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Thursday, June 6, 2019

Three poems by Julie A. Dickson



Rock, paper, scissors


“Paper or plastic”
I call out to the river, as if it has a choice

Un-chosen bit of plastic flotsam
drifts lazily, white billowed mass
undulating in the current,
Market Basket logo still visible -
floating advertisement flows downstream
catching briefly on twigs and rocks

Stick extended, sad fishing expedition,
a sodden reminder of human invention –
cheaply-made goods destined to join
as kindred polyethylene spirits
on gull-swarmed piles of immortal refuse,
floating detritus , an eternal  wasteland at sea

Mind drifts with the river current -
photos recalled:
Distorted turtle shell grown around plastic ring
Contents of dead whale’s belly strewn on a beach
Skunk’s head stuck in a plastic peanut butter jar

Glass grinds back to sand
Paper mulches into earth

Rock, paper, scissors
Plastic prevails



Julie A. [Dickson] Richter
Exeter, NH

Julie A. Dickson ---------- three poems


Rock, paper, scissors


“Paper or plastic”
I call out to the river, as if it has a choice

Un-chosen bit of plastic flotsam
drifts lazily, white billowed mass
undulating in the current,
Market Basket logo still visible -
floating advertisement flows downstream
catching briefly on twigs and rocks

Stick extended, sad fishing expedition,
a sodden reminder of human invention –
cheaply-made goods destined to join
as kindred polyethylene spirits
on gull-swarmed piles of immortal refuse,
floating detritus , an eternal  wasteland at sea

Mind drifts with the river current -
photos recalled:
Distorted turtle shell grown around plastic ring
Contents of dead whale’s belly strewn on a beach
Skunk’s head stuck in a plastic peanut butter jar

Glass grinds back to sand
Paper mulches into earth

Rock, paper, scissors
Plastic prevails



Julie A. [Dickson] Richter

Exeter, NH 



Cavendish


Tendrils of gray smoke
crossed sun rays,
shone through gauzy curtains

Grandfather’s two-toned brown pipe
was filled with tobacco,
Cavendish scent

My young nose abhorred cigarettes
but his intriguing two-toned brown pipe
emitting such a rich fragrance
drew me in

I moved close enough
to taste the aroma on my tongue

His eyes closed as he drew in;
I watched and then closed
my own eyes



Julie A. [Dickson] Richter
Exeter, NH





Violet Dance

Air clear, billowed clouds lay against the blue.
Six oak stood in a circle, near a high rock wall,
capstones toppled into thick grasses.

The six, when night fell, joined low branches,
hands held in a graceful forest waltz.
Ancient murmurs welled up their trunks
reaching tall in joy, swayed and turned.

By morning, the six returned to their places
in the grove; a new patch of deep purple violets
stood as a reminder of their nocturnal dance.


Julie A. [Dickson] Richter
Exeter, NH




Saturday, April 13, 2019

Three poems ----- Julie A. Dickson


Tell me Your Name


You are sad I cannot remember you?
I feel sadness about many things.
Don’t keep asking me who you are –
please tell me your name.
I see a photograph on the wall,
it’s me as a young man
no, I cannot recall
my deceased wife’s name.
Don’t keep asking me, as if
it might come back to me.

I remember I wore a red tie
to high school graduation,
a gift from my mother –
what did you say your name is?
I don’t know where I am,
the people here seem friendly;
can I please go home today?
Now, you look sad again…
I cannot think of any words to say;
did you ask a question just now?

Outside the window it looks like spring;
I’d like to go outdoors, please.
I hear nice music playing nearby;
will you push my chair closer?
I’m sorry I’ve forgotten again;
I’ll try to remember, just tell me your name.


 Aftermath
Camp Fire memorial


Scorched blackened beams
lay crisscrossed over fallen rubble,
ruined walls decimated
into haphazard heaps,
unrecognizable lumps,
someone’s former home.
Among scorched grass and trees,
a brick sentry remains -
lone witness to vast devastation,
burnt embers, smoldering ashes
accumulate among the residue
of unspoken screams.
A squirrel raises his head to listen;
weary whispers quiver in the aftermath
amidst damp decaying debris.


