Anne McWilliams ----- Two poems

REFINISHING A BOAT IN MORGAN'S GARAGE

(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.

POKER FACE

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

 

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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

 

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.