Tag Archives: Poetry

NaPoWriMo Day 4: Fourteen Lunes

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Day four’s prompt is to write a lune. The lune involves a three-line stanza. The first line has three words. The second line has five, and the third line has three. I have written a poem consisting of four stanzas containing two lunes each, plus another six one-stanza lunes.

Fourteen Lunes

I wake exhausted
from walking in your footsteps
through my dream.
Then I wonder:
were we in my dream
or in yours?

Although you say
I visit you in dreams,
I don’t remember.
Perhaps that ghost
of last night’s lovely dream
was really yours?

If I manage
to find a way tonight
into your dreams,
how many others
will I find awaiting you
when I arrive?

Oh, what if
while I visited your dreams,
you visited mine?
What midnight irony,
if you were here while
I was there.

-0-

Loud morning birds
seem to be speaking together
in different languages.

The wild heart
can choose what lives there
on its own.

It is pointless
to try to choose memories.
They choose us.

I keep forgetting
to look here at home
for my happiness.

At the stoplight,
no poem awaited me.
Only when driving.

A best friend
does not really leave you
when you part.

NaPoWriMo Day 3: Unlove Spell

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Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge is write a charm – a simple rhyming poem, in the style of a recipe/nursery rhyme. It could be a charm against warts, or against traffic tickets. It could be a charm to bring love, or to bring free pizzas from your local radio station. I’ve decided to give a recipe to dispel the pain of an unfaithful lover.

Unlove Spell

For relief from suffering­­­ and a cure for love,
pluck a feather from a dying dove.
Press the feather in a hemlock crotch,
then fill a cauldron with his favorite scotch.
Wait for dark and stormy weather
to stew the hemlock crotch and feather.
Then add as listed all given below,
stirring steady with flame turned low.
Write your lover’s entire name
over and over and over again,
then shred this page of purple prose
with a thorn you’ve pried from a withered rose.
Add the paper, shred on shred,
recalling what he’s done and said.
Cast in the pot, till your mind is freed,
each slight recalled, each dreadful deed.
Add a patch you’ve torn from his favorite chair
and a single strand of his pubic hair,
wedding pictures of Niagara,
nose trimmers, hair dye and Viagra.
Add his hernia girdle and knee-length socks,
his shoes, his T-shirts and his jocks.
Cut all his pants off at the knees
and add them to his soggy T’s.
Stir the cauldron round and round.
If music’s playing, turn up the sound.
Sing along to the lyrics of
song after song of broken love.
“Don’t come home a cheatin’ with a lovin’ on your mind.”
Let these lyrics fill your thoughts—or others of their kind.
Call his mother on the phone. Say what he’s done to you.
Record her comments, rip out the tape, and add it to the brew.
Call all his girlfriends, all his buddies, everyone on your block,
Tell them that he’s impotent and has a little cock.
Write a note of what you’ve done and tape it to the pot.
Turn off the flame. Walk out the door. Forget the whole damn lot!!!

NaPoWriMo Day 2: Maiden’s Dilemma

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Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge is to write a poem based on myth or legend. Mine was inspired by many.

Maiden’s Dilemma

Each myth, legend or fairytale
from “once upon” to “fare thee well”
shares some elements of story
be they sad, uplifting, gory.

Always a damsel in some distress—
Rumplestiltskin’s name to guess,
for straw once spun out into gold,
or another story to be told.

Too much sleep may be her curse,
ugly stepsisters, or worse.
Murder, treason, sloth and pox
were emptied from Pandora’s box.

These troubles spread from near to far,
(although, in fact, it was a jar.)
Zeus forgave Pandora’s shame
and the imp revealed his own strange name.

But the other women described above
were saved by cleverness or love.
Scheherazade escaped the hearse
with stories, legends, tales and verse.

Cinderella rose from hearth and ashes
and Sleeping Beauty opened lashes­­––
both maids saved by daring-do:
one by a kiss, one by a shoe.

