Friday, 13 September 2024

Five Poems by Julie A. Dickson

 




Chalk Drawings

 

On asphalt, bright chalk drawings

depict roughly sketched trees, cars,

dinosaurs and various stick figures.

 

The young one immediately sees

what they are, though my drawings

are worse than simple, I know.

 

I cannot draw a dinosaur, yet

he yells T-Rex when I add teeth

to a rounded body, bulbous head.

 

How his mind works to decipher

a jeep from a truck, I wonder.

A poet, no artist me, but he knows.

 

 

Mortarous

 

A massive wall, crumbling

to a pale powder – chalky white,

flakes of pink lay in slivers

on dark pavement.

 

This old building –

bricks, a sun-faded russet

loose fine dust, barely holding

between the courses,

 

a mortarous barrage waiting to rain down.

Once steadfast against winter storms,

breaks free under the hot sun, baked

dry, any last remnants of moisture.

 

The wall appears to slough off

a shower of forgotten fragments,

exfoliation of time, exposing

an under-layer  anxious to be seen.




Maid of the Mist

Niagara Falls 1967 and 2010

 

Clothed in red sneakers,

oversized rubbery yellow slicker

hung to my skinny ankles,

sleeves well over my hands,

rain hat I kept pushing back

so I could see

 

misted with cold water,

the spray on my face

passengers huddled together

on the Maid of the Mist,

Falls like thunder, I grabbed

Mother’s hand

 

~ ~ ~

 

2010, with my daughter

Maid of the Mist still running,

perhaps a later model

than original boat of my youth,

smelly yellow slickers long gone,

replaced by disposable plastic

 

bluer than sky or water,

I remembered that mist – my face

Again covered with spray,

Falls just as loud, that hadn’t changed

only my daughter didn’t hold hands

like I had back then

 

 

Cantilever

 

hanging over the water

precarious-looking protrusion

I’d prefer not to stand under –

 

fully lit from expansive manse

decorated ballroom dance festive

I look up from sandy beach.

 

Can’t leave her, can’t walk away

trembled turmoil, hair whooshing

toppled suitors lie in her wake –

 

she hangs over the broken-hearted

well-built cantilever counter-balanced

not to fall, but crushing them all the same.

 

 

Lunette

 

To wend my way under the crescent moon,

below I scan the vast expansive sky.

Discover there agog, the bright lunette -

to dream with fervid hope, I wish to fly.

 

Addled thoughts, don’t confuse me with the birds;

stultify me not, I must settle down.

Stand still as maquette, wisdom set in stone,

reasoned advantage to feet on the ground.

 

Express dolorous emotion held tight,

recognize the nodus of dreaming still,

within the confines and boundaries of thought,

to remain pragmatic requires will.

 

I must sustain a sardonic laughter

from under the crescent moon thereafter.




 

 

Julie A. Dickson has written poetry for most of her life, from the shores of Lake Erie and Ontario to the Atlantic seacoast. She writes to art, nature and music prompts, as well as from memories. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, has served on 2 past poetry boards and as a guest editor for several journals. 

Her work appears in Ekphrastic Review, Panoplyzine and Lothlorien, among others. She shares her home with two rescued cats, Cam and Jojo and also advocates for captive elephants.


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