The back door came unhinged in the hovel she lived in. so when she got back home from wherever she had been, there had been a kind intruder who sparkled up the place. Tidied up the dishes and polished up its face. Brightened up the house by cleaning all the glass— giving the mirrors and windows more than just a pass. Plumped up all the sofa cushions, scrubbed down all the floors. Polished all the bathroom fixtures, fixed all of the doors. Grime and dust and smudges that had grown over the years were abolished in one massive cleaning in arrears. Who the house fairy might have been, she never quite determined, but her house was clean and glowing, its corners all de-vermined. At first she was in shock and astonished at the brass of the home invasion, but then it came to pass that she kind of liked the order, the cleanliness and polish. She wondered who it was who might have come in to abolish all of her disorder, her smudginess and mess, replacing it with all this pristine loveliness. She never found the answer, but to encourage even more, for the whole rest of her life, she never locked the door!!!
She is my very oldest friend—I met her as a child. Then she was the feisty one while I was shy and mild. Diametric opposites, still we are never parted— one of us the loner, the other open-hearted.
She makes friends everywhere we go. I’d rather be alone. For all my hermit tendencies, she stirs me to atone. She thinks up the parties and though loath to go along, I give up my solitude to join the social throng.
We have coexisted throughout a lengthy life. I thrive when I am single. She wants to be a wife. When we are together, one must devour the other. One at a time we make the choice: single girl or mother?
One succeeds the other in a continual chain. As soon as one’s exhausted, the other shows again. Our relationship is infinite. Neither can break away. While she drinks all the shooters, I am the one to pay.
When I am the diligent student, she shares in all my glory. I get to write the manuscripts. She gets to live their story. One-by-one we take our turns determining our fate— one of us always timely. The other always late.
Perhaps our friends are tired of not knowing which will show— the one who’s energetic or the one of us who’s slow, but our very oldest friends will simply wait to see, knowing that whoever shows, either will be me.
This sonnet I wrote six years ago is an extended antonym of Shakespeare’s “Sonnet18,” written four hundred and ten years ago. I didn’t have many readers way back then at the beginning of my blog, so thought I’d repeat it here for the Sonnet challenge, along with Will’s original. Sorry, Will!!! And sorry. Although I often use enjambment in my poetry, I fear there is none here.
by Judy Dykstra-Brown
Shall I contrast thee to a winter’s night? Thou art less lovely and more tempestuous. The lack of wind doth still November’s empty stalks, Oe’r which the winter hath too long a power. Sometimes the too-cold moon hides ‘neath the clouds. Then rarely doth it’s pitted face shine forth; And dark from dark can sometimes rise, Spurred on by fate or providence’s static plan. But thy short winter shall soon pass away, Restore to thee the homeliness of death. Nor shall that birth that brought you forth to light Still claim thee when temporal time shall stop thy growth. As men lose breath and eyes lose sight, So dies this poem, and draws thee with it to thy grave.
by William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
From my time of birth up to my years septuagenarian, if it were my choice, I always chose to be riparian. I hate the sound of silence, for I find it rather static, but I love the sound of water, be it tidal or erratic.
A little water rushing by or falling from a height is lulling to my hearing and pleasing to my sight. It contributes to my happiness, creates a sense of calm— a sensory diversion that serves me as a balm.
So to add to my contentment, no need for feast or cake. Just plant me by a river or a waterfall or lake. All I need is just a little water in my view. If you want to make me happy, just provide the H20!!!
Click on any photo to enlarge all.
The prompt words today are erratic, feast, riparian and contribute. Here are the links:
By now you’ve read my oeuvre once or twice before. It’s bulging out of file cases, stacked upon the floor. It’s quickly filling up my blog and straying to the media. Soon I fear I must compose my own encyclopedia. It started out a habit but soon became compulsion. My housecleaner surveys my poems with undisguised revulsion. Spiders live within the files, cats use them for their beds, so they serve grander purposes than cluttering up heads. Perhaps someone could stop me with a cudgel or a gun, but lacking that, I fear that when my final poem is done, my heirs will have to market my oeuvre by the ton.
The prompt today was oeuvre. In case you’ve never encountered the word without its buddies hors and d’, used alone, oeuvre means the works of a painter, composer or author, regarded collectively.