So whatever might have been their fate:
loss of child or murderous mate,
wipe tears and fears away with laughter.
They all lived happily ever after.

 

NaPoWriMo Day 1: Ode to Picasso

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Time for NaPoWriMo again.  The challenge is to write a poem a day.  Today’s challenge is this:

“The prompt for all you early birds is an ekphrastic poem – a poem inspired by or about a work of art. There are no rules on the form for an ekphrastic poem, so you could write a sonnet or a haiku or free verse. Some well-known ekphrastic poems include Rilke’s Archaic Torso of Apollo and Keats’ Ode on a Grecian Urn. But ekphrastic poetry is alive and well today, too, as your efforts today will reflect.”

Here is the lithograph I based my poem on:
Picasso

And here is my poem:

On Picasso’s Imaginary Self-Portrait

Is it conceit or self-knowledge
that makes you paint yourself
in the ruffed collar
of Shakespeare
or a clown?

Satyr, young at heart,
your merry countenance
masks darker moods and behaviors,
the bright pigments
hiding a more somber undercoat.

Picasso,
your children
and your mistresses
might paint you as master:
stern, egotistical,
but always with the backlit inspiration
of genius.
Yet, old goat,
you paint yourself a clown.

Sabor de Mexico

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Sabor de México

 

The weaving of the inside of the palapa roof forms an exotic herringbone––in places its pattern interrupted by a patch of pale blue sky where the palm fronds have been eaten away by wind and rain.  We are nine gathered around the table: eight women and one man.  We sit writing in theme books, on typing paper, small notebooks or computers.  Three of the four computers are Apples, a testament to my firm belief that this is the best computer for the artistic mind.  Something about it is instinctual—which is right up my alley.

Alleys are something lacking in this town of small palapas and concrete houses.  Neighbors back onto neighbors. Chickens have no dirt pathway to cross between properties, but jump from one shared fencepost into either yard:  the one they belong in or the one they choose to go into.  More often than not, no fence separates the spaces between houses.  Here, privacy is not a big issue.  The sounds of life float from street through window, uniting the visitor unwise enough to live in a house fronting on the main street in town with a night full of ATV’s, motorcycles, loud bands and tape players, air brakes, raucous shouts of those vacating  bars at closing time. 

The time between the night’s last departures and the next morning’s first arrivals is but an hour or two.  Every morning I am awakened by the blasting of radios turned full volume and shared via rolled-down windows of pickup trucks and cars.  It is a harsher form of the church bells that serve the same function in my village in the interior of Mexico.  Who would need to be asleep later than 6:30?  Who could be complained to if I were so foolish as to register any complaint?

Senses in Mexico are there to be stimulated.  The patterns of shadows thrown by palms, bright colors, the bite of salsa and tequila, sounds formerly mentioned, the grit of sand underfoot, the sting of saltwater on sunburned arms and backs, the smell of tamarind and lime and the rotting blowfish on the beach.  All senses mingle in a salad that we all taste from the common bowl.  Whether we live here or visit here for months or weeks or hours, we take our few bites or many according to the time we have to digest them. 

Poem written after the Celebration of Life for Nina and Eduardo

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 The ceremony for Eduardo and Nina was full of the loving thoughts of friends, details about their lives given from many perspectives, a few tears but even more laughter from remembering the good times.  It was only on the road home that the contrasts in the peaceful happy setting I saw around me and the events of a week before hit me.  The first lines of this poem ran over and over again through my thoughts and I had to pull over by the side of the road and write this poem.  Part of me wonders if it is exploitative to write about this sad event, but I’ve found that many of my writer friends who were friends of Nina and Eduardo have been driven to do the same.  It is as though I no longer know how to think about things unless I do so through my writing or my art.  Somehow, the only way to process a hard truth of life is to make use of it creatively and to try to create a message that makes sense even though the deed never will.

After the Ceremony: Driving Home

The streets are filled

With ice cream and cerveza

and the wildly patterned legs

of senoritas.

It is a day

of sunlight and red flowers

and fuschia flowers and blue.

