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?
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
desperate
to understand
Existence consisting of silence
brown fearful eyes
betrayed her pain
isolated
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
----------------------------
Tribute
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
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