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Friday, June 15, 2018

Julie A. Dickson ----- three poems


Facets of Light


When time has forgotten trust
it must be relearned, a must –
fallen down a well, deep
with walls steep
to challenge
emergence into daylight.

Words held tight,
hands clasp in poem,
songbird in flight
lands on a branch, warbles,
its song sweet, shares
blue crystal marble -
sun catching facets

formerly dun, taciturn,
dust dimmed the light,
but phrases clear senses
must remove fences,
new dawning may occur,
a tear-filled blur of verse.


Julie A. Dickson

---------------------------

Luck of the Draw


A deck of cards before me
with challenges I am dealt
contains kings and queens
that would rule my life.

I draw unknown numbers,
a myriad of choices,
a jack offers a helping hand,
joker brings me laughter,
greatly needed.

The deuce is me, wild -  
seeking comfort in words,
love in harmony,
beauty in nature, sparked
with a bit of adventure.

Perhaps with a jack and joker,
we are three of a kind.


Julie A. Dickson
 -----------------------

Life Line

Sometimes talking represents
a tangible line, thread of conversation
tethering, like holding hands,
a life line of sorts, rescue from
the pull of a quicksand day,
when demands decay tranquility;
it offers a refuge, reprieve from
monotonous  motion,
restores calm thought,
a restful resolve.



Julie A. Dickson

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Matthew Banash ------ four poems


Blue Heron Lake Conestee 12/31/17

A blue heron multi-tasks on
The creek’s shore, feathers ruffled by
A sharp, winter wind, balanced on
One thin knuckled-kneed gray leg like
A miscast weather vane, turning
His head slowly this way and that,  
Yellow eyes scanning clear riffling
Water for lunch, aware of us.

Triage

Pain is universal I want
To tell the fallen toddler
Looking at his hands on the edge
Of the playground. We bring it on
Ourselves but there is a way out.
Then, distracted by his mother’s
Distant call he is off crying
Quietly, reaching for her hand.


Fumes for the Test Group

The uniformed militia march
In near-step wearing beards, glasses,
Navy blue blazers, tight pants and
Suede bucks as the obtuse layers
In the air like tiramisu.
An older man sips his coffee,
He’s waiting on a subway train
Standing in heaps of broken glass.

Redolent
The smell of breakfast cooking, eggs
And sausage, first and second
Cups of coffee, the morning light
Streaming through the blinds will do for
A newspaper. Children at school,
Work or worse, not yet lost to the
Days which still get you.  But first,
Soak the dishes in the kitchen sink.  

Monday, April 23, 2018

Two Poems by Julie A. Dickson

Accidental Touch

Write with independent ink,
set out on paper to scribe life,
full of events and worry,
action and joy, cathartically capturing
aspects of apathy, musical moments.

Words cannot hold completely
the total of a life, not yet complete,
at times left empty as a hand pulled away.
At other times, the same hand is
calloused from hard work,
overfull with heavy loads,
but when the hand  encounters another
and accidental touch ignites a spark of
creativity, the hand takes off –
the ink has a mind of its own.

The hand longs for another,
seeking out the joy of touch,
not always accidental.



Tom’s Rose


Tom’s Rose bloomed
With abundant petals
each dropped gently
from her arms
to flutter on the wind,
to live the way of flowers,
seeding the ground,
growing into brilliance,
aging with dignity,
until finally they return
to their blessed earth mother


Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Poem by Robert L. Penick

Coda
 
As society bares its teeth at the mirror,
As cowards plot war in boardrooms,
As the pious founder in lust
And the meek labor without rest,
The Earth turns, unaware,
Rotating, floating, adrift
From the matters of man.
 
The scoured forests are just blemishes,
The sulphur dioxide drifting motes.
The polar icecap is a melting cube
In God’s eternal cocktail.
This world will sniff and sigh,
Then gather a deep breath,
Before scattering Man.

--Robert L. Penick

Friday, November 24, 2017

Larry Blazek ----- poem



FORGETTING


You are laying in the 

grass against some saplings.

You seem to think that it is 

important that you do not 

roll over into the gravel.

You open your eyes to 

discover that you are laying
 
by the side of a road.

You start walking.

Cars occasionally drive by.

You realize that your

 slippers bathrobe and 

pajamas are not the best 

attire for a hike.

You cross a yard

of a tidy house.The woman 

there asks if you are all 

right.You smile and nod.

More houses appear.

They give away to business 

structure and a sidewalk.

The sidewalk has a 

temporary roof to protect

 pedestrians against falling 

debris from a construction

 site.People wearing helmets

are busy at their tasks.

You find a compass in

 your pocket.

You emerge in an 

alley.You enter the back door

of an old-fashioned hardware 

store.

