Category Archives: Poem

Wrecking My Ping

 

Image (This is the actual result of my speed test after I turned off the VPN.)

Wrecking My Ping

“I don’t know what to make of ping,”
he told me, simply answering
my question of the difference
and, in truth, my inference
that he would know the answer and
as usual would take a hand
in clarifying one time more
what a speed test measures for
and what they had to do with “ping”
and downloading and uploading
and whether one point twenty three
was enough download for me
and whether zero point six seven
would get me into upload heaven
and what this ping stuff had to do
with starts and stops that ruined my view
of films that I had hoped to stream
that only made me want to scream
because they came in fits and starts,
ruining all my favorite parts!

Are they adequate, I asked?
His scorn was only partly masked
as he admitted they weren’t at all.
“And ping?” I asked him this last thing.
and he was quick in answering,
“I don’t know what to make of ping,”

Ping Fact (Addendum)

These numbers are the actual,
although they aren’t the factual
upload feeds
nor download speeds,
for I forgot to disconnect
the VPN and so I wrecked
results of loading speed and ping,
but I was apt in my rhyming
which only goes to show a poet
is not a techie, so now you knowet!

 

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt, the word is Wreck

“Underworld” for dVerse Poets Magical Realism Prompt, Apr 20, 2025

 

Underworld

Under the sand are palaces. I’ve seen them in my dreams:
vast halls and empty chambers smoothly rounded at their seams.
Every wall is made of sand. Each ceiling, archway, floor––
as though carved by master craftsmen, digging at its core––
is so magnificent, you’d think they were the stuff of lore.
You may also see them, but you must provide the door.

Though the chambers are filled in, they’re there without a doubt.
You are the one creating them by what you will scoop out.
The beauty’s hidden in the sand, waiting in your sleep
for you to dig the castles out from where they’re buried deep.
All your day’s exhaustion your dream labor will abort,
for what you build in slumber is work of a different sort.

Sand brought to the surface is what you get to keep
of subterranean palaces dug out in your sleep.
As you build aboveground castles in the world that we all know,
you reveal the outward structure of the inner rooms below,
furnishing the magic that the world will see through you,
showing what’s inside of you by what you bring to view.

for dVerse Poets: Magic Realism
Image:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ra_Paulette

To see more poems go HERE

“Revolution” For the Sunday Whirl Wordle 703

Revolution

You’ve staged a friendly takeover of my willing heart,
and now you hold the power to upset the apple cart.
You are the despot of my dreams, plotter of all my hopes.
You share that flashy facade of other misanthropes.
By accepting without judgment all your base instruction,
I complied with your deception and shared in my destruction.
You are the low point of my life and now I must be free
to leave that life you cast me in to see what I can be.

For the Sunday Whirl Wordle 703 the words are:
flashy facades free takeover destruction power despots low hope heart hold how

Unruly Punctuation!!! for SOCS Apr 18, 2025

Please note that I’ve used the punctuation marks in place of the words that describe them, so in reading the poem, you need to pronounce each mark. For ! say exclamation mark.  For. say period.

Unruly Punctuation

When a guy driving a GMC
swoops into line in front of me
and takes the place I meant to park,
I use an !

While the ,’s made for multi-tasking,
in a sentence meant for asking,
there has to be a ?
lest readers be left in the dark.

An ! is fine
when simply put at end-of-line,
but,
too many (quite a fault of mine)
bring out the punctuation narcs
to ban those !!!!!!!!!!

Those abounding in . . .
are labeled punctuation gypsies
because they don’t know when to stop.
So please call in a grammar cop.

I must admit that I am rash
and tend to overuse the .
What’s more, my editor goes crazy
when I forget or just get lazy.
His eyes bug out, his face goes red
when I make use of  instead.

The . is the simplest mark.
At sentence end it’s meant to park.
It’s always put where it is best
to let the sentence come to rest,
and no one puts it elsewhere lest
the reader is put to the test
to search from clause to clause to clause
to figure out where he can pause.

When I think of rhymes for ,
only strange words like pajama
are what come to mind—or llama—
or words not to the point, like “mama;”
so I’ll just say the Oxford ,
is like MAGA folks to Obama.
If his (and my) advice is heeded,
it will be clear that they’re not needed!!!

The purpose of the 
is as clear as it can be:
Judy’s car or Judy’s house,
Judy’s dog or Judy’s spouse.
Yet, when the pronoun enters in,
it is the biggest grammar sin
to use apostrophes for possession
(although I’ll make this hard confession
that often I, unthinkingly,
will write it’s where it never fits.)
It’s in possession should be its!)
“It’s” only used as a contraction.
(It’s a faction, but not it’s faction.)

