Category Archives: Poem

Within

]

Within

External episodes are thrilling
but may not be half so chilling
as other splendors that reside
within ourselves—so deep inside
that they may be unmapable
because they are not palpable
to anyone except ourselves.
They’re mysteries that science delves
by means of psychotherapy.
They seek the treasures that may be
hidden in us, but so deep
we think they’re secrets that we keep.
It’s where we go in poetry—
exploring places we can’t see
unless we voice them lingually.

Prompt words are splendour, episode, chilling, palpable and external.

 

Obituary of a Jerk: Wordle 521, Oct 3, 2021

 


The Obituary of a Jerk

We are loath to depict his despicable face,
for when it came to living, he just used up space.
He first saw to his own comfort all of his life,
never thinking of kids or parents or wife.
No slur to his family was ever avenged.
He had little time as he gorged and he binged.

One never knew if he could or he couldn’t.
Maybe he would or maybe he wouldn’t
get places on time, even given a ticket—
advance plans “a bit of the old sticky wicket.”
A fact all his family found a bit lame,
for he wasn’t British—in lineage or name.

And no matter how crammed the sofa might get,
he’d never stand when he found he could sit.
He’d say “Pull up a chair,” and when you had done it,
he’d use it himself–just plop his buns on it!
And although you may think that’s as bad as it gets,
don’t make any wagers. Don’t take any bets.

I’ve got so many stories depicting his greed
that you’d have to stay here for hours to read
the tales of his excesses, selfishness, binging.
They’re unbelievable–really unhinging.
He frittered away his kids’ college savings
on fishing trips, camping and personal cravings.

Their summer earnings bought his new car,
then he spent all the rest for rounds at the bar.
So  when it comes to expressing our grief,
you’ll find all his eulogies startlingly brief.
He was born and he prospered, then sickened and perished
unmourned and ungrieved-for, unloved and uncherished.

 

For the Sunday Whirl Wordle 521 the prompt words were avenge, lame, sit, ticket, cram, here, gets, pulls, maybe, used, space, comfort

Mr. Know and Do-It-All

Mr. Know and Do-It-All

When it comes to puzzles, I solve every one.
It’s just a small part of my regular fun.
I can do cryptic, obscure if you wish.
Give me a recipe, I’ll cook the dish.
My stew is nutritious, delicious and stirrable
No job you give will I find insuperable.

Difficult tasks are why I exist.
Tell an obscure joke. I’ll discover the gist.
Problems excite me. Mysteries make me shiver.
I’m the proverbial solution giver.
What is impossible pushes my button.
Give me a live sheep and I’ll give you mutton.

Since I’ve gotten older, I’ve barely slowed down.
My feats are historic all over this town.
I am the one that unlocks keyless doors.
I’ve driven off bandits and outbored known bores.
Once you push my button, I’ll go ’til I’m done.
for I’m the proverbial “call upon” one!

Prompt words are cryptic, historic, shiver, insuperable and button.

A Wild Redemption


A Wild Redemption

Sick of this world,
I take a morning walk
up a nearby mountain trail I’ve long neglected.

As I trudge the uphill path,
I wave good-bye to those figments of reality
that are but squatters in my brain—
invasive memories
that by their constant presence
have proclaimed themselves to be
the intrinsic truths of our world.

I blame the internet
for choosing what we see
and those fools we meet there
whom otherwise
we’d never have occasion to listen to.

The path is rough
with dirt and grass,
rubbled by rough stones
like uncut gems.

Abandoned sneakers
crown a pile of 
drying palm fronds,
as though they’ve been parted from their legs
much as the palm fronds have been
severed from their trees.

Banks of golden flowers
form walls on

either side,
then give way to

stalks of purple blooms
with saffron tongues
and multi-colored clover.
The white bands of butterflies
striped like zebras
announce their presence in the shade,

and even the litter
is fallen flowers.

In the path lies
the circular mounded artistry of ants

that signals that new and private world
they’ve cleared out for themselves below.

Too soon, and long before I would have turned
to renegotiate a path now sloped downwards,
a closed gate either forgotten
or new since I last passed this way
so many years before,
turns me homewards,
past the abandoned shoes

and fallen trees turning into soil,
past the orange blooms of a tabachine tree,
past stone walls
and cobblestones.
and more contained beauty.

The runoff from last night’s rain
shoots from the drain that pierces a high stone wall.
Mushrooms grow on a woodpile

beneath the bright yellow of a neighbor’s tabachine,
and a split-open pomegranate
from my own tree
forms a happy face, welcoming me home


as my across-the-street neighbor’s
new small dog,
unaccustomed to me,

barks out her protest
of this interloper
who has been newly saved
by the reality
of the wild beauty
of our world
that was here
before we came,

has been here
all along,

and will
remain
after we leave.

This is the more constant truth of the world,
and I return home
to create a reminder of it.


To see photos of the walk, click Here and then click on each photo
to enlarge it and advance to an enlarged view of the rest of the photos. (An abridged version of this poem is given as captions to explain the photos but omits some of the above stanzas.)