A slight wind

 strums the swaying branches

of the palms,

but no other sounds

compete with the passing hum

of oncoming traffic streaming

 from the city to our shores,

 seeking safety, quiet,

the gentle lap of water against willow,

hypnotic bobbing of the pelicans

between the undulating liria––

a lazy day away

from the cares of urban life.

I pull to the side of the road to watch

 these visitors to our world.

 Have they not heard or

have they just forgotten

the breaking glass,

the knife, the club,

the red screams

slicing the midnight air?

The ones who were the screamers

 are very quiet now––

part of the calmness

of this afternoon.

Their darkness

is dispersed by sunlight.

Yet all of their fear and pain––

the terror of their leaving––

now gone from them,

is kept like a souvenir

within the hearts of friends

whose turn it is to remember

for a while what we, too,

had forgotten.

Our happy world

lies like a blanket

over a bed made messy

by pain and loss.

It is the world’s bed,

and deny it as we will,

we all have lain in it

and will again.

                                                                              –Judy Dykstra-Brown      February 24, 2014

Upon the Violent Death of a Friend

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Upon the Violent Death of a Friend

 

Bar every window.

Avoid the Dark.

The dart is coming.

You’re on the mark.

Chain up your gateways.

Bar the door.

Whatever evil finds you,

There is always more.

In your life’s highway,

avoid the skids.

Don’t talk to strangers.

Lock up your kids.

Darkness advances

by ticks and tocks.

Take no chances.

Recheck the locks.

 

Don’t take airplanes

or cars or ships.

Keep what’s private

behind your lips.

Buy a gun and

keep it cocked.

If you knew who’s watching,

you would be shocked.

Lock your bedroom

when you retire.

Life’s a minefield.

Don’t trip the wire.

Wrap your kids in

cotton wool.

Don’t dare  send them

out to school.

Mind the playgrounds.

Avoid the street.

Television

is more discrete.

Train your dogs to

attack and kill

whomever enters

against your will.

Limit friends to

a very few.

New ones just might

target you.

Build your walls up

both high and wide.

Then just fester

alone, inside.

 

 

 

 

The Case of the Exploding Wedding Jar

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The Case of the Exploding Wedding Jar

Last year in Chiapas
at a small bazaar
I chanced upon a treasure—
a terracotta jar.

It was so very lovely
that I had to pick it up.
The shopkeeper came and told me
it was a wedding cup.

It had two well-formed curving necks,
each one with a lip
so both the bride and groom
could have a wedding sip.

What a lovely vase
I thought that it would make.
I packed it up most carefully,
afraid that it would break.

Once home, I’d soon unpacked it
as fast as I was able.
I put two candles in the necks
and placed it on the table.

This jar has lit my table for
each meal with guests so far.
In between occasions,
I sat it on the bar.

A little terracotta horse
and chalice sat nearby.
They made a lovely trio,
pleasing to the eye.

I have many treasures
—too many to display.
So most of them I use a bit
and then I put away.

But these terracotta pieces
have sat out for one year.
I just cannot hide them,
for I hold them dear.

Tonight I laid the table
for guests from out of town.
I spread the mats and from the bar
three pieces I brought down.

I wanted an arrangement
to put upon the table.
I filled the jar with greenery—
as much as I was able.

Filled with ferns and succulents
and graceful parrot’s beak,
the little jar proved waterproof.
In short, it didn’t leak.

I put it on the table.
‘Twas elegant and chic.
Every now and then I
had to take a peek.

Hours passed. I got engrossed
as much as I was able
in boring sorting jobs
and so, I glanced not at my table.

But when at last I thought to look
I wished that I had not.
For something strange had happened
to my little wedding pot.

My view of it was shocking,
in fact, it broke my heart.
My little jar was lying there
in pieces—burst apart!

The flowers spilled out on the mat
released from their confinement.
The shards of terracotta
had lost their past refinement.

A mystery now filled my mind.
Just what had caused the break?
I’ve had other strange happenings,
but this one took the cake.

