No
roommate, no cry
How
peaceful it is,
lying in
bed with only the sound
of
morning, a few birds, wind
ruffling
branches, perhaps a car
rolling
by on its way somewhere.
I have no
roommate, been alone
for a few
years now, actually
I sleep
much better, wake up
on my
own, no one else there,
no
snoring or wrestling for covers.
It’s ok.
Don’t feel sorry for me.
I was
married, perhaps you were too,
more than
once for me, and a few
roommates
or partners along the way
until I
decided to stay by myself.
There may
be times when I feel it,
a bit lonely,
but I can choose friends,
family to
be with, instead of a constant
presence;
now the house is quiet
unless I
want it to make noise.
Get over it
Sitting in jungle, strangely quiet
leg stinging from shrapnel,
around him all dead –
his buddies.
Why him?
He sees the vision nightly,
Survivor guilt, they call it –
he felt unworthy
to survive when no one else did.
Back in the states, they sent him
to therapy, to groups, gave him drugs,
told him to get over it
but the picture was forever etched,
burned into his retinas, whenever
his eyes closed. No alcohol or drugs
dulled the memory.
Get over it?
He would gladly like to forget,
or transcend, as the therapists say –
how does one do that?
Thinking aloud at 2:00 am
Cigarettes, God and alcohol
seem to be topics of poems, or
conversation,
as if one has anything to do with
the other,
alcohol too – perhaps mind-altering
substances
allow some to feel closer to a
deity that cannot see,
one that may not be there at all,
but they can’t cope
with the idea that they own their
destinies, that
being alone is part of being alive
and human.
Food, life on other planets and
sleep
or the lack of sleep in my case,
being a light sleeper,
one that lies awake at 2 am,
wondering whether
thrashing around is better than
getting up for a snack
or reading to clear my mind of
daily detritus, like broken
bits of asteroids in space, mind
fragments travel to other
worlds where the origin of humans
might be.
Makes sense, can’t prove anything,
Show me
I’m from Missouri, they say…if I
cannot see or touch,
it doesn’t exist, except that the
earth does, with all its pain,
joy, loss, work, barking dogs,
playing children and death.
Some feel the need to question
everything, need a reason
to live. Perhaps we had better just
live for today, in case
there is nothing out there, if this
is all there is – this earth,
this life, with no answers, no one listening after all.
Julie A. Dickson advocates for
captive elephants, writes poetry from art prompts, nature and memories and
shares her home with two rescued cats named Cam and Jojo. Her poems appear
often in journals such as Ekphrastic Review, Tiger Moth, Blue Heron Review and
Lothlorien, full length works are available on Amazon. Dickson is a push cart
nominee, former coordinator of 100 Thousand Poets for Change, past poetry board
member and is still writing after 50 years.
Great style
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