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Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Poem ---- Joanna Sit

Soldier, Night
                                                                                    In memory of Danny Chen                   
By mountain night moon he reads
            his future, the distant fire
seems close but he knows it can never be
reached in time, that he can
not be saved, that he will dissolve
                        but his bones, blood will run

towards it anyway, even as all promises multiply
even if they will say he couldn’t endure
    the gravel he had to crawl through
                           those sharp rocks those small missiles daily
curse cutting across troposphere tracking
           his foreign body his immigrant scent

there will be no witness
                           except his people’s memory
skin torn to mend someone else’s universe
to be a man apart
to keep another child safe in night
                        lights, shapes of seashells

or octopi, each bulb an eye in the tip of tapered tentacle,
cut like candles that never flicker
            never waver until its circuits break
  until its flow interrupted
               like the life he used to have
in a city he used to know

    when he was the child who opened
            his eyes midnight facing
                         East he’s here now
under mountain night stars brimming
he’s alone in the tower facing up
to the wheel of fire, the magic spokes
            tangled to varicose madness

and he won’t wait
                        for the rose to open
                        for the gun to weep

and he won’t wonder
about the boy who lies
            about the wolf and now lies bleeding

     in this motherless season

he won’t tell anyone
            when the sky falls down

he won’t worry
about the wheel of fortune
or the sound of the one clapping hand

by the mountain night stars, the October silence
            opens like a door
that he drifts through
                        after fire water light


Wednesday, May 4, 2016

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

Drop the moonstone
Set diffidence by wizened mage
Darkened triumph on the stage
Cries call out in jealous rage
Chatter heard from spectors’ cage
Voices shout, though without song
Whispered sendentaries long
Tuneless chants emerged from throng;
From shadows hear the ceaseless gong
Drop the moonstone from the depth; hear the answers uttered yet?
Clear the smoke from violet haze
Now they see him, enter sage
Grizzled features lined with age
In the distance, tributes gaze
Castle looms, the mighty wrath
Gathered darkness, intrepid’s path
Magic spoken, conjured past
Fortune’s wizard turning back
Drop the moonstone from the depth; hear the answers uttered yet?
The hands of time, we search at last
Sage sees all with eyes aghast
Caverns empty, shadows cast
Stones uncovered, breaking fast
Wordless wonder, absent voice
Tearful sobs, the faces are moist
Forlorn, the caged can now rejoice
Whitewashed robes abide the choice
Drop the moonstone from the depth; hear the answers uttered yet?
Captive whispers were concealed
Clever stories are now revealed
Vast torn wounds won’t all be healed
While truth’s own saber is never wield
Deceptive mage will now resent
Can this sinner now repent?
Ragged, tattered figures sent
The final question, truth’s descent
Drop the moonstone from the depth; hear the answers uttered yet?
Julie A. Dickson, Exeter NH


For Theo    [ brother of Vincent Van Gogh]
The sorrow runs deep, he stands alone
Aching in loss for the one he held dear
Standing up for the sanity of his brother,
Never knowing whether Vincent was sane

He defends his brother's life and work,
As if it could not stand alone
No one might appreciate the brilliance
If Theo were not to speak of it openly

Perhaps if they understood -
His reputation would not be tarnished,
Vincent's name would be protected
And sheltered with the love he craved

Perhaps they would regret their harsh words,
Spoken in cruelty and out of fear;
From what unkind words come from the lips
Of those who are not afraid?

Speak them, and deny their own madness,
Be it that he was insane, and not they
For those who would take pity on the mad,
Could be themselves considered mad

Still, poor Theo suffers on in silence,
His death just an echo of Vincent's unhappiness
An echo of pain, confusion and a wish to find
The peace and solitude the Vincent craved

Only in death is the work appreciated
And yet, what of the noble brother, whose words
Brought art's very existence to light?
Will he be forgotten?

Cruel ones, look inward to yourselves;
Honor the work, the pain and anguish
Art is conceived in passion, love and agony;
It is a process not without sacrifice

There are those who bear the gift
Of words, song, dance or the stage;
Bear in mind the visual splendor of the canvas,
Recorded in color, the soul of the artist

There is no greater gift an artist can give
Than to share his innermost thoughts and dreams
Captured by pen and ink, brought to life,
And hope that someone might understand

What is art, but a cry to be heard?
A hand reaching out, in color and design,
A statement of feeling, where words are few,
Will they know the meaning?                                   

Julie A. Dickson, Exeter, NH        


Box in the Closet          
In distant past her role was cast
a young girl
writer emerged
the journals filled
thoughts were purged
Loneliness felt, the words she spelt
pencil nub
clasped in hand
to understand
Existence consisting of silence
brown fearful eyes
betrayed her pain
in her room again
Much time spent alone as she went
on journeys
in her mind
the only solace
she could find
Must withhold after warnings told
held the pages
writings hidden
from prying eyes
thoughts unbidden
Box in the closet, what had caused it
lashed out violent
abuse she heard
could not disclose
the written word
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter NH

Caress the consciousness, the words
Hear rhymes of iridescent pearl
See vast alliteration swirl
Envisioned as with sweet song birds
Meter and cadence, she dictates
As they bubble, rise up to crest
Often she leaves behind the rest
Eloquent verses she debates
To fellow poets, teaches form
With iambic pentameter
Many mimic her demeanor
In awe, another poet born
Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH