Category Archives: Poem

Pied Beauty II

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Today’s prompt being “spoof,” I decided to resurrect this parody of Gerald Manley Hopkins’ poem “Pied Beauty,” one of my first blogs ever back in 2014:

Pied Beauty II

Thanks be to Sara Lee for appled things—
For pies, for apple fritters and for thin-rolled strudel crust;
For pastries of the fruit of Eve and sauce it swims within;
Fresh-cooked in ovens, how their sweet juice sings;
The sugar clotted and pierced— place it on plate we must;
And all taste, for how can tackling it be such a sin?

All things made of flour and Crisco and of apples sweet;
(How can they by nutritionists be so sorely cussed
With words professing they won’t make us thin?)
With their tart flavor are sure our lips to meet;
And meet again.

—Judy Dykstra-Brown

 

And now, the original:

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

–Gerard Manley Hopkins

 

The Ragtag prompt is spoof.

Unclear Agenda

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This poem, written thirteen years ago, chronicles a situation I encountered when I was trying to hire men in California to clear brush to help me ready my house for selling in the U.S.

The Daily Addictions prompt is Revenue.

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Note: It has come to my attention that the setting of this poem isn’t clear.  It is set in CA, U.S.A. and the initial character is American, as are the protesters.  The men standing outside the lumber yard are Mexicans looking for work. Thanks, Marilyn and Patti for letting me know that this was not clear.

Unclear Agenda

His denims worn and torn, his hair unshorn,
he sat on a fruit crate near a stop sign
on an exit road just off the California interstate.
“Will work for food,” his sign said, so I stopped.
“Jump in,” I said, and he looked confused.
“I have a city lot taken over by castor beans,” I told him.
“I’ll give you a meal and ten bucks an hour to clear them.”
“Lady, that would take me a day or more,” he said.
“I can make more than that in a few hours, just sitting…

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Some Cursory Comments

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Some Cursory Comments

My cursory comments I doubt will draw raves,
garner no compliments, create no waves.
Words cast to the wee hours have little wit.
It would be no loss if they never were writ.
And yet they keep coming, first one, then the next.
Doubtless their readers will be sorely vexed
to see that these lines here are nothing but fluff.
Cursory comments are rarely enough!!!

For Fandango’s Cursory prompt.

Blind Potential

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Blind Potential

This trail of salt reveals to me you’re led by superstition.
Eyes shut tight, you stumble on, following tradition.
Like a deer in headlights, you are blinded by the light
that others cast, refusing to be guided by insight.

There is a light inside you that will lead you much more surely.
That little nudge that prompts you will guide you more securely.
Trust that spark within you to tell you what to do.
You need not fear those  instincts you carry within you.

They are the wisdom of the universe, trying to get out.
If you do not heed their whisper, you may later hear their shout.
What you deem as accidents might be communication
from that inner part of you, prompting your education.

Although those outer voices may continue to deride,
trust your inner voices. They are firmly on your side.
What you find within you may be genius that’s unknown
that won’t come to fruition until it has been sown.

You are its only guardian. Only you can plant and tend
and bring these new world miracles to their fruitful end.
Do not let superstition or fear of the what could be
keep you from that within you that is your destiny.

 

The Ragtag prompt is superstition.
Fandango’s promt is fear.

I Just Can’t See Infinity

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I Just Can’t See Infinity

If my life was infinite,
no doubt I’d make a mess of it.
It’s hard enough to get it right—
to be law-abiding and polite—
for eighty or one hundred years.
We need time off for shifting gears.
Tyrants must get tired of
ruling the world with fisted glove,
and perfect folks must need deflection
from their lives of stark perfection.
Reincarnation is just right
for exchanging one life’s plight
for another set of woes.
For trying out some different clothes!
For giving us another chance
to trade in Omaha for France!!!
Let us be mortal. Let it be.
We do not need infinity!!!

The Daily Addictions prompt is infinite.

Stormy Thursday Doldrums

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Stormy Thursday Doldrums

I awoke to thunder all around,
skies clad in gray, no other sound.
My whole world tucked into itself,
the white cat on the bathroom shelf,
cuddled into once-folded towels.
The old cat hidden in the bowels
of my closet, seeking peace,
wishing this thundering would cease
so all the other cats could go
outside again so she could know
some peace of mind free from the rankles
of other cats around Mom’s ankles.

Now a lightning bolt that shakes
the house until it groans and quakes.
Unaccustomed to this morning storming
and these dense clouds so closely forming
cover that screens out the sun,
the cats and dogs wake, one-by-one,
but do not clamor for their food
as though this dense dark interlude
bonds us all within its shell,
each thunder clap a warning knell.

Safe within our selves we dwell,
these fears of nature there to quell.
The calicos are on the couch,
accomplices in ready crouch.
The dogs still in their beds, awake,
but still no breakfast demands make.
I fill their bowls and all awaken,
Kibble given. Kibble taken.

Shadows through Virginia creeper
reveal that each noisy cheeper
is now taking to the wing,
as in my waking everything
now comes to life and morning’s born.
Hibiscus opens to adorn
the greenery it’s held up by,
yet still the thunder fills the sky.

This rainy season’s thunderous might
was once sequestered by the night,
but now it’s taken over day,
sealing half the world away
under covers, wrapped up tight.
A car alarm now sounds its plight.
Dogs howl. The whole world now seems bent
on furnishing accompaniment
to that long timpani rumble—
constant loud and rolling mumble.
Perhaps this entire morning with be
a constant natural symphony.

In rain’s surcease, the young cats go
outside again to spots they know
where they can shelter from the rain,
knowing it will be back again.
The old cat remains, safely hidden
in her tumbled closet midden
of shawls pulled down from hangers for
a nest she’s built upon the floor.
We stay inside, protected from
this storm’s pelt and constant drum.

