Tag Archives: Judy Dykstra-Brown Poetry

Justification

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Justification

I spent all day in town today for business and for pleasure,
so by the time I got back home, I felt I’d had full measure
of driving-selling-trying on, shopping-eating-walking;
so I just thought I’d have some time that didn’t include talking.
I put my suit on thinking I would jump right in the pool,
but then the cat began to whine, the dogs commenced to drool—
sure signals it was feeding time—in this they were united.
They’ve learned their human serves their supper faster when invited.

The problem was, the dog food was still up in the car,
so I ran out to get it. (It wasn’t very far.)
I fed the dogs and cat, then found new flea collars I’d bought,
and so, of course, I had to put new collars on the lot.
Then, finally, the pool was mine—aerobic exercise
kept my body busy while a movie wooed my eyes
to disregard the time that passed while bending, kicking, flopping,
for when I am distracted, I am less intent on stopping.

With no prompt to finish early, I just went on and on.
Two hours passed so quickly that the setting of the sun
(and the ending of the movie—I guess I must admit)
finally gave the signal that it was time to quit.
But as I climbed the ladder, something poked my breast—
something sharp and lumpy that had made a little nest
there between my cleavage all my hours in the pool;
and when I drew it out you can’t image what a fool

I felt like, for this faux pas cannot help but win the prize
of all the times that I’ve done stupid things in any guise.
As teacher, daughter, writer, artist, sister, lover, friend,
I’ve committed stupid acts impossible to mend.
But this one takes the cake, I’m sure, as stupidest by far.
I’ve told you how I went to get the pet food from the car,
then fed and put flea collars on protesting dogs and cat.
(I doubt you’d do much better when dealing with all that!)

When I went out to do all this, I didn’t want to lose ‘em.
That’s why my car keys (with remote) wound up within my bosom!


Try as we may, those little indicators of age will sneak up on us.  There is no plastic surgery for a sagging memory!!!  (The Prompt today was:  “Age is just a number,” says the well-worn adage. But is it a number you care about, or one you tend (or try) to ignore?”)

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Wonder of wonders, when I put the key in the ignition the next morning, it worked!!! Saved on this one!

Do You Know Someone from Greenland?

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Do You Know Someone from Greenland?

Do you know someone from Greenland? Please write them if you do
and tell them that I need someone from Greenland who will view
my blog for me so I can get it lit up on my map;
for on my statistics page it leaves a shocking gap.
Italy is lit up and the rest of Europe, too.
Mexico and Canada and Poland and Peru.
(But not, I fear, Afghanistan or Chad or Katmandu.)

I have fans in India, in England and in China.
Readers in the States from Oregon to Carolina.
Africa, The Emirates, in Russia and Japan,
and even in Australia, I have one loyal fan.
But no one from that Island has ever viewed my blog.
It seems that my well-oiled machine is missing that one cog.
I know that Greenland’s icy—that it’s Iceland that is green,
and perhaps that oxymoron may make Greenlanders mean.
Yet I’d think in winter, when there is so much snow
the Internet’s the sort of place that they would want to go!!!
My blog may not be noted for being really hot,
and if they want X-Rated, my blog is not the spot.
But if you’ve friends in Greenland, please tell them this for me:
my blog may not be steamy, but it’s guaranteed frost-free!

(And while you are at it, please have them stop by Shawn Bird’s blog at shawnbird.com/blog She’s missing Greenland as well!)

The Prompt: Road Tripping—‘Tis the season for road trips — if time and money were out of the equation, what car-based adventure would you go on? (If you don’t or can’t drive, any land-based journey counts.) . . . I interpreted the prompt loosely this time, more as a road trip of the mind. After almost 18 months of blogging, I keep noticing that very big block of the world called Greenland that still sits blankly staring at me, resisting my blog. When Shawn wrote to me after reading my blog about statistics, (read it here) saying that she was waiting for a viewer from Greenland, I knew that was my cue. So although I doubt anyone from outside has ever taken a road trip there, if you’ve journeyed there by some other means, please drop a clue to any friends you may have who live there to take a mind trip to our blogs and shut us up!!!!

Pressed for Words

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Pressed for Words

9:22 on a Thursday night,
keeping my MacBook screen in sight.
I agree, it’s superficial.
I should do something beneficial;
but instead, I sit and count
as my blog views slowly mount.

Today, so far, one hundred four.
(Yesterday’s count and then one more.)
With some hours left , I do not know
how much higher it might go.

Yesterday I took great care
to write an essay on my hair.
(About my hair, I should explain,
to write “on” hair would be a pain,
for in the shower or under rain,
my words would go right down the drain!)