 The Game


Governess looks on
Mary teaches the game to her sisters
Middle holds her hand up to dissuade Lisbeth
from bothering the chess pieces

So serious, this Meg, the thinker…
Governess has seen her sneak books on history and art
whilst Mary dreams of husband and children,
learned chess from the Earl

Their father rarely speaks since his wife’s death
Mary can reach him, smiles and bright colored gown
Lisbeth the silly girl, the youngest
taunts and teases patient sisters

Dresses bound up, braids tight, jeweled bands
baubles saved from a mother long gone
A summer outing, the game
Governess looks on



Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Chrysanthemum Poetry Anthology

We are planning to resurrect Chrysanthemum Poetry Anthology. Please stay tuned!


Tuesday, February 19, 2019

Sherry Rabbino Lewis ---------------- five poems



RODEO RIDER

Time’s a bucking bronco
furious to shake me off,
still I hang on tight
strictly from pride.

Guess he’s gotten bored with me
wants to test the next damn fool
who’ll mount willingly
to dare the ride.

Whirls me in a tesseract:
Past and Future meld with Now
grandchild fused with child,
and I am young.

Once I rode a horse called Gold
tried but could not make him halt:
missed the flapping reins
whipping him on.

Feared I’d ride forever
but his weary legs gave out.
He stopped, snorted mist
and let me go.

But…

Time’s a different sort of beast:
relentless, cruel, untiring.
We’ll not part gently.
This much I know.



THIS MORNING

contrails stitched your initials in the sky
first sharp, then cotton fluff, then gone.
My friend said you were saying hi
from someplace northward of the sun.

But she finds comfort everywhere:
In music from a passing car,
or robin lighting on his chair,
she sees a sign from her lost love.

So she insists you’ve come to me
as hummingbird with onyx glare
suspended inches from my face,
or strange cat waiting on the stair.

He would not leave his chosen place
as if his home was always there.
(And smiled at me with amber eyes—
your color when your mood was fair.)

Such moments do not prove you live.
The comforts we create are lies.
If answered once, I might believe
but what I ask you do not give:

Because you never come in dreams,
no matter how I plead and call,
each “sign” is merely what it seems.
The sky is empty after all.






ABSCISSION LAYER

For a time
all appears the same:
the leaf remains attached
by memory.
Only the tree
senses its loss.

So with love:
Long before they parted
the wound had healed.




SPRING STORM

After days of sun
and arid shirtsleeve heat
we moved geraniums outside,
took covers from the picnic set—
grateful for the end of cold.

Suddenly, at noon
an over-stuffed dark cloud
on its way to somewhere else,
burst loudly, dimpling all the earth
with icy golfball hail.

Finches chirped, confused.
They fled to sheltering trees
shaking winter from their wings.
In moments, all was coated white
and startled silence reigned.

Bright sun soon returned.
The grass glowed  green again.
Then, mockingly, a single peal
of thunder rolled like laughter from
the jokester in the sky.,



LET’S BE FOOLS TOGETHER


Let’s pretend that we believe
that in the sky there is an eye
that sees and grieves,
an ear that hears us cry.

Let’s imagine there’s a Guide
who has a real plan for us.
Let’s jump with joy, forget our pride,
Let’s loudly shout in chorus:

“Thank You for the sunshine!
Thank You for the rain!
Thank You for the beauty!
Thank You for the pain!”

Let’s eat the junk that kills us.
Let’s breathe the air that chokes.
Let’s let the rich ones steal the world
from all us simple folks.

You know what?  I don’t care.
Let them ravish everywhere,
Send the victims to the chair.
Give the guilty ones my share.

I’m weary of excuses
for my fellow man.
I’m tired of the abuses
they commit since time began.

Let’s admit there’s nothing,
no reason for it all.
Let’s be fools together
forget the things we know—

Let’s be joyous fools together
Just relax…and let it go.

Simon Perchik -------- five poems



SIMON PERCHIK
10 WHITBY LANE
East Hampton, NY  11937
(631)324-2834
simon@hamptons.com
www.simonperchik.com




*
What you open leans against wood
that is not a door you can muffle
put your arm around the only sound

when you knock on this kitchen table
whose corners were broken off
straight down, still lit, letting you in

circle her mouth not yet the room
left over and listen for the smoke
around the hush from small fires.