I think I may conduct a poll on
: versus ;
Which one separates two clauses,
signaling those longer pauses;
and which one signifies a list?
I’m sure that you have got the gist
of which is which—where each should go
to end this punctuation woe.

( ) mark an aside, much as amight do,
Like “ ”, they’re paired. You always must use two.
Which brings us to the  that joins a compound word.
You never put a space in. To do so is absurd.
You should not use it as a dash with spaces on each side.
That is an antique usage that I simply can’t abide.

Yet if you choose to Google some of the rules here,
there will be discrepancies from site to site, I fear.
What I say they’ll question. They’ll support what I must pan.
So I can only say that I’ve accomplished what I can.
In spite of all my studying, despite my dedication—
I find that few agree on rules applied to punctuation!!!!

 

Here’s my response for SOCS: Our Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “exclamation.’” Add an exclamation mark to your title or the first word/sentence of your post and just keep writing. Have fun!

“Before and After” for NaGloWriMo

Before and After

We follow different orbits. We dislike each other’s friends.
When we are together, the confusion never ends.
Though I respect your choices, I fear they’re never mine.
I’ve strolled a crooked pathway. You’re rarely out of line.

You have a place within my heart but we rarely phone.
We each chose a direction and wandered off alone
collecting lives around us where the other does not fit.
We’ve analyzed our friendship and found the end of it.

Have we made the right decision, or should friendship never end?
Is it wrong to leave old friends behind as we round the bend?
It’s hard to keep momentum when pulling a long train,
and holding onto everyone we’ve once loved is inane.

When you’ve somehow lost the trust that you thought would last forever,
and when you’re simply bored by one you once found fun and clever,
sometimes we have to face the fact we’ve loved someone in vain
and all the joys we shared are ones we will not share again.

 

For NaGloWriMo #17 we were to write an Ekphrastic poem on Friendship based on paintings by Remedios Varo or Leonora Carrington.

Purple Passion for Sunday Stills, Apr 16, 2025

Click on photos to enlarge.

I couldn’t resist including this Purple Prose;

Purple Prose

  Grandma grinds plums in her conical grinder, shredding the flesh from the pits. Under the table, my little brother sits, purple around his mouth from taste-testing the plums he no doubt earlier helped her pick. A stream of sugar on the table is a roadway for tiny black ants.

My father pushes a cooling cup of Postum closer to my grandmother as he resumes the story I’ve interrupted. It is another “Deafy Sterner” story, and he emulates the high explosive accent of this man from his past that I’ve never met, yet know so well.

I dash to my room, having just minutes to prepare for the dance before my car full of friends arrives, honking the horn. My Grandmother begins another story about the old country as I tear off my school jeans. I dress in their stories—patterned and purple as night.

For Sunday Stills, the challenge is any color of purple.

“The Stories Held by Things” Reblog by Silver Birch Press

Wanted to give a link for Silver Birch Press  who reblogged one of my poems for their online journal.  Thanks to them for including my work along with other poems on the subject of “favorite things.” Here is the link:  https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2025/04/13/the-stories-held-by-things-by-judy-dykstra-brown-my-favorite-things-series/

 

 

And here are two more links for “Favorite Things” posts: https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2025/04/12/the-edelweiss-by-marieta-maglas-my-favorite-things-series/

April Showers Bring May Flowers by Karen Chappell April showers bring May flowers, 

“Jammed Up Creativity” for SOCS

Jammed-Up Creativity

Dark genius sits there pondering and staring at the screen.
His features in reflected light glow a sickly green.
He works his cyber screwdriver slightly to the right.
His only tool––the keyboard––is his weapon in this fight
as every blog on WordPress skews slightly all at once.
He’ll show his third grade teacher for calling him a dunce!

He tugs a little here and there, adjusting cyber screws.
And just for fun, he adds a few zeroes to my views.
He knows that I am watching and he senses my excitement.
He chuckles that my false success has been at his incitement.
Then he shuts down the internet––Facebook, WordPress, Twitter.
and my seconds of great happiness turn just as quickly bitter.

Bloggers the world over are turned back onto themselves.
Photos trapped in media files or stacking up on shelves.
No place to reach out for a friend for shut-ins who, once freed
to roam a universe of blogs now sit in dire need
of someone just to talk to. To realize they are there.
They sit staring at their screens, though all of them are bare.

