Category Archives: Poem

Breath

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fright Night.” What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?

Breath

Although it feels to me that my main fear is fear of death,
I think what I really fear is the loss of breath.
For when I have night panics that drive me bolt upright,
it isn’t so much fear of darkness brought on by the night,
as it is my fear of something  cutting off my air.
It  is thoughts of smothering that I cannot bear.

The very thing that makes me fight the snorkel mask and rise
above alluring water worlds for a view of skies
(and all the breaths they bring with them–breaths more easily won
when not underwater, but out here in the sun)
is what causes fear of death––that last futile grasp
to hold on to all of life with one final gasp.

Life is so incredible, I don’t want it to end;
for I have no idea at all what’s waiting round the bend.
At times a flash of memory reveals a bygone life
filled with superstition, violence and strife.
If that is what’s in front of me in a new incarnation,
I’d like to miss out on that life and take a small vacation

from all the karma has in store if my next life is worse,
with no time for leisure––no time for blogs or verse––
then oblivion may not be the worst thing that could be.
Perhaps then I could just accept that there will be no me.
Give in to fate and realize I’m just a part of all.
that recycles and recycles–guided by death’s call.

Leavings

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Leavings

Do I walk the long kilometers of beach
to look for the next shell
or stand stable, like that woman
casting and recasting her hook,
patiently waiting to pull her world in to her?

I’m gathering things
that I’ll collect into stories–
pinning them down to use like words.
Nothing wrong in finding meaning
through a piece of driftwood, a stone or shell.
Objects are only things
we cast our minds against
like images against a screen–
a shadow glimpsed crossing a window shade.

My shadow cast in front of me
is such a different thing
from one I cast behind.
In the first, I am constantly hurrying
to catch up to what I’ll never catch up to.
In the other, I am leaving behind
what I can only keep by walking away from it.

I take this place along with me in clear images–
not as they were, but as my mind has cast them;
so every picture taken of the same moment is different,
each of us seeing it through our unique lens.
We cast these things in bronze or silver-gelatin,
stone, clay or poetry.
A grandma holds out pictures of her children
and her grandchildren. See? Her life’s work.
And then this and this, without further effort on her part.

I share stories of children I don’t know
who gently unwind fishing line from a struggling gull,
hearts found on the beach
or other treasures nestled in a pile of kelp.
I find my world in both these findings and departings;
the leaving each morning to go in search of them
the part I find most exhilarating–
perhaps teaching this woman
of the death-themed night-terrors
not to worry.
That longer leaving is just a new adventure.

People who do not remember let me slip away
when I would have held on, given any encouragement.
Yet fingers, letting go, flex for that next adventure.

Life is all of us letting go constantly–
taking that next step away from and to.
A white shell. I have left it there
turned over to the brown side,
so someone else can discover it, too.

This is a rewrite of an earlier poem, in response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “If You Leave.”Life is a series of beginnings and endings. We leave one job to start another; we quit cities, countries, or continents for a fresh start; we leave lovers and begin new relationships. What was the last thing you contemplated leaving? What were the pros and cons? Have you made up your mind? What will you choose?

“Mending Pants”–Parody of “Mending Wall” by Robert Frost

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Snark Bombs, Away!” Try your hand at parody or satire — take an article, film, blog post, or song you find misguided, and use humor to show us how.

I must warn that my parody of Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall” is a bit risque, so if you are offended by a mildly off-color parody, please skip this one. If you are intrigued, however, go HERE.

Our Lady of Forgetfulness

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Version 2                                                       Our Lady of Forgetfulness

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A True Saint.” In 300 years, if you were to be named the patron saint of X, what would you like X to be? Places, activities, objects — all are fair game.

Find my saintly self-confession HERE.

No News is Bad News

As I eat my morning toast,
I like to read the Morning Post.
But often, once my toast is browned,
The Morning Post’s not to be found.
I brew the coffee and have a cup,
willing the newsboy to show up.

As I eat my morning eggs,
my husband sputters, nags and begs
until I fantasize a muzzle.
He wants his morning crossword puzzle!
Yet that newsboy still delays
as breakfast passes without a phrase.

We leave for work sad and bereft,
looking to the right and left.
My husband prods and pokes and pushes
in case the news lies in the bushes,
but only finds an errant bee
and a missing front door key.

All day that sense of loss still lingers
as I crave newsprint on my fingers.
Somehow the day just isn’t nice
when it passes without advice.
No comics page? No horoscope?
All day I sit alone and mope.

Others ‘round me may be seen
watching news upon a screen.
But it isn’t quite the same,
so please excuse me while I blame
my bad mood once more on the kid
who brings the news––but never did!

By evening when I arrive home,
that rolled up, backless, coverless tome
has finally shown up by our door;
but day-old news is just a bore,
and comics read to a setting sun
somehow do not seem so fun.

