Tag Archives: dVerse Poets Open Link Night

After 15 Years, for dVerse Poets Apr 25, 2024

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If this poem left justifies, click on it to get it to center as it is a shape poem!

After 15 Years

Your memory                                                     cuts so sharply
through my dream’s beginning that I wake,
gasping like a fish on the sand
left by some fisherman
too intent upon his next catch
to end it cleanly.

In its tight skin,
I gasp for air,
rise as it cannot rise
and like you cannot rise
out to that night sea air
which is the only coolness
in a month of burned days.

My memory, curving round,
pulls in the memory of you
like gills seeking to understand
the waterless air.

Landed by some bigger fisherman
whose bait you couldn’t resist,
“Oh,” you said, just “Oh,”
before you took the hook,
slipping from my grasp
as I held on, held on,
let go.

 

This is one of the poems in my book of 50 years of love poems  titled
If I Were Water and You Were Air, about to be published on Amazon.

Posted in response to the dVerse Poets Open Link Night.
See how others responded to the prompt HERE.

Burnt Offering

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In some cultures, loyalty extends far beyond the fair or rational, but no one controls what happens after tradition is satisfied:

Burnt Offering
(The Virtuous Wife)

This suttee

is easier to bear with eyes closed.

She falls upon his burning pyre,

puts out his flame,

grateful for short rituals.

The pyre,

the bone,

ashes on the sheets.

He cannot touch her.

She is air.

She floats his breath.

She tracks his carbon

down the hall.

She walks

out to the Avenue,

wearing  sheerest black

with nothing but a cauldron underneath.

Her fire.

She picks a stranger

dusted by the road,

leans him against

shadows

in  the tall grass,

spills her steam,

lifts into

penumbra

above shaded hill.

 

For dVerse Poets Open Link Night 359

To see what other poems were published, go HERE

Evensong

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Evensong

The mare lifts her head,
Her edges framed by sunlight
as, with a wounding grace,
her colt strips leaves from branches tender
as his own lithe legs
tangled in new willow.

Clouds form a new volcano behind the mountains.
Beer bottles stick, almost buried, from scabbed truck ruts feet deep. 
A man with his mewling cow on a rope
follows long plaintive cries
in the direction of her almost-grown calves.

In the immense spreading Grandmother of trees,
the egrets open their back feathers
like bottlebrush blooms,
and fan after fan, They stroke the air.
White against the vivid green leaves.

 

 

For the dVerse Poets prompt.
See how other poets responded to the prompt HERE

New Day Dawning (Daylight Savings Begins, March 8, 2020)

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Mexico Saves Daylight

Nobody knows
what this new day
has in store for us.
The colors stolen by night
have not come back yet––
only the string of miniature Chinese lanterns
strung on the patio
glow their soft tones:
lavender, yellow, peach, rose, lime green.
Powered by energy stolen from the sun,
they light up this very early morning darkness
otherwise lit by the random stars of
streetlights undulating over roads that wind up foothills.

The mountain peak named Señor Garcia
stands against the gray predawn sky.
Colima volcano peers over his shoulder,
half-obscured by mist and clouds.
My day emerges.

Scatterings of lights twinkle
from the small pueblos across the lake.
Bats swoop and dart
after the last insects of the night,
then speed impossibly into second-story tejas
for their communal day’s rest.

The hot tub cover,
submerged a few inches beneath the water’s surface,
forms a mirror for the wild hair of palm trees.
Dried leaves rest on the water,
swirling in the breath of morning.
Roosters crow.
A cacophony of bird calls:
“Me hee hee hee hee hee. Me hee hee hee hee hee Me.”
scolds the most persistent of the lot.
Mourning doves answer in a register from another time.
The grind of trucks accelerating on the roadway far below
too small for trucks.
Church bells speak their language,
tolling the morning hour.

