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.
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.
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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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