As our puppy greets me, paws and muzzle,
I extract the crossword puzzle,
then smooth the rest and scoop it up
to place it under our wiggly pup
who lifts his leg and pees upon it.
News is not made to sup on it!

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Connect the Dots.” ––Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.

In Spite of Our Wishes for All Good

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The real world is complex and sometimes none of the choices we have are good ones. If Attila the Hun is coming through, it’s not a matter of being moral. It’s kill or be killed.
                                                                                                                –Theodore Postol

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In Spite of Our Wishes for All Good

It seems for every good in life, there exists an evil.
Tomatoes suffer mildew and cotton has its weevil.
As north has south and light has dark, it seems the world is run
by drought balanced with rainfall and dark replacing sun.

It isn’t how we’d have it if the choice were up to us.
Who wouldn’t rather have the joys of life without the fuss?
But anima and animus and yin and yang are what
seem to keep our lives out of the same old rut.

As much as we might put off death if we had our druthers,
without it there would be no room for more sisters and brothers.
Would that the inevitable could just be delayed,
the game would turn out more like we wish it could be played,

but somehow the world’s demons like Isis and Attila
are the bitter flavors that balance the vanilla.
The words I write are hard to take when evil in this world
is visited on those we love and sadness is unfurled.

We all agree it isn’t fair that one should have good luck
while others suffer pain and sadness, buried in the muck.
Many try to change it but the changes never stay.
Night often cancels out what we’ve achieved by light of day.

The religious live on faith, but others curse the day
that they were born into a world that’s so suffused by gray.
For light and dark are always mixed in varying combinations.
Each day we choose our focus: good or abominations.

Those who focus on the bad confront it for us while
those others of us plant the crops and fix the broken stile.
Some preserve the joys of life while others fight the ills.
Some swallow the honey and the others bitter pills.

In this as well we find that nature provides opposites.
Some farm in the highlands while the others mine the pits.
But all are necessary for the progress of the whole,
for as the world keeps spinning, it functions as a bowl

filled with all the opposites the universe provides––
that force that makes it necessary that we all choose sides
and pull or push to keep the carousel securely spinning.
It would seem that in the good life, there must also be some sinning.


About the Picture:  I just wrote this as a comment to a friend on Facebook who said she liked the picture above.  After I’d posted it I decided others might be interested in the story, so here it is:

  • Since I have a bad reaction to the sun, I get up at 6 and walk on the beach in the dark, then return by the time the sun comes up over the buildings and trees, so there are very few people on the beach when I walk. This stranger I’d passed on the beach a few times came up one of my last days there and pressed a starfish into my hand…small, orange, beautiful and yes, dead. He said he’d had three for me the day before but hadn’t seen me and asked where I was. This from an utter stranger who I guess had noticed me picking things up each day and stowing them in my bag. I still have the starfish. Yes good things happen.

    Actually, I had been frightened when I saw him from far away carrying a machete because a madwoman had attacked my neighbor the day before and I couldn’t see who it was and was afraid it was she…I was getting ready to jump in the ocean and swim out from the shore when I realized it was not a woman but a man with the machete! And felt relief. What a funny juxtaposition of normal fears. And then after all that, he gave me that wonderful and thoughtful gift. This is why I chose this photo to illustrate my poem.

Wicked witch. Today’s Prompt: Wicked Witch–Write about evil: how you understand it (or don’t), what you think it means, or a way it’s manifested, either in the world at large or in your life.

THE NATURE OF PERFECTION

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Random Thoughts on the Nature of Perfection

Everything in the natural order is perfect.
If you doubt this,
look closely at any flower
or consider the workings
of any animal,
including man.

Each part of nature is so intricately bound up
in the web of it all that its perfection
is only a small part of the whole.
Man makes the mistake of overlooking this
as he pokes and prods and institutes changes
in the natural order.
What man believes is of benefit to himself
is not necessarily of benefit
to the whole cycle of interdependence,
and it may not even be of benefit to himself.

PERFECTION

Potentially,
Every
Reaching
For
Excellence
Contains
This.
It’s
Opposite?
Nadir.

But all perfection is not to be aimed for.
There is perfect evil in the world
as well as perfect beauty
or perfect kindness.

If everything in the natural order is perfect.
In seeking to alter nature, it is man who has created imperfection.
Monsanto is the enemy of perfection.

MONSANTO

Perfect
Evil
Rebounds
From
Every
Can
That
Is
Opened
Now.

Perfection is best observed very close by and very far away.

Here is a printable list of Monsanto owned companies: http://www.realfarmacy.com/printable-list-of-monsanto-owned-food-producers/

https://promptlings.wordpress.com/2015/09/29/the-sandbox-writing-challenge-8-what-is-your-idea-of-perfection/

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Life’s a Candy Store.” You are a 6 year old again How would you plan a perfect day?

