My Answer to the Question
I am a hand and forearm girl.
Smart kind eyes with that spark
you recognize when you see it
and then, when it is sadly gone, forget
until the next one comes along—
that special next one there have only been a few of.
This poem is a quadrille (44 words) for dVerse Poets.
Found these and then forgot to publish! A bit late, but here they are.
For this challenge: https://ceenphotography.com/2018/01/30/cees-fun-foto-challenge-letter-x-x-needs-to-be-anywhere-in-the-word-or-shaped-like-the-letter-x/
Clinging to the wall
like an old wallpaper scrap
are the words
I want you, I want you, I want you, I want you.
Their refrain slides up and down
the musical scale—
an old country tune,
plaintive and clear.
Why do I want you?
The first time I met you,
there was something about the curl of your hair.
Your eyes, so familiar—puzzled, as though
you, too, were trying to remember.
After that, it was
the set of your shoulders—
the arm stretched between your seat and mine
with your hand on the back of my seat.
All of your restraint an aphrodesiac.
The truth is
that I pined
for two days after I left,
then went on with my life.
Still, that scrap
of wanting
comes up early in the morning
as I waken
and my mind walks,
looking for someone to pin it to,
and every time
it stops at you.
The prompt today is puzzled.
(Enlarge by clicking on first photo.)
There is usually at least one of these mammoth trees with resident herons in every little village around the lake. It can be a noisy proposition, especially if its inhabitants are night herons, but in this case, it is snowy egrets, another sort of heron, that inhabit Grandmother tree. For close-up photos of egrets and chicks, go HERE.
For the Sunday Trees 324 prompt.
Profuse Praise
She was not the sort of miss that flattery could turn.
Excessive admiration just made her stomach churn.
She had no use for sweet talk or raves that were prolific.
Compliments just bored her. Praise she found horrific.
She set out to tell him that his raves were quite absurd
and his fawning words profusive, but could not recall the word,
so she just said nothing as his copious adulation
stirred her to a level of nervous agitation.
She found his fulsome words to be shockingly unstinting
with his gushing adjectives, his adverbs unrelenting.
He said that she was perfect, her end result most lavish,
while she just found his flattery ridiculously slavish.
“Rich, sweet, slightly juicy, and never sour or tough,
with just a little crustiness.” He couldn’t get enough.
So finally she just gave in and with a little sigh,
picked up the knife and cut him—
another piece of pie!
The prompt today was profuse.
When the pelicans stayed away for the past few weeks, the frigate birds were out in full force. Usually, it seems to me that these birds soar high above, swooping down only to steal other birds’ prizes, but two days ago, when the pelicans and fish came back as well, they appeared by the dozens, swooping down on the beach to claim bait left on the beach after the fishermen cleared their nets. It was an amazing display. Here are some of the hundreds of photos that I took of them that capture their numbers and antics to a small degree. Please click on the first photo and then the right arrows to proceed through the enlarged photos and to read the captions that tell the story of their visit to civilization:
Circling Closer:
The Magnificent Frigate Bird
They polonaise up higher,
far above the rest.
Not once dipping to the land.
Do they ever nest?
I never see them fishing,
foraging or chewing.
As though their wings are made for art
but are not made for doing.
A gentle crease within their wings
looks folded and unfolded,
but keeps its shape no matter what,
as though it has been molded.
This rhyme is not so fragile
nor so graceful as these birds.
I guess such elegance as theirs
cannot be caught in words.
(I wrote this poem a few years ago and published it in a series of poems about La Manzanilla. It seemed appropriate to publish it again with these photos.)
The moon, a rabbit, a bottle of tequila and a simple Mayan figure of a woman convey to us many of the legends of Mexico as well as one theory about her naming. Eight years ago I created a retablo that conveyed this message, both visually and in a story that resides in a chamber within the box the retablo sits upon. I sold that retablo years ago, but luckily I have this photo and these words that describe it. In case you missed it last time, here it is again: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2015/07/11/the-rabbits-navel/
The prompt today was conveyor.
How Not to Walk a Crocodile
I’ll admit, it’s been a while
since I walked a crocodile,
so my technique is rather rusty
and my memory is dusty.
Still, I’ll tell you if you sit awhile
how not to walk a crocodile!
Don’t walk him through the butcher shop.
The butcher will just call a cop.
Don’t visit bakeries at all.
His roar will cause the cakes to fall.
That store where Mother bought her dress?
No place to walk your croc, I’d guess.
And though your pet may need some air,
it’s best that you don’t take him where
small dogs are left out for our viewing
just right for crocodile chewing.
Dog parks do not work for crocs
Find a new place for your walks.
Don’t walk him on your grandma’s floor.
She’ll sweep you both right out the door.
Don’t take him to your Sunday School.
He’s sure to break the Golden Rule.
And if you take him to the deli,
no saying what ends in his belly.
I’ll share a secret with you now.
It is, I really don’t know how
to take a crocodile for a walk.
All of this has just been talk.
And can I guess by your big smile,
you do not have a crocodile?
I guess it was the recent sighting of a croc on the beach at night that sent this little ditty rushing into my head this morning. I would love to have someone illustrate this. Anyone want to try? Send a sketch of your vision of the croc in one of the given situations. You can either email it to me or put it on your blog and send me a link!
Here’s a photo of the croc that was on the beach near the house I rent. You could see my house in the background if it were light! Photo by Susana Vijaya. (She estimated the croc to be 3 meters long!)
Update: If you’re not ready to leave croc world yet, here’s an oldie but goodie. (Thanks to Marilyn for the memory jog.)
It was a tiny cavity squeezed under the stair,
and when she chose to hide in it, nobody found her there.
Her mother didn’t know of it. Nor did her dad or brother.
This space was hers entirely. It belonged to no other.
It’s good for girls to have a space for dreams and privacy
to seal away the princess from towers and piracy.
A special place to wonder in. A sequestered place to think—
a place that isn’t ruffled or gingham, laced or pink.
A quiet place for only her to deal with the gestation
of all those massive ponderings that lead to maturation.
In a year or two she’ll grow too large for such small spaces
and she’ll be off to treehouses and other private places.
Until then, do not bother her. Leave that girl alone.
As her imagination she scrapes down to the bone,
a soup of creativity will simmer out of it
and carry her along with it once she doesn’t fit
into that tiny womb your house hid beneath the stair
in case a curious little girl needed a place back there.
The prompt today is cavity.
I’ve been at the beach for three weeks now and seen nary a pelican. Magnificent frigate birds we’ve seen in abundance, but no pelicans. Then, when I finished writing my blog early this morning, a mysterious unsigned message appeared as a comment:
“The peligans are back.” Spelling aside, I ran out to see the scene shown below—banks of pelicans soaring in, others resting on the waves, others on the offshore rock and moored boats and floats. You might guess that a poem evolved. You’d be right. Photos follow.
Return of the Pelicans
The pelicans come soaring in, completely at their ease
to settle on the empty waves wherever they may please.
They do not ask permission after being gone so long.
They don’t amuse with antics. They do not offer song.
We do not know where pelicans have kept themselves for weeks
when we were looking for them, taking furtive peeks
outside our doors, off terraces, and from our cafe chairs.
We missed their stretched-out funny bills. We missed their derrieres.
We have missed their diving prowess and their flying in a chain.
We missed their grumpy countenances. Missed their bland disdain.
So now that they are back with us, perching on our boats,
messing up our launches, defiling our floats,
we’d like to issue them a welcome, but they do not like the fuss.
It puzzles them, because they feel ambivalent towards us!
Click on any photo to enlarge all.
