Category Archives: Judy Dykstra-Brown poems


Typical Day

Bark of dog,
Meow of cat.
takes care of that
with pop of can
and clink of dishes.
After solving
all these wishes,
back to bed.
Write my blogs.
Out of bed.
Put on togs.
Make a smoothie.
Read E-mail.
Into town
for writers’ meetings.
Lots of words
and lots of greetings.
Home again
to write some more.
Pepe’s ringing
at my door.
Once a week
a heavenly rub.
Body restored,
soak in the tub.
Pat the cats,
throw balls for Morrie.
Write some more,
the same old story.
Talk to Dux
many a time
throughout the day.
Sometimes  with rhyme.
Midnight finds me
in the pool
under stars
and Morrie’s rule.
Throw the ball
for him to fetch.
Exercise, then
reach and stretch
to retrieve the ball
he throws at me.
Then loft it over
bush and tree
to lower garden
for him to find.
This is our nightly
pool grind.
Go in to bed
to write some more.
Get up to check
I’ve locked the door.
Other events
often occur.
Trips to the vet
to trim or cure.
Coffee with friends,
or dinner out.
trips to the shore,
without a doubt.
Lives grow and change
often with time.
So this is just
the paradigm.

The prompt word today is typical.

Dim Prospects


Dim Prospects
(A Hyperbolic Modest Proposal)

We’re blotting the sun out and dimming the stars
with furnaces, factories, wildfires, cars.
With overproduction causing glut after glut,
it seems our improvements are anything but.
Man’s once-shiny future is now looking dim,
and he’s pulling the whole planet under with him.
Fires and hurricanes, tsunamis and quakes,
rampaging hillsides and drying-up lakes
are messages sent that the earth’s fighting back—
giving us warnings of things out of whack.

When fat cats in limos and thousand buck suits
have usurped all the seeds and kept all the fruits,
and all of their products are made by machines,
three dimensional copiers making our jeans,
our autos, appliances, organs and cars,
our TVs and glasses, our bikes and guitars,
we’ll all need welfare—mere motionless blobs
once they have “teched” away all of our jobs.
And since welfare is something that they’ve soundly booed,
what will the masses do for their food?

Where will we sleep once all of the money
all of the milk and all of the honey
is in the pockets of those gazillionaires
cushioned away in their billion-buck lairs?
Keeping a few of us here on the scene
to garden and cook for them, to serve and clean,
they’ll let unwashed masses starve in their cots
and buy from each other their trillion dollar yachts
And perhaps they’ll be happy with what they’ve created:
machines making products ’til their needs are sated.

Now that they’ve purchased our ship of state
and made it their own, it seems that the fate
of unlucky millions who’ve gone overboard
for lack of the medicine they can’t afford
is nothing to them, for not one of them cares
how any common citizen  fares.
Lest we riot against them out of our need
for money for food they’ve usurped in their greed,
issue guns to the populace. Let us dispense
of  these unneeded masses. To them, it makes sense!

The prompt word today is dim.


IMG_8175jdbphoto 2/18

The sun has burned the day away
and set the sea  on fire
turning a glowing pathway
into a funeral pyre.
She, too, has left her day behind,
shed like a soiled dress.
What tomorrow holds for her
She has no need to guess.

A quadrille on the prompt “burn” for dVerse Poets.

The Forgottenman Challenge. Done!!

After seeing my mixed bouquet in Cee’s daily flower challenge, Forgottenman challenged me to write a poem making use of the name of every flower in the bouquet.  Okay F-man, here it is. I rise to every challenge!!! (The names of the flowers in the bouquet are in bold print.)

Zinnia was the fairest maid the town had ever grown.
She flirted with the mill boy and claimed him as her own.
She rose and fed their baby with a silver spoon
each morning as her husband lay abed ’til noon.
To wake him up, she lay their child well within his reaches.
He woke to that sweet baby’s breath-—just redolent of peaches.
Brushing off her flour-dusted lover, Zinnia sent him on his way
to grind more grain for townsfolk who had the means to pay,
for although her dusty miller was not the working kind,
true love will not buy Gerbers nor diaper a behind.

Here is the bouquet again:


Bouquet of zinnias, roses, baby’s breath, dusty miller, Gerber daisies.  jdb photo

Another response to Cee’s daily flower prompt.

Deep Voice



Deep Voice

The stranger on an airplane in the seat next to me
never said a single word, and so I let her be
until our arrival, when I prepared to stand
and she produced a paperback—put it in my hand.

“It’s time for you to read this,” she said, then went away.
I didn’t say a word to her. Didn’t know what to say.
That book, however, changed my life and attitude and choices—
encouraged me to listen close to interior voices.

Buscaglia, Jampolsky and all of Carl Jung’s books
drew my mind away from appearances and looks
and into that finer world of instinct and of mind;
then drew me westward to the sea and others of my kind.

After a writer’s function, a stranger sent to me
“The Process of Intuition,” which I read from A to Z.
I read it twenty times or so, then sent it to a friend.
Then bought up every copy left to give as gifts and lend.

I don’t remember talking to the one who sent it to me,
but if I need a proof of faith, I guess that this will do me.
For I believe there is some force that draws the next thing through me
and if I follow instincts that hint and prod and clue me,

they are the truths that guide me on the path towards the new me.
The signs are there in all our lives if we choose to see.
No, I don’t believe a God guides our destinies.
I don’t believe in lifelines or spirits within trees.

I don’t believe in any faith that has a name or church.
I do believe, however, that I’m guided in my search
by something that unites us and sets our pathways right
so long as we listen to our own interior sight

that urges us to follow the right side of our brain
even though those choices are logically inane.
I know that it takes many types of brains to run the world,
but for me it’s intuition that when carefully unfurled

guides me best—towards art and words and unplanned days and oceans
and prompts me make a Bible of what others may call notions.
And so to simplify I’d say that I must have faith in
that voice we’re all a part of that speaks to us from within.


If you haven’t already viewed it, Word Press would not let me link to their Weekly Photo site yesterday, so please view also:

This is a rewrite of a post from four years ago. The prompt today was simplify.





Clinging to the wall
like an old wallpaper scrap
are the words
I want you, I want you, I want you, I want you.

Their refrain slides up and down
the musical scale—
an old country tune,
plaintive and clear.

Why do I want you?

The first time I met you,
there was something about the curl of your hair.
Your eyes, so familiar­—puzzled, as though
you, too, were trying to remember.

After that, it was
the set of your shoulders—
the arm stretched between your seat and mine
with your hand on the back of my seat.

All of your restraint an aphrodesiac.

The truth is
that I pined
for two days after I left,
then went on with my life.

Still, that scrap
of wanting
comes up early in the morning
as I waken

and my mind walks,
looking for someone to pin it to,
and every time
it stops at you.

The prompt today is puzzled.

Dark Against Light



Dark Against Light

The universe’s fine maquette

is light on dark and dry on wet—
her quietness and stillness set
against the thrum of castanet.
It is a sort of etiquette:
opposite versus opposite.
Victory gauged against regret.
Sunrise followed by sunset.
Every lottery and bet
boundless riches as well as debt.
It does no good to fuss and fret.
This irony is all we get—
nature one pure brightness set
as backdrop to our silhouette.


Want more views of this sunset?  Go HERE.
The prompt today is one of the prettiest words in the English language: silhouette.