I picked up all the pieces,
but found no water left.
The clay was dry, the pieces firm,
their former smoothness cleft.

I put the table greenery
into another pot.
It sits upon my table,
but my favorite it is not.

Those I’ve told the mystery
have failed to find solution,
but I think this enigma
must have a resolution.

If you can figure out just why
my little jar has burst,
I’ll give a lovely prize unto
the person who is first.

There is a resolution.
I’ve figured out the “why.”
If you can tell what burst the jar,
you’ll be the lucky guy

or girl who wins the prize I’ve made
with my own lily hands.
But there will be no fanfare,
and there will be no bands.

I am, you see, in mourning.
I’m sad.  It is a fact.
I miss my sweet Chiapas jar
as it appeared intact.

But even so, I give you aid
to help you solve the riddle.
I took a picture of the jar
and what was in the middle.

Answer quick and you may win.
If not, you will not die.
At my blog you can try
You can try your try.

If in the course of seven days,
everyone should fail,
I promise that I’ll tell you all
the ending to this tale.

I’ll tell the reason for the break.
I’ll open up your eyes.
And then I’ll have the funeral—
and open up my prize.

The Dogs Are Barking (May 19,2013)

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The Dogs Are Barking

They break the morning––a daily rite.
It’s just a warning. The dogs won’t bite.
Two strangers talk but pass unseen.
I doze, they walk, with a wall between.
I lie here posed between thought and sleep.
My eyes still closed. I’m swimming deep.

I resist the trip––that journey up––
preferring to sip from the dreaming cup
whose liquid darker and bitter thick
reveals a starker bailiwick
than schedules, crafts, menus, schemes.
Much finer draughts we quaff in dreams.

I try to sink back into sleep,
once more to drink of waters deep;
but the dogs still bark. They leap and pace.
My dreams too dark for this morning place.
Those dreams lie deep and intertwined,
wanting to creep back up my mind.

But its slippery slope is much inclined
and provides small hope that I will find
again, that world well out of sight
where truth lies curled, still holding tight––
as oysters cleave and then unfurl
with mighty heave, the priceless pearl

of that other mind that slips the knife
beneath the rind of our daily life.
Time is a brew of present, past
and future, too—whatever’s cast
to stew and steep the story rare
that’s buried deep in dreams laid bare.

Dreams are stories we tell ourselves
that draw our quarries to bookstore shelves.
Pinned to the page, they reach their height
and bring our sage self to the light.
But the dogs are barking. They’re hungry, cross.
When I rise to feed them, the poem is lost.

Uncaught, dismembered, it blows away.
Like petals, scattered in the light of day.

Give Me Blue

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Image

Give Me Blue

If it is a blue with no sadness in it:
the blue of the sky above Colima Volcano
with no other clouds in it except one puff
of earth’s hot breath becoming visible
in the cool morning air.

If it is a blue
with no middle ground of safety,
nothing that makes it ordinary.
No hue of boredom
or gray cast of age.
No tint of ever ending––
just pure blue
holding its mood in,
letting you feel however you want to feel.
The blue of glass that reflects the sky.
Iris blue and periwinkle.
Cerulean and cobalt.

If it is a blue with not a smudge of green in it,
or yellow or white or black.
Blue-blue like my sister’s daughter’s eyes
and like the color that a blueberry Popsicle
should be its blue dusted by nature
as though frosted, even in the heat of summer.
Like blue caught in icicles.
The color of a jellyfish
or Noxzema jar.
Bluebottle fly, tenacious,
only its color not annoying.
Blue as a shiver. Blue as blood. Blue as Hawaii.

Not the blue of a heart before forgetting.
Not that blue with a lot of
dullness soaked into it.

But if you have Blue as in Australia.
Blue as in a first place ribbon.
Sky blue,
true blue,
never blue.
Blue that if it’s ever had one gram of sadness in it,
doesn’t show it.
If you have that blue,
and you want to give it to me,
then, sure.

Give me blue.