Five Poems by Julie A. Dickson

 

Feral 

 

Eight years since feral-born, 

litter of three black kittens, 

two adopted, adaptable pets,  

one corner-bound, huddled 

back against wire, don’t touch me. 

 

Never held, no lap cat, she; 

rescued, safe home – 2 years 

until she allowed touch, however 

slight, then run to hiding place. 

 

Now lingers, feral friend, 

chin rubs, tail up, chases laser, 

touch me on my terms, picking up 

never allowed; it’s too much like 

capture, she remembers. 

 

I am aloof as well, chosen touch, 

no capture or control, I know 

very well how she feels. 

 

 

 

Cracked 

 

1 

Hymns drone, captive evangelical chorus 

mouth words if not sung, lest sister wield 

raised switch, mezzo nil, contralto - iffy 

at best, drop to tenor, barely passible 

 

2 

House where I never lived, laughter raucous, 

ruby port filled glass, hand poised above 

seared roast; neither sorrow nor joy within, 

too loud above volatile din, family meal 

 

3 

Barren dunes, high stone vigil, devoid 

of humanity, landscaped emptiness still 

lone vessel rocks on moor, lighthouse 

calls, synchronous flash on breakers 

 

4 

Mid-pirouetted dancers, toes on point, 

background blue, not sky but ice cold, 

from bedcovers bled not blue but red 

streaks crimson on childish wallpaper 

  

5 

Fiery twilight among temptations reign dark, 

serpent at rest, raven on mutant tree grown 

impatient for moral turpitude, dripping 

disdain, sits in judgment, beady eyes blaze 

 

 

 

 

Where is that apple tree 

 

one we planted  

so many years passed 

it bloomed  

gave us one perfect  

yellow delicious apple,  

mother cut four ways to share. 

 

The second year was loaded 

with lovely fruit,  

too many to eat,  

recalled that one perfect 

apple- the first crop 

sweet honey crisp yellow, 

always been a favorite since 

 

but the tree is gone now, 

replaced  

like us, when we left 

that house, where a 

weeping willow now adorns 

front yard instead of apple 

tree that brought me joy. 

 

Willow tree brought tears, 

as many as there were 

branches, bowing low,  

a hiding place  

but not those sweet 

yellow apples 

we had to leave behind. 

 

 

Healing Wings

 

Heavy gusts of wind struck like daggers, 

unseen forces against a fortress, battered, 

crumbled with age, a gradual erosion. 

Time knew no healing to the damage inflicted.  

 

The storm kept on, projecting icy fingers; 

my jacket offered little protection – I heard 

thunder in the distance, an ominous warning 

and called out to no one, my voice lost in the storm. 

 

Overhead a cry was heard which pierced the air; 

a lone eagle answered my question, why? 

His response was offered wordlessly in a 

huge span of wings, his stark unfriendly eyes. 

 

Yet he seemed to know me, like no one could - 

he defined me in seconds, where others had failed. 

His shriek broke through the storm me as I gazed, 

hand shielding my eyes, a slight smile came to my lips 

 

As he flew gracefully, his message clearly echoing, 

I felt nourished by his solitude, my pain was numbed 

Somehow, I knew that I shared his glory of flight; 

Felt his healing wings fluttering against my heart.

                                                  

Never saw them 

 

downtown nights 

grew up on a farm 

small rural town whose 

evening lights were fireflies  

blinking in fields, stars we could 

almost hold in our hands, if only 

one would light. Run through 

barn, moonlight shone strips 

cow faces serenely chewing 

eyes half-closed, heads 

under wing chickens 

lit up white feathers 

 

Morning person 

 

up way before sunrise 

predawn lighter than night 

a dim premonition of the day 

starlight faded, moon still bright 

crescent comma separates stillness 

awakened aerial flyers, cardinals red 

as sunrise, no wave to sleepy owl 

crouching in barn rafters, mice 

celebrate morning scamper 

far removed from city 

downtown nights

Julie A. Dickson is a long time poet whose work is prompted by nature, art, music and memories.Her two rescued feral cats are her constant companions, who also are the first audience. Her poetry appears in Ekphrastic Review, Blue Heron, Medusa's Kitchen and Lothlorien, among other journals.