself just to ones and twos.

Have a scoop of strawberry and pineapple and mint.
Green tea is delicious and tequila’s heaven sent.
Load your dish with raspberry and coconut and mango.
Why do the simple two step when you could do the fandango?

In short, I am a gatherer. I have too many things.
I like to make the choices that a complex lifestyle brings.
When it comes to writing, a stuffed-full mind is fine!
Reach into words and shake them out and string them on a line.

A solitary animal will never make a zoo.
One grain of dirt, one drop of water cannot create goo.
A single cannon fired will not execute a coup.
The world just is not simple, nor am I and nor are you!

 

 

The prompt today is solitary. Yes, you’ve read this one before!!!

“My” Day

The prompt today is willy-nilly.  Now, what would you say the chances would be that I’d have written a poem that already contained that word?  If you are thinking practically nil, then you are WRONG!  Not only did I write a poem containing “willy-nilly” over two years ago, but it is even in the title. The assignment then was to talk about a holiday created in my honor and to describe it all—music, refreshments, decorations and who would come.  Here it is, warts and all:

A Holiday Most Willy-Nilly 

My namesake day would be a dilly.
Simply not run-of-the-milly.
For the concert, I’d have  Willie
and resurrect Milli Vanilli.
Kind of music? Rock-a-Billy.
For refreshments, I’d serve Chili.
Though the terrain would be most hilly,
they’d travel over rock-and-rilly
for races of both stud and filly,
and poets, fleet of tongue and quilly,
reading poems both sage and silly.

(Dis)organize(d)

Life Piles Up

You know that this can happen. It’s silly asking why
the books and papers pile up from desktops towards the sky.
You do not dare to open the window that’s nearby
lest the papers blow away to flutter yon and nigh.

I wish I had a simple life with time to do it all
so I could post a picture to prove it to y’all
that my house is super organized and tidy and pristine.
My life as orderly as tasks spewed out by a machine.

Unfortunately, nothing stays in its usual space.
A new thing starts before I’ve filed the old thing in its place.
Boxes from camp still stand in rows out in my garage,
while papers from last April’s trip slide down in a barrage.

I cannot find the cord and mike that belong to my amp.
Perhaps they’re buried deep within the boxes left from camp?
Or other boxes in my car from events even older?
I think perhaps dealing with life is more than I can shoulder.

Somehow I think that WordPress may have gotten word
about my loaded desktops. I know it sounds absurd,
but if you’re keeping track of prompts then surely you have noted
that lately this one topic is one on which they’ve doted!

I told you you just four days ago–I’ve cleaned off desk and table.
I promised I would clean the rest when I was free and able;
and so today I’m sorting books and papers and detritus,
but to this prompt I’d like to say, “WordPress, kindly bite us!”

IMG_3608Okay, the desk area in my bedroom that I promised to clear off the other day is a little bit better.  To check up on that by comparing to its state just four days ago when we had  a very similar prompt, go HERE.

IMG_3606In the meantime, the desk in my sala hasn’t piled up again–much. So please, WordPress–no more nagging.  I’m as organized as I’m going to get for awhile.  Okay to check up again in six months.

The prompt today is organize. This was actually the prompt two years ago, almost to the day, so I have reprinted my post for that prompt. Things haven’t changed much. I had a party a few days ago, so the desk is cleared off, but two boxes of items to “put back” in their designated places are hidden in a corner of my bedroom.  What can I say? Life piles up.

Special Delivery

Special Delivery

You hide yourself in shadows deep
to watch me as I fall to sleep.
Half-lidded, with your sleepy stare,
you cup my cheek and stroke my hair.
I do not know as I fall deeper
that you stalk this drifting sleeper.

Once I have no power to resist,
you give my hair a painful twist.
I try to jerk awake but fail.
I tense my muscles, fight and flail,
but I cannot escape your grasp.
I call for help. I moan and gasp.

Sir Nightmare, from where do you come
with death knoll beat on ragged drum?
I hear its pulse now through the day.
At every hour, it sounds the way
back to the horror of the night––
a pathway to that final fight

when I will mount at last that steed
that nightly stands to do its deed
to carry to oblivion
this sleeper off to meet her kin—
that father lost, those lovers three
who wait for my delivery.

Is this nightmare just a dream—
a mere digression from the stream
of conscious thought—a nightly swim
through a fantasy most grim,
or a window showing me
an inevitability?

The prompt word today was delivery.

Hot, Hot, Hot.

Less Spice is Nice

Once I liked my dishes spicy,
but lately it is getting dicey.
As time progresses, I find it’s not
advisable to dine on “hot.”

Somehow, my tastes have seemed to tame
It’s all those extra years I blame,
that turn me once more into child.
Please, make my taco extra mild!

 

The prompt word today is spicy. (Another reprint.)jdbphoto

Shimmering Locks

I found this poem written a year and a half ago that perfectly reflects today’s prompt word  shimmer. Since I had totally forgotten it, you probably have, too, so please read below:

lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown

IMG_5324

Locks

Locked up in my bedchamber. More than I can bear.
The beauty of my countenance, the shimmer of my hair
do me no good for no prince charming comes to find me here.
I will go unmarried––for my whole life, I fear.

My father thinks he honors me. I am his special treasure.
He worries not about my fate.  He thinks not of my pleasure.
I am but one more lovely thing he keeps for his collection––
admired for my golden locks, my flawless pale complexion.

I care not for beauty.  I care not for my tresses.
I do not treasure jewels or slippers or my ornate dresses.
A husband and a family are all that I desire.
A simple life’s the sort of life that I most admire.

From my window I look out upon the broad King’s Highway.
All roads must converge here––every path and byway.
And so I see…

View original post 640 more words

No Partner?

IMG_0057

The Dance

Cheek to cheek and toe to toe,
graceful dancers come and go
smoothly passing me while I 
sit motionless, with dancing eye.
Jealousy may rear its head
as I wish that it were me, instead—
held securely in my partner’s arms,
guided surely away from harms
of other dancers’ straying feet
or jutting elbows I might meet.

I might feel sorry, sitting there,
no arms around me—only air.
Then I remember in the past
dancing nights I thought would last.
How all those partners have stepped away—
even the ones I hoped would stay.

Life has a way of leaving us
like hopeful riders passed by the bus
as it soars away with no seat left
those left behind feeling bereft.
Then I look deeper and clearly see
one day that bus will stop for me.
Something heavy grows inside
where it’s not good for it to bide.
I scoot back my chair to shift that stone
as I get up and dance alone.

Steered through dangers into bliss,
barely meeting the floor’s long kiss,
I soar and bend and sway and glide,
giving way to what’s inside,
the music coming to live in me
setting all that’s in me free.
Stirring sadness at my core
and leaving it upon the floor
for other dancers to kick away
while only light parts choose to stay
within my heart as I dance on
from dark of night into the dawn.

 

The prompt today was partner. I have an early meeting today, so this is a rewrite of a poem written a few years ago.