Version 2My dad and I at the Deer Huts when I was about 3.

Black Hills Reverie

My dad is coming with us–he doesn’t have to work.
Corn muffins in the oven, and coffee on the perk.
It’s orange juice for sis and me.  I take a little sip.
We woke up really early to start out on a trip.
We’re going to the Black Hills where we will spend the night.
We’ll start out just as soon as we have had a little bite.
We’ll stop to pick up my best friend who will go along
They’ve let me plan the whole long day, so nothing will go wrong.
En route we’ll stop at Wall Drug and have an ice cream cone,
then drive on through the Badlands, as dry as any bone.
My dad will sing a song for us–“Lonesome Mountain Bill”–
and let up on the gas petal as we crest the hill
to give our stomachs all a lurch and a little flutter.
My mom will say “Oh Ben!” and then my older sis will mutter.
But Rita and I love  this trick and we will urge another–
an action nixed first by my sis and then by my mother.

We’ll stop at Petrified Gardens and see the fossils there,
buy rose quartz and mica and other rock chips rare.
Then on to Reptile Gardens where they wrestle crocodiles,
to ride on giant turtles and view other reptiles.
We stop next at the Cosmos where gravity’s gone amuck.
We’re doing everything I wish. I can’t believe my luck!
On to old Rockerville Ghost town where we have our dinner.
If I resisted cherry pie I know I would be thinner,
but with a scoop of ice cream it really is delicious.
Just try to keep it from me–I’m likely to turn vicious!
Next we drive the pigtails, where the road just curls and curls
passing over and over and thrilling three small girls.
We’re going to see Mt. Rushmore–those giant perfect faces.
Perhaps we’ll buy a souvenir if we’re in Dad’s good graces.
Then on to drive Custer State park with the begging burros.
We’ve saved some treats from Rushmore–some peanuts and some churros.

Back to Rockerville we go for supper and a show.
The “Mellerdrammer” (sic) is the place where we’re going to go
to hiss the villain from the crowd, throw peanuts at his back
as he ties the heroine to the railroad track.
Then drive the seven miles to my favorite sleeping place,
though mother doesn’t like it, and she makes a funny face.
“The Deer Huts” are just cabins right up in the trees
and we have to use the outhouse to take our bedtime pees.
We get to walk with flashlights and pick our way with care,
through the ponderosas, where perchance we’ll meet a bear!
I love the moonlit shadows and the night bird calls,
being extra careful to avoid stumbles and falls.
Sometimes we fake the need to pee to take another walk,
and on the way my friend and I walk slowly as we talk
of all the things my parents have let us do today.
We both agree that this has been a perfect sort of day.

 daily life color076 (4)My sister Patti and I in the Black Hills, age 7 and 11.

 In South Dakota, lunch was dinner and dinner was supper.  For the sake of authenticity, I’ve maintained the custom in this description of a child’s perfect day.

Yin and Yang

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                                               Yin and Yang

I wrote about Yin and Yang in a much earlier post that hardly any of my present followers read. Go here to read that poem: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2014/06/21/changing-lines/

*https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/yin-to-my-yang/

Lunar Eclipse #1

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Since we also had a full Lunar Eclipse in 2014, I’m reblogging a poem I wrote for the first one. The photos are also from that eclipse.  I was able to capture the full eclipse last time, but the cloud cover prevented that this time.  I did capture it for most of its cycle, however, and you can view tonight’s pictures HERE.

                                                                     Lunar Eclipse

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Lunar Eclipse

Last night I rose to watch the full eclipse––
a blood orange moon, full in the dark night sky,
around it, scattered stars and tall palm tips.

It was as though in this world, only I
watched the last fingernail of glowing moon,
chewed at by shadow, slowly wane and die.

And then the night birds with their lonely croon
gave timbre to this darkened night soon joined
by lonely burro, braying for the moon

as though they mourned for vision now purloined
or simply sang for joy of adding to
the beauty of this dark moon newly coined.

Then once again the moon’s edge came to view.
Earth moved aside in favor of the sun
and for an hour, I watched as moonlight grew.

Then sought my bed, the pageant not yet done,
as light increased and shadow slowly waned.
Inevitably, once more light had won.

The ending known, no mystery remained.

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Our prompt today was to write a poem in terza rima, a form invented by Dante and used in The Divine Comedy. It consists of three-line stanzas, with a “chained” rhyme scheme. The first stanza is ABA, the second is BCB, the third is CDC, and so on. No particular meter is necessary, but English poets have tended to default to iambic pentameter. One common way of ending a terza rima poem is with a single line standing on its own, rhyming with the middle line of the preceding three-line stanza.

Here is a link to the pictures I took of the lunar eclipse on September 27 & 28 of 2015! https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/09/27/eclipse-of-the-blood-moon-over-mexico/