The round
subtle drone
of unseen bees
takes precedence
over all other sounds
as I move to the gazebo.
I picture a whole hive
moving to new quarters,
starting that process over again,
busy giving birth to their new home,
perhaps in the stark Guamuchil tree
that survives like a dinosaur
among the castor beans
in the jungled houseless lot next door.

Like one of those internet birthday cards
where an invisible hand
yields a brush
over a black and white drawing,
slowly, colors lost to the black night
emerge through the fog
of earliest morning blues and grays.
Rose pink of the first hint of sunrise.
Colors of houses on the mountains:
vivid orange and gold,
lime green and blue.

Bougainvillea silhouettes give way
to curly detail and bright color:
fuchsia, orange, peach, gold, brilliant white.
Three green foam noodles lie abandoned poolside,
caught in the arms of aloe vera
and by the crown of thorns.
Green washes the hillside
around the gold and brown
of last year’s corn stalks.

The diverse calls of grackles
join the morning conversation.
Quetzacoatl spreads his sinuous frame
over the entire wall above my bedroom doors
as though stretching his kinks out for the day ahead.
7:30 A.M., March 8, 2020,
announces the computer screen
glowing on my bedside table.
Coral sheets and a blue pillowcase.
A large watercolor of a woman
with birds perched on her shoulders
and her hands.
I yearn to go back to bed,
but time changed here
in the very early morning.
It is an hour later
than it was
the same time
yesterday.

 

Since 2022 marked the last year for Daylight Savings time in Mexico, I’m celebrating by reblogging this poem written on the beginning day of Daylight Savings time in Mexico in 2020–For Reena Saxena’s 2020 Challenge
as well as for dVerse Poets Open Link Night

Advice to Dorothy as She Elopes with the Tin Man

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Advice to Dorothy as She Elopes with the Tin Man

I can’t fathom your reasons. Why would you settle
for an older lover who’s made out of metal?
It’s good to be flexible, but don’t you think
that this is a rather impossible link?
Your honeymoon’s bound to be rather a bust.
If you go to the beach, he is likely to rust,
or if you go skiing, his joints will freeze rigid.
It’s hard to make love to a tin man who’s frigid!
You’re young and you’re limber. Your life’s at its start.
Why pick a lover who hasn’t a heart?
Please take my advice when it comes to men:
no lions, no scarecrows, no men made of tin.

 

Since they brought up the subject of Alice in Wonderland, I had to publish this one again for dVerse Poets Open Link

And if you need more, here is another.: https://judydykstrabrown.com/2018/08/22/the-tin-man-talks-to-his-creator/

The Rising: dVerse Poets Open link, Dec 11, 2021

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The Rising

The clouds flow up the hills like the mist of falls
rising back up to the level they fell from.
I’m making my way down to the hammock in the gazebo.
It’s night, and I toe my way through the grass barefoot,
hoping for no surprises.

Far below, some hombre on a microphone pontificates lakeside.
He could be a circus barker or a kitchen pot salesman
speaking from a booth at a fiesta a mile below.
He seems to be selling something,
but perhaps instead extols the virtues of a bride and groom
or a fifteen-year-old butterfly
emerging from the cocoon of her quiencieñera.

I am deep in the groin of Mexico, swinging under the stars.
Up the hill in my house, the phone chrrrrs insistently
as I retreat from all public noises above and below.
My opening heart  floats  up as I sink deeper under blankets
to watch the clouds rise through moonlight.

I imagine my mother, my husband,
my father, my sister, my friend
and other loves both long and recently departed,
floating in mist above the busy world,
distracted, cushioned by their amazement
at finally rising above voices, gunshots, hospital beds,
screeching brakes, trees, mountains, universes, and their own shells.

How long are they aware of us, the hoi poloi below?
How soon fixed fully on their own rising?

 

For dVerse Poets Open Link

Protected Zone

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Protected Zone

Our new pet’s experimental—
its domain an environmental
zone that’s been declared protected
ever since the kids detected
the cobweb that is stretched out there
between the wall and etagere.