Judy, stop!!! Get back on track!
(I’m turning into such a hack.)
Today I sluffed off all day long—
just posted Leon Redbone’s song.
Yet here I am at 10:03
with three more viewers viewing me.
Two more hours and then no more
to tally up this blog day’s score.
Already, though, its clear to me
what the lesson learned must be.

It’s clear this truth I must compute.
My viewers like me better mute!!!

Reading

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This post has been removed as a stipulation for submitting it in a poetry contest.

The Prompt: Middle Seat—It turns out that your neighbor on the plane/bus/train (or the person sitting at the next table at the coffee shop) is a very, very chatty tourist. Do you try to switch seats, go for a non-committal brief small talk, or make this person your new best friend?

 

Unstarched

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Unstarched

My ladies writing group is classy—never crass or gaudy.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I found they can be bawdy!
Just one impromptu potluck and a few bottles of wine
turned their metaphoric minds to matters far less fine.
For Jenny had just mentioned that a friend had lately lent her
a rather naughty film that nonetheless had really sent her
off into the paroxysms of unbridled laughter—
the kind that take you wave-on-wave and leave you aching after.
I’d been needing that for months—my life had been sedate
since my old gang had moved away and left me to my fate
of no last-minute games of train and late-night jubilation,
for though I still have good friends here, I lack that combination
of friends that I enjoy who all enjoy each other, too,
enough to create silliness to make my nights less blue.

“Bad Grandpa” was the film we watched, and though I must admit
I watched behind spread fingers for at least a fifth of it,
still the antics had us all just rolling on the floor
—starting with a snicker and then ending with a roar.
Scatology is not my thing, nor are pratfalls or shtick,
yet still I must admit to you, I got a real big kick
from this film filled with all of them, and so did all the others;
so as we watched, it felt like we were all sisters and brothers.
And as they left, I think we knew we’d shared a priceless treasure,
for there’s nothing that unites us like a mutual guilty pleasure!

The Prompt: When was the last time you watched something so scary, cringe-worthy, or unbelievably tacky — in a movie, on TV, or in real life — you had to cover your eyes?

The Daily “Catch”

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The Prompt: From the Top—Today, write about any topic you feel like.

The Daily “Catch”

The daily prompt, “write what I wish?”
That’s like ordering the fish
and having the waiter bring a hook
and once you catch it, a pan to cook
it. This is one that I’ll do poor on.
This “prompt” is just an oxymoron!!!

The Air Around Me

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The Prompt: Object Lesson—Sherlock Holmes had his pipe. Dorothy had her red shoes. Batman had his Batmobile. If we asked your friends what object they most immediately associate with you, what would they answer?

My MacBook Air—no contest!!!!  There is not a time when I’m home that it isn’t with me…and usually not a time away from home.  I have to be able to write at any given time and my Kindle is too hard to type on.

The Air Around Me

In the morning when I wake, she’s on my bedside table
where she’s been charging all night long, so now I find I’m able
to perch her on my counter as I brush my hair and dress,
put mascara on my lashes and curl them, I confess.
I take her to the kitchen as I blend my smoothie up—
slice the fruit, add soy milk, and pour it in a cup.
To my desk we go then, to write our morning verse.
If I wrote it longhand, I fear it would be worse.

When I do pool aerobics, she sits at pool edge.
(I put her on a table that has a little ledge
to protect her from disasters that might tip her in the pool.
I never take her in with me. I’m not a complete fool.)
That hour of exercise flies by as I watch junk TV.
Old situation comedies are what I like to see!
But when I drive to town I always listen to a book.
Much better than a video, as I don’t have to look.

At the plaza café, at my favorite outside table,
I converse with favorite friends whenever I am able.
But if they’re busy I just take my laptop there with me
and talk to her with fingers whenever they are free.
When the waiter brings totopos and the sauce to dip them in,
salsa on her keyboard would be disastrous sin;
so I have to move her—our contact I must breach—
but close enough so earbuds are still within my reach.

Before I eat, I talk to her with fingers fleet and swift.
During the meal, I listen, for my food I have to lift
from plate to mouth from plate to mouth till it becomes a rite.
Then my computer talks to me. She has no appetite.
She is my secretary and my bookshelf without end.
My video library and my calendar and friend.
She is my photo album and the archives for my writing.
She corrects my spelling and she’s expert at reciting
all my words right back to me so I can see what’s wrong.
And when I need interpreting, her language skills are strong.
So perhaps it’s clear now why she’s always here with me.
For the bond that binds us both is electricity!

