Proof of a Wild Mountain Walk (A Wild Redemption)

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Trail
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.
form walls
on either side,
then
way
to stalks
of purple blooms with saffron tongues
The white bands of butterflies striped like zebras announce their presence in the shade,
In the path lies the circular mounded artistry of ants that signals that new and private world they’ve cleared out for themselves below.
turns me homewards,
turning into soil.
and cobblestones
The runoff from last night’s rain shoots from the drain that pierces a high stone wall.
Happy face
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.

 

Click on first photo to enlarge all photos. The poem it illustrates has been edited in this version. To see poem in its entirety, go HERE.

A Wild Redemption

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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.

Everything

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Everything

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.

Ghosts need not be ghouls, I’ve found, except at Halloween.
In dreams and poems they visit me, recalling where I’ve been.
Temporary comfort are what they provide at best,
promoting hopeful hunches that death is just a rest.

Does another life exist somewhere beyond the mound,
and will its joys exceed the present comfort that I’ve found?
No past love gives an answer, so I wrap my queries up
and abandon pen and daydreams to stir my brimming cup.

 

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

I think I have finally lost it. I woke up this morning, picked up my computer from the headboard shelf in my bed, and found the beginning stanza of this poem. I worked for an hour or more completing it, posted it, then posted it to Facebook, but when I did, I found another poem entitled “At 74,” that had the same illustration and opening line and several comments and likes, but when I tried to open it, it said it was no longer available!  It was not in Trash or Drafts on my blog, but people had commented and “Liked” it, so it must have been published. I am totally clueless as to what happened. A case of the entire world having deja vu? The only thing I can think of is that an old version of “At 74” was on my second computer and when I picked it up and finished it, it erased the old version which had been posted on my other computer. And the old version vanished forever. I have no idea what it was, but to all of you that liked and commented on it, thanks for reading. Does anyone remember how it differed from this version, other than by name? Can senility be far behind?

So, the mystery continues.In yesterday’s drafts,  Forgottenman found the previously published poem with the same beginning stanza but a different second stanza!  I rust republished it, but it went back to a yesterday posting.  If you want to see it, HERE it is. To avoid confusion, I changed the photo, which was the same as this one. Ha. How  futile is that–trying to avoid confusion at this late date? It must be my fault but I can’t for the life of me figure out how this happened.

Beholding Beauty

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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.

Past Squares, Oct 1, 2021

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For Becky of Winchester’s Pastsquares Challenge we are to pick a square photo we’ve published in one of her past challenges. Above are two of mine. I couldn’t decide which to use and their colors, if not their subjects, match so well!

Aloe Buds: FOTD, Oct 2, 2021

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For Cee’s FOTD

At 74

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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.

Hibiscus Trio: Happy October 1! FOTD 2021

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For Cee’s FOTD

Chi Baba Blues

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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/

Umbrella Grass Abloom

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For Cee’s FOTD