The
fabric of my world
was a
starched, white cotton sheet,
devoid of
softness, encasing my feet,
sustenance
provided
in a
brightly lit room, I noticed
though no
one chose this –
my very
existence,
care
provided in a flurry,
in a
blur, fraught with worry,
verified
– no fever,
they
prodded and poked
keeping
watch in case I choked;
dismal
discovery
essentially
alone;
never
quite feeling at home.
Dream boat
I am on
the dock
with
three boats tied up,
not mine
-
belonging
to an ex.
The first
a sailboat,
hull a
little damp
sails
wound around
the boom,
a bit of sway
reminds
me of him
his
swaggered walk
plenty of
talk about
himself
and none of me.
The
second an almost
swamped
canoe, low
in the
water, looking
sunk like
my feelings,
last time
we talked,
nothing
had changed.
The third
a bright shiny
speedboat,
sparkle paint
his
newest dream boat.
Black Creek
If you walk slowly over flat stones
down the same path your mother
strode
for many years when you were young,
you’ll find a muddy creek called
Black
where you fished for bullheads
with grandfather in a small metal
boat.
You learned to bait a hook, cried
for
poor worms Grandfather brought
along
in a pail with a rope through the
handle
that he let you carry down to the
creek.
Grandfather cast out the line
then handed you the fishing rod
but your eyes wandered to flies
dancing across the surface, and to
a black water snake swimming
within reach, you wanted to catch.
Your red sneakers squeaked loudly
against the hull- Grandfather
sternly insisted you sit still
so as not to scare away the fish.
Your mother didn’t fish
but was always on the shore
when you returned smiling
with fish held proudly that
Grandfather fried for breakfast.
Beneath Scudding Clouds
Beneath scudding clouds
feel vertigo motion
despite solid ground
The world intervenes
un-meditated, I sway
hearing mind clutter
Surrender to sky
consciousness finally wanes
contemplate silence
Blossom
Yellow
rose spreads slowly
like an
emerging smile
from bud
to blossom,
taking in
sunshine,
emitting
her sweet fragrance,
a nectar
to the senses.
Julie A. Dickson is a rather prolific
writer and poet whose work appears in various journals including Misfit,
Medusa's Kitchen, Blue Heron Review, Ekphrastic Review and Lothlorien Poetry
Journal, among others. She has twice served on poetry boards and has been a
guest editor on several journals. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science,
advocates for captive elephants and shares her home with two rescued feral
cats.
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