Popsicles and Tuberoses

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Popsicles and Tuberoses

A fresh whiff of jasmine on the evening breeze
sends me off in paroxysms—sneeze on sneeze on sneeze.
Lilacs give me headaches, tuberoses make me ill.
Whenever dates wear aftershave, I have to take a pill.

Pinesol makes me nauseous. I’d rather smell the dirt!
And please do not use fabric softener on my favorite shirt.
I can’t believe so many folks enjoy a scented candle,
for they’re another stinky thing I simply cannot handle.

When friends bring friends to visit me, they eschew scented lotions
and tell their friends to do the same, ‘cause I have these strange notions.
What I like to smell is dill, and soil soaked by rain.
The kind of things I like to smell I’m hard-pressed to explain.

Who likes the scent of curry or cabbage in the hall?
But I admit, I like them! They don’t bother me at all.
I love the smell of Popsicles—my favorite is cherry.
It’s floral scents that I abhor, so weddings make me wary.

I hug the bride and kiss the groom, contribute to her trousseau.
But I must always hold my nose and hurry as I do so.
Orange blossoms are the worst, along with the carnation.
Even roses, I admit, are an abomination!

I really do like flowers, but only how they look.
My favorite kinds of odors are kinds that you can cook!
Chocolate cake or popcorn and hot dogs on the grill
are smells that inspire ecstasy—that certain little thrill.

Vanilla poured in pudding, bananas mashed for bread—
swirl around my nostrils and end up in my head.
Such romantic odors. What stories they do tell
of culinary orgasms and itchings they will quell.

So if you want to pleasure me, please, for heaven’s sake,
leave the flowers at the shop and simply bring me cake!

Daily Prompt: Nosey Delights—From the yeasty warmth of freshly baked bread to the clean, summery haze of lavender flowers, we all have favorite smells we find particularly comforting. What’s yours?

(For the end to this story, go to: https://grieflessons.wordpress.com/2014/08/15/you-dont-send-me-flowers-anymore/

ESP

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Daily Prompt: Full Disclosure—A mad scientist friend offers you a chip that would allow you to know what the people you’re talking to are thinking. The catch: you can’t turn it off. Do you accept the chip?

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ESP

I don’t really need a chip to know what you are thinking,
for when I ask, “Should I wear this?” your left eyelid starts blinking
like it does whenever you tell a little fib;
and I can tell your “It looks great!” sounds a little glib.
That’s how I know without a doubt you’re spinning a fine yarn;
and that, in fact, in this dress I must look wide as a barn.

If you say this dish is great but feed most to the dogs—
if you say I’m clever but you rarely read my blogs—
if you “want” to get together but we rarely do—
I’ve already read the clues to ascertain your view.
Yet, still I have the option to see the other side
and find a way to look at it that will preserve my pride.

Your eye might blink because a gnat got caught in it just now,
and so I do not really look as broad as any cow.
He just has a small appetite. Her eyesight might be failing.
She might be out of town and when she gets home from her sailing,
she’ll call me up and we will meet and have a laugh or two.
Without this ESP I really get to choose my view
of believing what I want to in spite of what I’ve guessed.
When it comes to friendship, less clarity is best!

 

Sleuthing

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Sleuthing

There’s a Clue in the Leaning Chimney and a Password to Larkspur Lane,
and no one will ever discover them without me, that is plain.
I’d love to go a-sleuthing, my sidekicks at my side—
George Fayne, who is so boyish and Bess Marvin who’s so wide.

Together we’d read diaries and find each hidden clue,
‘cause no one else but us has ever known quite what to do
with broken lockets, attics, tolling bells or hollow oaks;
for non-teenage detectives seem to come off like bad jokes.

They may have had the clues but never seemed to solve the crime—
these matters just too difficult for searchers in their prime.
I’d hop in my blue roadster with a picnic box from Hannah
and somehow I would wind up in Wyoming or Montana.

Interviewing cowboys is the way I’d have my fun,
returning to Ned Nickerson when all of this was done.
I don’t have other fantasies of being Peter Pan
or Goldilocks, Rapunzel, Cathy or Superman.

Those fairy tales and comic books and novels are unreal.
I’d have to be like Nancy—a character who’s real!
The only mystery I can’t solve of all her mysteries seen
is how I’ve gotten so damn old while she remains sixteen!

The Prompt: Fictional Intruder—Go down the rabbit hole with Alice; play quidditch with Harry Potter; float down the river with Huck Fin. . .If you coud choose three fictional events or adventures to experience yourself, what would they be?