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Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Anne McWilliams ----- Two poems

(rebuilding a vehicle, repairing anything)

They huddle together,
dozens of squashed cans spilling
from bad bank shots around a recycle bin
full of smashed Budweiser boxes.
Urine musk rises from the gravel
between the house and RV
near the dumpster full of rotted deck wood
(or bad parts).
Their boxer sniffs the ground
and adds his scent.
The women hold cigarettes
that burn down between their fingers
while the men pass a pipe
and shatter the air with farts.
This is where,
every spare moment,
among the tools and cast off chairs,
they hold communion.


she bends a straw to your lips,
props your pillows
brings warm blankets,
and after a short while she brings
another dose of pills
and takes an empty glass away.
she's neat and orderly
tired and overworked
and has seen thousands of naked men.
don't ask her out, ever.

somebody's mother or daughter
she doesn't wait for gratitude
she keeps smiling and scrubs you clean
wipes your wounds and backside
and asks if everything is ok.

she doesn't inflict bodily harm
genetics will out, and no amount of care
can make up for poor choices.

dead or dying, in flames,
frozen, drowning, train wrecks
she works in common cause to clean
care and teach with calm
eyes, serene face, steady hands.

she gives no salt for your wounds
released, rebalanced, prescribed
graves dug, again, and again
she knows it never changes.

she learns the smell of dying souls.
she knows the body contains so much blood.
she wants you to believe in the power of healing
or whatever lies you believe
to show in her face, she knows exactly
what quality of your life
is up to you.

Julie A. Dickson ----- Five poems

The Wise Man Bridge
I’d heard about a bridge from the time I was a girl.
I’d rarely gone to investigate the rumors people shared.
Countless travelers told tales that, while crossing, heard a voice.
They spoke of hearing a wise man who offered direction to the lost.
Weary travelers who came to town called it The Wise Man Bridge.
Local men scoffed and laughed; kerchiefed women whispered,
but I had always been afraid, had chosen to stay away
until the day my papa died when I felt lost and alone.
As I approached the bridge, I heard nothing, I stopped.
Soon there came a whisper, “Why have you not come before?”
I shuddered and stood quietly. “You know what to do.”
I nodded and a peaceful calm fell over me.
I thought I recognized the voice and then knew it was my own.
My voice within had spoken; the travelers had not listened.
As others before had walked upon The Wise Man Bridge,
I had been afraid to listen to my own wisdom.
Pomaceous orbs glisten with dew
in the morning sun, succulent morsels
shine yellow-red behind translucent leaves.
The clusters nestled in gnarled tree forks,
weigh down slender sapling branches
awaiting the eager hands of harvest.
Gather them now into your basket.
Drink in their aroma, coolly crisp;
savory apple, each snap in your mouth.
I’d Never Make You Cry
If I was a man, I’d wear a felted hat,
walking tall down the dark street,
a knowing glance to those I meet.
If I was a man, I’d have my arm around your shoulder,
proud to be seen with you,
a treasure, come real and true.
If I was a man, I’d never make you cry.
I’d recognize your strengths and good,
revel in your worth, I would.
But I’m not a man, I don’t know what it’s like
to walk in your shoes
even if I could choose,
I’d never make you cry.
A Hawk
I walk the rocky foothills through scrub pine;
above me a hawk in lazy circle soars,
repeating pattern of some grand design,
Hawk spies a salmon while river’s mouth pours
o’r stones and pebbles, loose branches they flow;
tangled, catching, break free, they travel.
Held tightly in talons, his prey in tow-
Has stirred up silt among the gravel.
Echoed sound of footsteps, path traversed,
he, solitary as my stride, the hawk.
I wander through existence well-rehearsed;
tranquility must feed me as I walk.
I feel the morning sun upon my face,
feel nurtured as within my love’s embrace.
Homeless: No Purpose
Drifting along a deserted sidewalk,
hearing a song from the corner café.
Passed by open door - hear strangers talk,
icy glances, their chosen whispers say.
No one looks my way, in my direction;
anonymous, continue to survive.
I walk alone, passed by- with no objection,
As if I have no purpose to be alive.