*
Just died and its rain
is already snow, comforts
the obituary page

with moonlight pieces
slowly circling down
as that star-shaped lullaby

small stones still look for
–it’s this morning’s
though over your head the deaths

are hidden in silence
begging for water
that doesn’t break apart

the way each sky
is hollowed out for another
–you make a sea

for these dead, each name
a boat, sails, the spray
midair and out loud.


*
This tree abandoned at last
flows past as ravines and riverbeds
and can’t fall any more

–it’s used to dirt and those initials
you carried along inch by inch
not in some stone letting you stop

for water –you were buried
in the afternoon, late so the light
could close the lid with leftover kisses

become an ocean, still burning
and between each wave the glint
from a clear silence you took for yes.


*
To survive you disguise each log
as the aromatic sun the mornings
can’t resist –even when naked

you hide some kindling close by
let it give birth in the smoke
that leaves with nothing, becomes

the emptiness though your eyes
never look up or warm –a fire
is feeling its way to your mouth

with lullabies and the small stone
falling asleep on the stove
–you feed it wood as if your lips

still smell from milk and salt
–an ancient, gentle art now lost
somewhere in those nightmares

set off by an empty dress
and along your forehead the light
begins to melt, wants to stay, keep going.



*
Even these weeds panic
circle around your fingertips
as if the stream they fasten on

knows only one direction –the dead
still fold their arms, dare you
to raise your hand, ask for salt

clear the ground before the no! no!
stops and in the silence makes room
for flowers and your mouth

sweetened by the warm breath
it still remembers as sunlight
struggling and the pull up! pull up!





Saturday, February 9, 2019

Four poems by Julie A. Dickson


Weather Report


The weather is ridiculous you say?
Back in my day, we had snow up to here,
had to clear driveway by hand,
distribute sand from a pail, all the while
assailed by drifting snow and wind.
Dogs romped through high banks
knocking snow down to my feet,
and when there was sleet,  I just froze,
bundled to the nose in wool scarf
and knit mittens that soaked through
till my hands were bright red.
No Thinsulate gloves, nor snow-blower then;
my jacket got damp, there was snow
in my boots, even though I had bread bags
over my socks, but I didn’t care a bit,
never threw a fit about being cold.
With driveway and walks done, now was time
for some fun, digging tunnels and caves
into heaped up mounds from the road plow.
I wonder how long I stayed outdoors
pretending an igloo was my icy home,
or dragging a sled, metal and wood, up the hill
just for the thrill of sliding down, to trudge
up again until the voice from within
offered cocoa after shucking my wet duds,
eventually warmed in the suds of a hot bath,
I relaxed, knowing school was closed today,
heard the weather report, thinking how cool,
to stay home on a winter day, frosted windows
decorated like lace, a smile crossed my face.


Julie A. Dickson



Long ‘til Spring


Road along the fence lays under snow
fields unmowed half-covered like a fog
no wagon tracks or furrows by the row
cannot discern a hillock from a log

Fronds of wheat reach up as if to wave
those not buried seek the morning sun,
you might describe those stalks as soldiers brave
they stand against the cold with faces dun

A single bird from fence surveys the field
may wonder if some insects have survived,
retreats to oak in hope that branches shield
his hunger, cold now winter has arrived

Field in silence, bird must weather storm
long ‘til spring, he struggles to stay warm



Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH



From the Womb


Phantom dark cast shadow,
sketched charcoal streak
marks a midnight story
where stark, cold branches cut
through heavy velvet night sky

Embraces gray clouds,
moonless, endless dark,
no pin-prick light shines
to disrupt blue-black drapery,
covers the window of winter

Dawn drains darkness,
brings lightness to morning sky
like new life born from
the womb of mother earth –
she opens the day to sunlight

A new season unfolds,
tiny litter suckles in the nest
of early spring, preparing
budding brilliance –
trees smile their greeting



Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH


A New State



Sad state of affairs they say too often
without means to resolve or demonstrate.
What we’re left with might best be forgotten;
I’m ready and waiting for a new state -
so unrecognizable at this time. 
Is there another choice you might say?
In trouble we are if we follow this line,
I’m ready for change if you name the day.
It seems that people have been misled,
the masses in tatters they wait, for what?
Listen in volumes, to lies being said
I’m ready to hear a new voice, but
who will come forth to lead the nation?
I’m ready for a revelation.


Julie A. Dickson