Category Archives: Poems

Near Horizons

Near Horizons

You have your own horizon, and my dear, I have mine;
but whatever journeys we take towards our decline,
no matter how we see our end—that final box of pine—
I do not want my journey to be a narrow line.
There are so many hills to climb before that last recline.
A few surprises would be good. Adventures would be fine.
I have a few more lives to live before that number nine!
And when it comes––that time when I must meet with the divine,
it will do no good to fight it—to struggle or to whine.

I hope that it comes quickly as I lie supine.

The prompt today is horizon.

In the Blood (Entertainment?)

In the Blood!!!

Don’t you just love football—the running and the tackling?
The sounds of hamstrings pulling and the crunch of femurs crackling?
We sit up in the bleachers eating hot dogs, drinking beer,
comfortably viewing blood sport—the kind we hold so dear.

Aren’t dogfights lovely–the growling and the whining?
Too bad they aren’t more elite, so we could watch while dining.
So amusing watching canines being dished their due.
Dying is so entertaining when it isn’t you!

Better still are bullfights, though they’re few and far between.
The bull so lithe and dangerous, the matador so lean.
The best part of the sport is that the dying is so slow.
I feel its thrill suffuse me from my head down to my toe.

We adore big game hunting in such exotic lands–
our chance to prove our manliness with our own two hands–
handing over money to those trackers in the know
who guarantee an easy kill with rifle or with bow.

Easy on the hunter, but not the animal,
for just because he’s hit the prey’s not guaranteed to fall.
We get more for our money if he’s hard to track,
and war games are more pleasant when one’s foe doesn’t shoot back!

All these minor titillations just a prelude to
the main event and the most major way of counting coup.
Once all the good old boys are finding life is just a bore,
they round up all the younger men and send them off to war.

See how the valiant struggle, see their stripes and purple hearts–
apt pay for missing arms and legs and other blown off parts.
Lucky to be home at last and lucky to be living–
the products of that blood sport that just somehow keeps on giving

Repost of a poem from 3 1/2  years ago.  Crocodile photo new!  More to follow. The prompt today is entertain.

You Can Have All the Oranges

 

You Can Have All the Oranges

Pink’s been reserved for babies. Black and blue are much abused.
You need only look at nature to see green’s been overused.
You would not like the fuchsia, it is gaudy and distracting.
And yellow’s like an ingenue who’s been caught overacting.
White’s not really there at all and scarlet is too flashy.
Tan can be depressing. Gold lamé is simply trashy.
Silver strands among the gold by some are found distressing.
Flesh a color that’s best seen only while undressing.
Gray is simply nondescript. It looks like white that’s dirty,
and day-glo colors best reserved for people under thirty.
Deep purple is too moody and mauve is also glum,
as are other purples like heather, puce and plum.
Taupe’s a mousy color—too boring to be worn,
and gold they’re holding in reserve for bankers (and for corn.)
But you can have the oranges from tangerine to peach—
all the tints and shades and tones that are within your reach.
Pluck oranges from the color tree a dozen at a time.
I’ve no use for a color that has no words that rhyme.

This silly poem came about as a result of a family story much-told.  When my mother and father made a trip to Appalachia, they were waiting at a train station and saw a woman with a number of children. One little boy was especially fussy and kept pulling at a lumpy and heavy-looking bag that his mother was carrying in the arm that wasn’t holding the baby.  The train was pulling into the station and that little boy was balking and holding up their progress toward the train platform when the mother called out to him in a harried voice, “You can have all the ahr-anges you wants when you git on the train!”  It has been a much-used family saying ever since, especially useful when someone is holding up the act!
My ending line actually came about as I was trying to find a word to rhyme with orange and realized there weren’t any.  I believe it is somewhat famous for this fact.  Well, that and the sunset!

 And koolkosherkitchen brought this other “orange” poem from two years ago to my attention as well: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/03/22/hue-bris/

The prompt word today was orange.

Foreshadowing

 

image from internet  

 

Foreshadowing

That broken leaf in your mother’s table—
was it really just a karate chop—
careless teenage abandon?
Or that first permission
you gave yourself
to vent your anger
in a physical act?

Hard lesson
that broke your hand
but did not break you.
Taught you, fast learner,
that a woman’s body
is a safer place
to vent.

 

The prompt today was leaf.

Painting Outside the Lines

IMG_0989

Painting Outside the Lines

Our lives are made, by end of day
with rules we choose to disobey—
those pathways we choose to walk down
to find a different part of town.
Strange roads to new territory
that make the ending of our story
one unplanned, our life replotted.
All carefully scribed plans now blotted
out, with new ones wildly scribbled
in new colors brash and ribald—
breaking rules carefully set
for new patterns you won’t regret,
making our lives messier,
more “maybe” and less “yessier.”
Every rigid rule undone
might simply make our lives more fun.

 

The prompt today was disobey.

Villains of the Universe

jdbphoto

Villains of the Universe

Before it had been pillaged–scraped and torn and rent,
nature had a dignity everywhere you went.
A hill remained a hillside and a stream remained a stream.
This was before the elements began their silent scream—
long before the advent of smog and acid rain—
before our exploitation of the earth became inane
with our damming and our digging, our culling and our raping—
before we had created a world that needs escaping.

Now we thrust out into space to find another place to plunder
to repeat inane histories. To ruin and tear asunder.
Any new place that we find, thinking it a haven,
will soon be altered as before with acts as crudely craven.
We do not learn our lessons. We never quite atone
for messing into matters we should have left alone.
Like children picking at a scab, then worrying the sore,
we’ll frack the universe apart and crack it at its core.

 

jdbphoto

R.I.P. Mother Earth

 

 

The prompt word today was dignify.