This month we feature the poetry of local poet Judy Dykstra-Brown.
Judy Dykstra-Brown moved to San Juan Cosala in 2001. The Tennessee Writers Alliance National Poetry Award’s first place winner in 2002, for the past nine years, she has published a minimum of one poem a day on her blog at https://judydykstrabrown.com/
Her books include three memoirs, three children’s books and an adult coloring book with humorous poems on the subject of aging, all available on Amazon and at Diane Pearl’s Colleciones. Recent anthologies include Veils, Halos & Shackles, International Poetry on the Oppression and Empowerment of Women, The Poeming Pigeon: Pop Culture, The Poeming Pigeon: Cosmos, Chicken Soup for the Soul and Romancing the Muse.
El Chupacabra
(From “chupar”–to suck, “cabra”–a female goat)
The Chupacabra–dread goat-sucker,
floats in the clouds.
He is waiting for the sweet girl goat
who trips home over the bowed bridge
behind the Three Billie Goats Gruff.
One gruff Billie “Baaaaaaah”s about heartburn.
One more gruff Billie “Bllllllleeeeeeat”s on about taxes.
And the last gruff Billie “Maaaaaaah”s
about greener grass on the other side of the river–
which may be reached, of course,
by crossing the bowed bridge.
From our removed vantage point, we can see,
crouching under this bridge,
The Troll.
He is poised to catch #1 Billie, then #2 Billie, then #3 Billie.
And as fast as he catches them, he gobbles them up.
Now, he is about to grab sweet Baby Girl Goat
when……..
out of the clouds swoops the Chupacabra!
His horns are sharp,
his face is green.
With whiskers for eyebrows,
long hose mouth with suckers,
thorns extruding from the suckers,
eyes flashing purple fire,
mouth dripping poinsettia blood,
claws flashing, opening, lowering to grab up
Sweet Missy Goat Girl.
“Noooo,” we scream.
“Run!” we beg.
“Look up!” We groan.
But sweet silly Goatgirl pumps her tail goat-fashion
and lifts one hoof to raise it up to bridge level.
She shivers flies off her tender flanks,
tossing her silk goat tresses as she does,
bats her baby browns
and trips onto the bridge,
wondering, “Where is Uncle Billie?”
And then, “Where is other Uncle Billie?”
And then, “Where is Uncle Billie 3?”
As she reaches the bridge apex,
she peers over,
and sees her own shadow only.
She does not see the Troll’s long arm reaching up behind her.
She does not see the shadow of the Chupacabra spreading larger.
She turns her head sideways,
wondering where her grumbling Billies have gone off to,
And in the water sees another pretty goat girl
leaning toward her.
She leans forward toward the water girl,
leans further, until one well-turned goat hoof only
supports her weight upon the bridge.
Then, just as the Troll’s hand tries to close upon her arm,
she tumbles over into deep cool water.
And the Chupacabra, reaching out his long neck to drink her,
sinks his suckers instead into the Troll.
The Troll, reaching in vain for the retreating Goodie Goat shape,
feels the sweet piercing hot flowing
of his black Troll blood
into the Chupacabra.
Then the Chupacabra,
stopping at last to taste,
stops.
Sputters.
Withdraws his stickers.
Distends his hose mouth.
Spits. Spits bitter Troll blood.
Reaches down to drink the river.
Then spits out, drinks again,
spits out again.
Until, too late, the Troll blood poison pulls him down
to perish on the bridge,
one claw touching the shoulder of the fast-fading Troll,
One arm draping over a furry Troll paunch.
And they die in a monster embrace
While down below, our sodden Goat Deb
rolls over in the streambed emptied by the suckers of the Chupacabra,
shakes mud from her curly coat,
wipes hooves on the riverbank grass,
trips daintily over pebbles
to the other streamside,
and gallops down the path.
And, the moral of the story?
According to one Troll scholar, it is:
–Don’t let some old Troll get your goat
Whereas Chupacabra experts say
the moral to the story is:
–Once a goat-sucker, next a moat-sucker.
But I, after all, am the teller of this story,
and I say the true moral to the story is:
–Be you a Billie Goat Gruff or a Chupacabra,
never ask for whom the bridge Trolls.
It Trolls for thee!
******
Empty Nest
I’ve been missing
that half-grown kissing
that lasts a minute
with chocolate in it.
Runny noses.
Heads of roses
picked off stems
like rarest gems
presented in
a tuna tin.
Priceless treasure
for my pleasure.
My life lacks
these loving smacks––
even a quickie,
albeit sticky
with peanut butter.
A parting stutter,
and then they’re gone
and off upon
adventures new,
away from you,
taking their kisses
to other misses.
******
Everything Old is New Again
To dress passé?A fashion sin,
yet everything old is new again.
So if your dress length’s out of date
all you have to do is wait.
In twenty years, you’ll be in vogue,
in what last year marked you a rogue.
Who dictates fashion is beyond me.
As are those who wait to see
whether ankle, thigh or knee
is where a garment’s end should be
and whether cowl or boat or vee
is the right neckline for the tee
they tuck into their faded jeans—
now ripped and shredded like a dumpster queen’s.
Following fashion’s every word?
I fear I find it most absurd.
I want the knees left in my jeans,
my butt well-covered, by all means.
What clothes you wear should be your passion,
not merely what’s okayed by fashion.
There should be no laws or rules
regarding clothes or hats or jewels
except what shows us who you are.
Each woman her own runway star.
******
Expert
I used to be plucky, I used to be pert.
I used to pass muster in shorts or a skirt.
But lately my pert parts have just seemed to shift,
and various parts are in need of a lift.
Big tops are my saviors. Caftans are my friends––
obscuring my excesses, shielding my bends.
Back in my plucky days, I was a flirt,
but seduction is over now I’m an ex-pert!
******
Family Harvest
Sanguine, he was charismatic,
while she was choleric and emphatic;
so when their child was born phlegmatic,
the mother found his moods too static
while the father ruled his wife fanatic:
too moody, crabby and dramatic.
Their melancholic second child,
both parents found to be too mild.
Too analytical and quiet,
they put him on a special diet
of jalapenos in his suppers
and other culinary uppers.
Still, he grew up to be a judge,
while their eldest remained hard to budge.
Too relaxed to find employment,
he lacked the necessary deployment––
preferring to stay safe at home,
as lifeless as a garden gnome.
With dad the life of every party,
and mother volatile and arty,
their family life slowly eroded.
Then one day, simply exploded.
Each unique personality
split off to be what they could be.
Thus would sage Hippocrates
class this familial demise
as differences in temperament.
Each, following his special bent,
once fallen from the family tree,
did best when allowed to roll free.
Four temperaments is a proto-psychological theory that suggests that there are four fundamental personality types, sanguine (optimistic and social), choleric (short-tempered or irritable), melancholic (analytical and quiet), and phlegmatic (relaxed and peaceful).––Wikipedia
After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
- Poetry Niche – April 2025 - March 30, 2025
- Poetry Niche – March 2025 - February 28, 2025
- Poetry Niche – February 2025 - January 30, 2025
