Five Poems by Julie A. Dickson

 

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.