Week after week we wait for our deliverance from this blight.
We miss the internet all day, and even more at night.
I’m thinking about former friends, now lost across the miles,
tripping over poetry surrounding me in piles,
thirsting after comments about every brand new thought.
Having no fast outlet, my brain feels like it’s caught.

Bound up in old creations that have no place to go,
with no easy outlet, the thoughts are coming slow.
Jammed up creativity is worse than constipation,
for writing with no readers is just mental masturbation.
It’s true that I have friends to call and writers’ groups as well.
But they have not the patience to hear all I have to tell.

A blog gives me an avenue to fill out a whole world
with thoughts that for a lifetime, I’ve kept inside, tightly furled.
For those of us who always have felt slightly alone,
the Interweb has seemed a placed created to atone.
In the darkened hours when others are asleep,
we live that midnight life we’ve kept within us, buried deep.

History moves ever onward despite glacier, war or flood.
We see it trailed behind us in footprints etched in blood.
So we’ll survive the cyber war when it comes to pass
by spending more time with our friends, calmly smoking grass
or sharing drinks at Starbucks, devoid of texts or apps,
but we’ll miss our midnight family filling in the gaps.

 

For SOCS the prompt is Jam

That Point for dVerse Poets Open Link, Apr 10, 2025

IMG_0895
That Point

It was at that age
of worrying about others,
of feeling not enough,
of looking for a pattern that was myself
that I put words down,
fearing them
or if not them, fearing those who read them.

At that age when I didn’t know what I thought,
I was astonished that the hand that wrote
knew more than I did
and taught that I must be brave,
fearless on the page in a way I had not yet learned to be in life
so that I became a writer to teach myself.
To have someone I trusted as a guide.

It was at that age when I wanted to be admired––
that age when I sought to be loved––
that age when I yearned to be thought a thinker,
important, listened to––
that I was somehow encouraged to listen to myself.

There are these times we are led to by life
that become turning points
so long as we continue.
That sentence. That first sentence stretching
into the future, into now.

I’m republishing this poem from 2016 for the dVerse Poets Krisis (Turning Point) theme. April 12, 2025 on Open Link Night, Apr 10, 2025

 

“Two Voices” for the W3 Challenge.

“Sisterly Squabbles”

A little weep, a little sigh,
a little teardrop in each eye.

Grandma Jane and her sister Sue,
one wanted one hole, the other, two

punched into their can of milk.
(All their squabbles were of this ilk.)

The rest, of course, is family fable.
They sat, chins trembling, at the table.

When my dad entered, we’ve all been told,
their milk-less coffee had grown cold.

For the W3 Challenge. this is the prompt: Two voices. Two perspectives. Tension lingers in the air. Can they find common ground? Will the conversation spark understanding or fracture further? You decide.Write a poem—any form, or none at all—that captures the heart of a difficult conversation.

My grandmother and her sister had a lifetime of such “differences.” It might have begun due to the events  revealed to me by my Aunt Stella, my grandmother’s daughter. Years after the deaths of both my grandmother and her sister,  I had asked my dad’s sister why there seemed to be so much antagonism between my grandmother and her sister, whom we called “Aunt Susie,” even though she was really our great aunt.  My Aunt Stella, a good church lady, revealed to me then what she thought was the crux of their antagonism.  My grandmother had, before my grandfather, been married to a different man whom she never ever mentioned to us, although her sister Margaret had mentioned him on occasion to us as *”That Black Devil!”  Grandma had one daughter with that husband, my Aunt Margie, but then divorced him and married my grandfather and had two more children, my father and my Aunt Stella, who told me the following tale.  It seems as though Aunt Susie once visited my grandmother and “The Black Devil” in their tiny one-bedroom house. When bedtime came, there was only one choice…one bed..and so of course they all three shared it.  “But, my  aunt said, unfortunately, my grandmother made the mistake of putting her husband in the middle and during the night, she woke up and found he and her sister were, well, um…they were having sexual intercourse!”  That was perhaps the only time in her life my Aunt Stella ever said those words and the fact that she told me was amazing.  No one else in my family had ever heard this story but we had surely all wondered why in that time when divorce was unheard of, my grandmother had chosen to divorce “That Black Devil.”  Years later, when I chose to go to a family reunion of my Aunt Margie’s family, all descendants of that “Black Devil,” (although I don’t think any of them ever met him since my Aunt Margie was raised by my grandmother and her second husband who had moved the family from Iowa to South Dakota) none of them had never heard the story, either. It certainly would explain, however, the lifetime of nit-picky bickering between my grandmother and her sister.

*  In calling my grandma’s first husband, “That Black Devil,” my Aunt Margaret was describing his soul as black, not his skin.