Three Poems by Julie A. Dickson

 

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.