The spider that constructed it—
every gossamer sticky bit—
and its process of mastication
is the object of much fascination.
Though I’d like to be done with it,
the kids have too much fun with it.

The spider, finished with its knitting,
spends the rest of its time sitting
surveying new bugs caught in it,
then eating what they’ve got in it.
And though I find this plot most grim,
it seems it’s more than just a whim.

We’ve been told we’re not to maul it
since Sis found a name to call it.
And that is why we’ve been adjusting
areas that we’ve been dusting,
and the web that’s stretched from shelf to picture
has become a permanent fixture.

Prompt words today are cobwebs, experimental, maul and picture.

Also, for dVerse Poets Open Link.

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.

March 7

37 Replies

 

 

March 7

Measures taken for my comfort are way beyond the norm.
My sofa is commodious, my blanket snug and warm.
I’ve opened up the damper and lit a cheerful fire.
The coffee table’s covered with things I might desire:
snacks both sweet and savory, a small flask of gin,
bottles of iced tonic for me to put it in,
magazines and books on tape installed upon my phone.
I’ll barely have to stir now that I’m left alone.

Yet, all these creature comforts won’t make up for a world
where there is not another loving body curled
at the sofa’s other end. Perfection is perverse
when I have not another with whom I may converse.
The hottest fire is lukewarm, though it may crack and spark.
Its brightest flame does nothing to dispel the dark.
I’ve been more years without you now than those we spent together.
I’ve built a life and learned to live without a secure tether.

Other loves fill in a part of what you took away,
and yet when I remember, on this our wedding day,
how you might have been here had fate not removed you,
I wonder if this new life we had planned would have behooved you.
What life takes away it fills in with other pleasures.
It does no good to rail against all those severe measures
it takes to move us on into new lives that we choose
to compensate for all the old loves that we lose.

Exactly 34 years ago, we chose to follow heart.
Then 15 years later, our pathways split apart.
You began your new adventure, though not the one we’d planned,
while only I pursued our dream in this foreign land.
Though anniversaries weren’t our thing, a friend thinks to remind me,
and for once our wedding date I cannot put behind me.

 

Please click on photos to enlarge them.

For all but one of our 15 years together, Bob and I forgot our anniversary and on the one year we celebrated it, we later found out we’d celebrated it on the wrong day. I’ve told of this before, and this year, as usual, I would have forgotten it if Forgottenman (ironically) had not reminded me that it was Bob’s and my wedding anniversary date. Somehow, that reminder and the prompt words led to this poem being written. And, I had to light a little candle at a shrine constructed to commemorate our wedding day. The plans to move to Mexico, by the way, were mutual ones. Sadly, Bob passed away before we could move into the house we had purchased there. This is the house I’ve lived in for the past 20 years.

Prompt words today are blanket, article, lukewarm, commodious and world. And for dVerse Poets Open Link Night

We Cannot Surrender Her

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We Cannot Surrender Her

Try as I might to urge her on, she will not go.
She sends me on to test the water
but remains on the shore.
Ankle deep and then no more.
Fingers trailing and then no more.
Having once found a false bottom,
she trusts no foothold.
The falling is the thing, I tell her, yet she holds back from the fall.

Let me go down, I beg her.
I will always bring you up, she answers.
This is the role we alternate being the stand-in for.
What I want she keeps me from.
What she fears I pull her toward.

How many of us, children of the fifties,
find ourselves on this seesaw, wanting to control the ride?
Relax, I tell her, but she can’t relax––fearing what relaxation brings.
She cannot surrender herself.  I cannot be content until she does.
Two-in-one, we rail against each other, then hold hands.
Comforting.  This is enough, she tells me.
Nothing is ever enough, I tell her.

This is my third major rewrite of this poem originally written in 1976. Only three lines still remain from that poem. It is perhaps finished now.

Here is the link if you’d like to participate in dVerse Poet’s Open Link night and here is the link to read other poems for dVerse Poets Open Link Night