Time for snuggling close in bed,
pillows cushioning my head,
computer balanced on my knee
to furnish me with company.
The rain now beats on ceiling dome.
I’m glad that I am safe at home,
fortunate in its protection,
safe from this stormy day’s detection.
Safely here within my groove,
I will not stir. I will not move.
Only fingers softly tapping.
Later, perhaps, a bit of napping.

The Ragtag prompt was groove.
Fandango’s prompt was accomplice.

U.S.A.

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U.S.A.

Have we any doctrines? Have we any rules?
Are creeds and regulations simply meant for fools?
Has our common decency been voted away?
What of our Constitution? Has it become passé?
What would our founding fathers think, and what would they say?
Will loss of their declarations be the price we pay
for taking it for granted that liberty would thrive
so long as all our citizens managed to survive?
We always saw the threat outside—all those foreign men.
We never thought our country would be lost to those within.
Tell our air and water. Tell each foreign son.
Our doctrines and our principles seem to have come undone.

 

The Daily Addiction prompt is doctrine.

The Wings of Hummingbirds

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The Wings of Hummingbirds

They break my heart,
these delicate wings of hummingbird
strewn on my porch
with a tiny head displaying one beak,
one eye.

Stripped of adornment,
one slight hummingbird
would hardly make a meal for a cat—
especially one recently fed at my kitchen door. 

Where was I when this travesty
was committed,
carried out by  a cat
true to its nature
and therefore bearing no sin?

I was out back,
 filling the hummingbird feeder left by guests,
though I prefer the natural sight
of hummingbirds feeding at the aloe blossoms
or thunbergia or frangipani.
 
 In the fenced backyard,
the dogs create a territory safe from cats,
but what am I to do about the obelisco plant I love so much in front—
 the one spied every day with a new bloom
as I walk past it to my car? 
What’s to be done for the royal poinciana,
seventeen years old,
spreading its shelter over street and wall and front garden alike?
A dangerous draw in a yard frequented by cats.
What’s to be done?
Defrock the area they roam in to make it hummingbird-free?

That double-pronged nature of cats—
their beauty and their savagery––
displayed so vividly in man himself of late––
 can it be anything but plan?
And to what purpose?
We love the ways of nature but turn our back on half of them,
hoping they will not be demonstrated in our lives.
Until that one last fatal claw of fate descends upon us
and we fall into that scheme, resisting,
but our efforts futile.

Why are endings necessary?
Why must our hearts be broken
 time and again
before they themselves are the breaking thing
and we pass into nature,
undivided, part of a whole both savage and tragic in its beauty. 
Here is the hummingbird whole.
 The cat whole.
Here are we, whole, observing them.
That has to be enough. 
The now. This look.
This touch. This satiation for the moment.
The hummingbird before the slaughter,
the bone before the break.

Quintessential Gentleman

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Quintessential Gentleman

He was the quintessential gentleman with tie correctly knotted.
Whenever he entered a room, the women were besotted.
Every Grande Dame had him on her dining list,
while all their daughters secretly were yearning to be kissed.

Little girls adored him and their mothers preened and fussed.
When they knew he’d be there, even  grandmas showed up trussed.
Artists painted his portrait. Sculptors sculpted his form.
Everywhere he went, slavish attention was the norm.

Every woman on the subway seemed to hope he would accost her,
and every social circle had him topmost on their roster.
All in vain, for every single mother, grandma, sister
was not even in the running, for he preferred a mister.

 

Fandango’s prompt word today is quintessential.

Coffee with No Ceremony

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Coffee With No Ceremony

I lived in Addis Ababa adjoining Mexico Square.
I ate injera every day. Had cornrows in my hair.
I thought I knew it all, and though my language skills were poor,
I knew enough Amharic to get by in any store.

Seated in a circle, on low stools around a flame,
We watched Demekech fan the fire—this ritual the same
in every house and every village all throughout the land.
The thick and sludgy coffee was always ground by hand.

Boiled in a clay carafe, then set aside to brew
as in another little pot, some corn kernels she threw.
The popcorn taken from the flame, the colo nuts were next.
Except—we found that we had none, and we were sorely vexed.

The coffee jug was sealed up with a fresh-wound plug of grass
ready for the pouring, but one aspect of our mass
was missing, so I said I’d go to buy some at the souk,
lest our hospitality give reason for rebuke.

These little shops were many, lining both sides of the street;
and at each one, I knew the custom—always did I greet
the owner with proper respect, and always, he said, “Yes!”
when I asked if he had colo, but I couldn’t guess

why no one ever seemed to want to sell any to me.
Always the same reaction—first the shock and then the glee.
So, finally, I walked back home. My failure I admitted.
Departing, I had felt so smart, but now I felt half-witted.

What had I done wrong? I knew that every shop had colo.
The problem must have been that I had gone to get them solo!
Returning empty-handed, I felt I was to blame.
Coffee without colo was a pity and a shame.

But my roommate and our guests and cook were really most surprised.
I must have asked for something else than colo, they surmised.
What did I ask for? When I told them, they dissolved in laughter.
They said that I was lucky not to get what I asked after.

For colo had two meanings, depending on the stress
put on the first syllable, and I had made a mess.
Instead of nuts, they told me (and this was just between us,)
I had asked each souk owner—if he had a penis!

(This is a true story of only one of the gaffes I became famous for in the year and a half I taught and traveled in Ethiopia in the period leading up to the revolution that deposed Haile Selassie.) I published this four years ago but I think few were around then to read it, so here it comes again as I think it is a good example of how far I’m willing to go to extend a little hospitality.

 

 

 

 

The Ragtag prompt today is hospitable.