Prompt words today are wave, figment, blame, intrinsic and sick.

Beholding Beauty

Beholding Beauty

You are the Burmese cat, stepping high
over the small sculptures
on the wall where he is fed,
his tail curving into a delicate hook.

You are vibrating leaves on the hibiscus tree
adding the contrast of green
to the one exquisite yellow bloom
with its fuchsia sunset middle.

You are a child whose violet eyes
open wider to each wonder––innocent,
never knowing yourself to be more beautiful
than what you observe.

You are music, harmonious, played
on the spur-of-the-moment with no rehearsal,
fingerpaints on the wall in an incredibly wild pattern
that could not have been planned.

You are the gourmet meal
made of leftovers from the fridge,
the wonderful costume gathered
from hangers at the thrift store.

You have a beauty
you were not born to––
one that is an amalgam
of every choice you make in life.

Beauty is in the eye
of the beholder, many say,
but it is impossible to imagine
a beholder who couldn’t see it in you.

 

For dVerse Poets Open Link Night.

At 74

At 74

After all the rushing, the extremes and the thrills,
After all the ups and downs, declivities and hills,
I’ve shot enough wild rivers, forded my last rill.
I do not mind the still life, that cup that I must fill.

Though my pace has slackened, still I do not stop
filling up my cup until it’s reached the top.
If it then spills over, what more can I ask?
Dealing with the overflow will be a welcome task.

 

Prompt words today are still, extreme, declivity and brief.

This poem, although it was posted and received some comments, suddenly disappeared overnight and when I woke up this morning, I found it in drafts and completed it, reposting it under a different name. Then, just tonight, Forgottenman found this original version in drafts, where, even though I couldn’t find it there this morning,  it had somehow been mysteriously relocated. So here it is again, with the same opening lines as the second version. Weird, weird. If you want to see the second version of this poem, rewritten this morning and renamed “Everything,” go HERE.

Chi Baba Blues

Here is the earliest picture I have of me, probably at about 10 months.

 

The prompt from dVerse poets today was to write a poem incorporating the lyrics of a song that was popular on the day you were born. Well, although it isn’t a poem, here is a link to a post I wrote six years ago about the most popular song on the charts on July 3, 1947, the day I was born:

https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/09/02/las-mananitas-and-other-less-lovely-bastardizations-of-a foreign-language/

And, to meet the qualifications of the prompt, here is a poem hastily pounded out today in response:

Chi Baba Blues

It must have been a silly year, the year that I was born,
with music even newborn babies might be driven to scorn.
The fact it was a lullaby, alas, could not atone
for that ugly music spewed out by the gramophone.
“Chi baba, chi baba chihuahua” were hardly words that lulled
and along with all the other lyrics, needed to be culled.
And though I have much gratitude that my mom chose to bear me,
when it comes to this lullaby, I’m glad she chose to spare me:

The #1 song in the U.S. on the day I was born was “Chi-Baba, Chi-Baba Chihuahua (My Bambino Go to Sleep) ” by Perry Como.  Although I would advise against it, you can hear it HERE. But after that, please go to the link at the beginning of this post and click on the link to see my rave about its trivialization of and confusion between the Spanish and Italian languages and to hear one of the most beautiful serenades in the Spanish language, imho.

My mom and me. 

 

Here is the link to the dVerse prompt: https://dversepoets.com/

Genetics and the Lack of True Grit


Genetics and the Lack of True Grit

Documentation passed down from the past
says that since time primordial, folks have been cast
from the genes of their ancestors, first unto last.
Thus, my nose is too long and my forehead is vast.
It’s a truth of genetics that leaves me aghast!
(Yes, I’d alter those features if only I dast,)

 

Prompt words for today are forehead, genetic, primordial, document and vast,
 Image by Milada Vigerova on Unsplash.

In Summation

 

In Summation

Words have been my teachers and in their composition,
I’ve found my life’s real purpose. In making them my mission,
I’ve faced my major phobias and without a doubt,
I’ve reined in quite a few of them to somehow work them out.
I have no feelings of regret, no reason to repine.
Of any life that I could choose, I think I’d still choose mine.

 

Prompt words today are composition, repine, teacher and phobia.

Matchless

Matchless

I fear I am a novice at getting romance right,
for every run I take at love ends up in my flight.
My first love was too cheerful. He was constantly jocund.
His physique was rolly-polly, and in time he grew rotund.

Once I escaped his clutches, I was happier by far,
but my next love was bittersweet, as seconds often are,

for I had found an athlete, less clownish  and much fitter,
but I could not keep up with him, so once more love turned bitter.

After that I tried a lawyer, a butcher, then a teacher,
a roust-about, a cowboy, a restaurateur, a preacher.
But nothing ever seemed to work, for those I found disarming
were the ones that always seemed to find me less than charming.

Somehow I never quite matched up when it came to matching.
Every time I fell in love, it didn’t end up catching.
So all-in-all, much as I love a fond embrace and kiss,
I think that when it comes to love, I’ll just give it a miss.


Fiction, folks…no consolations necessary. Prompt words today are
escape, novice, bittersweet, jocund and bitter