A man speaks to you.

At first you think that he is 

the clerk.You reralize that

he is a policeman.

You speculate that 

someone may have put 

something in your drink.You 

ask for your suitcase which 

you can not recall the 

location of.

The policeman goes 

off to interrogate local 

motel clerks.

You sit upon a bench

and talk to some of the 

people that are sitting 

around.They are playing some 

sort of game.

You speak of your

 fondness of tiny towns

like the scenery on

an elaborate model railroad

 display.

You move your game 

piece which is shaped like a

 tiny animal.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

poem by ann reitan

Somehow Radiance

Somehow a moment
Of Spring will come
Easing a glimmer of radiance
This barren-cloud day

Some day the trees
Will be more than shadows
Standing skeletal-erect
Their branches fragile fingers
Grasping resistance-defeat
On Winter's mute end

Somewhere out of
The opaque lies
The stars of mild evening
Will glint their secrets
Knowing their light

As the moon
Like a somber eye
Will glow within
Its silence

Saturday, November 11, 2017

Julie A. Dickson --------- four poems


Frozen Words


When, so to speak, your pencil glows red-hot,
opening warm words like roses.
When your pencil grows cold,
it floats as upon arctic ocean waves.
The pencil has two lives, warm and cold.
Roses bloom in thoughts echoing embers,
the flames dance and whirl around,
dropping petals of brilliance.
In the cold, I struggle to hold
onto the pencil, to inceptive ideas.
My words slip and shift
as I blow warmth onto my hands.
I wish for my fingerless gloves
and lose my grip.
The pencil drops to the floor,
my words frozen, never put to paper.




Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH
----------------------------



A World Without Ivory

Dye rhino horns and elephant tusks pink,
as humans attempt to protect, think of ways
to save land mammals, for slaughter reaches
a grand scale, that quest for ivory appeals
to some for riches and reveals human greed in
their darkest hour, as man continues to exceed
and dismiss warnings of extinction, will not
heed or give way to nature, in her methods
to cull or evolve, each species to survive.
Can humans even attempt to revive or solve
this dilemma while faced with men on the sea,
who brutally sever fins, release sharks to death,
so that chefs may create soup?
Caged primates in signs, speak to men,
hearing lies, taught to them - a language
they cannot believe, left to perish
by humans who cajole and deceive.
And humans berate and chastise-  hate
a lonely captive killer whale who missed his family
home and preferred not to play their games,
no longer wanted to entertain.
Solitary elephants in zoos, on cold concrete, stand
swaying, unable to speak or express sorrow -
man seems not to understand, that given land to roam,
not wrenched from family units, wander together,
ponder the next succulent branch.
The odor of burning ivory permeates, does not change the fate
of fallen beasts but some nations pass laws to cease the trade.
Since poachers have killed for the largest tusks,
in Africa, females from birth are sometime born without –
[tusks] genetic path or evolution, nature’s way to decrease worth
and therefore survive? Though at what cost as they mourn
all who were lost at the hands of man…
Perhaps elephants dream of a world without ivory.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH
---------------------------------------




Harvest

Moonlight carries me
into the night, but if I am right
creatures who emerge watch
from shadows, notch of tree.
They sense my presence in the unknown,
wish me gone, forest theirs till dawn,
to forage, wander and seek,
willing trespasser not to speak -
breech the unspoken treaty
between us, move forward I must.
I continue on under harvest moon
bathing light over forest gloom,
deep in thought, I listen to night,
not without sound, my footsteps resound
through a loud crunch of leaves
forest dwellers wait, I believe,
patiently for me to pass,
driven to gather, they rather rejoice
under harvest moon’s bounty
no need to rush, there is plenty.
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH


----------------------------------


How Can it Be?
I long for a joy that somehow evades,
get caught up with others, but always in trade,
at such a high cost, I remain under cover,
question what it is I must discover.
My heart feels heavy, longing, but scarred
leftover feelings, from your arms I was barred.
I speak often of love, to be somebody’s jewel,
but instead,. D at times I have been played as a fool.
How can it be, I still have not found
to be certain, the path over well-worn ground,
I’ve traveled and tested my heart once again,
in vain, I see no one to call my true friend.
Perhaps in the end I have only myself
set aside, overlooked, china doll on a shelf
covered in dust, forgotten, dismayed
glass-empty eyes recall times being played,
fancied, yet briefly, my heart was to blame
the need was so great until the time came
that again I saw clearly, not as it seemed,
I was shocked into waking up from a dream.
Then I sat up in wonder, heard no clever phrase
to whisper I warned you, I awoke in a daze,
alone still I wander, the solemn nights weep
unfortunate choices, I drift into sleep.
Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH