Thursday 16 March 2023

Five Poems by Julie A. Dickson

 



Grey People

 

He told me he believes in aliens,

extra-terrestrials but also in a god

but clarified that he had to change

faiths to align his beliefs with others

knowing the grey people walk among us.

 

Gray is supposedly on the spectrum

between the colours white and black;

I hear mention of the grey area in ideas.

Does that mean that grey people exist

in the aforementioned grey area?

 

Perhaps grey people are an actual blend

of all races, creeds and beliefs – wouldn’t

it be something that as the proverbial

melting pot, all colour dissipated to grey.

Would it make all humans the same?

 

 

Door to Door

 

I suppose back then my mother

must’ve felt badly for the 

Fuller Brush man, his suitcase,

With clothes brushes to raise

the nap of a flattened pea coat,

a beautiful dresser set or a

kitchen dish brush.

 

I recall them sitting at the kitchen

table over coffee, brushes all laid out

until my mother decided to buy something.

 

I listened to them from the living room

after she chased me out of the kitchen.

 

In the days of the milk man and the egg man

coming to the door, it wasn’t so unusual

to find a salesman at the door, peddling

encyclopaedias or even a family photo session.

 

These days, faced with No Soliciting signs

it seems that scam calls and the internet

advertisements are more the norm.

Even those dreaded Tupperware and jewellery

home parties seem to have passed. I often

felt the same pressure at those parties

as my mother did with the fuller brush man,

guilty not to buy something.

 

Perhaps those were friendlier times when salesmen

could actually make a living, going door to door,

prior to cell phones or Internet, black Friday,

or cyber Monday to entice buyers, when my mother

actually felt safe sitting at her kitchen table

over coffee with a salesman while her children

played on the floor nearby.

 

 


How did I know when

I put your picture away

we’d be friends again

 

 

Table for One

 

The table was set for six,

three couples expected

 

I thought might mix well, talk

and laugh, wine to pour into

crystal glass, sparkle ruby-

red match the candles lit –

blown out

 

when the first couple called

late to cancel, removed their

plates, empty glasses not yet

filled, rearranged chairs

table set for four,

 

silver placed side by each carefully

folded napkin linen creased

sighed that four would

make a more intimate dinner –

phone rang again, apologies

given, no sitter.

 

I regrouped, being no quitter,

table for two now, more cosey

one might think, opened wine to

sip, the drink I need in Waterford,

sighed as hours ticked on, cried

bitter tears,  seated at my

table for one

 

 


I picked out new rug

didn’t know cat would

pick it too





Julie A. Dickson is a poet, Push Cart nominee and author of Untumbled Gem [Goldfish Press, Seattle], Bullied into Silence [Piscataqua Press] and other works. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, is a past poetry board member and guest editor. Her work appears in Ekphrastic Review, Misfit, Blue Heron Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and elsewhere.

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