DIANE JUDGE

Books
Woman Writing
Notebook
Notebook and Pen
Writing by the Water
Taking Notes
 

ABOUT THE WRITER

A Life in Words

Diane Judge is a member of the Carolina African American Writers’ Collective. Her poems have been published in these journals – Black Magnolias Literary Journal, Backbone Poetry Journal, 34th Parallel, Obsidian: Literature in the African Diaspora, Frogpond and Poetry South. She has also contributed poems to four anthologies, Remembrances of Wars Past, edited by Henry Tonn; Black Gold: An Anthology of Black Poetry, edited by Ja A. Jahannes; Obama-Mentum: An Anthology of Transformational Poetry; edited by Abdul-Rasheed Na'Allah; The Elizabeth Keckley Reader: Volume Two, edited by Sheila Smith McKoy; and All the Songs We Sing, edited by Lenard D. Moore. 

 

HUMOR

Me 1, Squirrels 0!


One day, I saw a mysterious hole in my plastic trash bin. Inside, the bags looked like they had been clawed open. I figured it was an animal and starting scanning my yard for a bear. I mean, clawed open = bear, right? So I looked for a bear. After I retreated to the safety of my kitchen, of course.

I later put duct tape over the hole. The mysterious animal gnawed through that, too. There wasn't much of the tape left so evidently it was mighty tasty.

Next, I ordered a new trash bin. It arrived before I researched solutions to my problem (did I mention that I'm the Princess of Procrastinators?). The next morning, I found a hole in that one, too. 

Later that same morning, I saw five squirrels scurrying toward my neighbor's trash bin which was on the curb for pick-up. They scampered up in about two leaps, synchronized like swimmers, and disappeared inside. I waited for them to emerge, but I guess that party of five knew how to party hardy.


I couldn't wait around so I didn't see how many left with a sugar high.

But that sighting made me realize that they were the holey terrors who had ruined my trash bin. 

I know you just rolled your eyes and went DUH! But everybody can't be as smart as squirrels.

Anyway I finally researched how to keep them out of my trash. The solutions seemed worse than the problem - various peppery sprays or serious poisons that might make this geezer a wheezer or worse.

Finally, I read about a simple, easy solution. Get an old-fashioned tin trash can! So I did.


Now, although I have to store the bags in the tin can, then transfer them on trash day, I am happy to do it. Because the synchronized squirrels have moved on to greener homeowners.

 

PROSE

DEAR IN THE HEADLIGHTS

The grass wears a buzz cut much like his own, straight edges right and tight.  So he had mowed the lawn. He’s in his “dear” phase. Too little. Too late.


The car’s headlights shine on his handiwork like a spotlight as I back out of the driveway. I glance at the dashboard clock.  


He’ll be jogging off our street onto Old Lady Graham’s private road by the time I reach the turn. With no other homes or streetlights nearby, he’ll be there about twelve hours, depending on when Mrs. Graham walks down for her morning paper.


    Just after I turn onto the road, I cut the headlights off.  He’ll have his earbuds in and his music loud enough to mute my engine, his  head bent to watch where he is going instead of where he has been.


The dayglow patches  on his jogging shorts alert me to turn my headlights back on.


I want to see him clearly.  Marine-wide shoulders.  Hulkish arms that can envelop even a woman my size in a tight hug and force my compliance on a drunken night. 


Seconds too late, he turns to face the headlights. His face contorts in the same way it does when he’s angry.  But this time, he’s afraid.  He reaches out, palms forward, as if to push the car away.


In the futility of our defenses, we are more alike than I ever knew.

 

POETRY

Eating The Dictionary



She wolfs words down,
slows to savor some
bite by tempting bite,
turns down page corners 
to remind herself
where to return
for seconds, thirds.
She gnaws 
on tough, boldface terms
night after lamplit night,
gorges on the protein
of Webster’s pages.

Like Snow


Flaky 
if blown off
brushed aside.
Icy 
when pushed around
piled up
walked on 
But warmed, 
sweetened, 
stirred?
I turn to mush.

Before Tweets


email

postcards

notes

letters

thought