Julie A. Dickson ----- five poems

Weather the Storm

Shift thinking toward major change

to rearrange, no more head shaking

or dreaded loneliness impending,

but together we will weather

the storm of locusts, never torn from

one another’s arms, we hold fast

as life’s tempest tosses our souls,

like balancing a bowl on our knees,

we seize every moment to embrace,

to chase the worries of the world

until a calm smoothes the lines

from my weary face, wind declines

leaving a rainbow of colors,

we revel in the yellows and blues,

we choose to weather the storm,

laughing at the sea; it will not

dislodge the mast, will not cast

us into deep waters, we will swim free.

Julie A. Dickson 

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Hot Days Farewell

Away with stress, the things of man

down the road, a plan to drive far,

along highways on our way to fields

of green, where cows nod heads,

bow their hello from pastures

yet to mow, harvest still a-ways off,

looking forward to falling back,

when Autumn equinox hums a song,

bidding hot days farewell, dog days

give way to crisp apples in fall air,

I declare my favorite time of year.

Julie A. Dickson

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Almost Full

Above the trees haunts,

as in a scary tale,

skeletal branches

like arms beckoning -

come closer;

almost full moon,

eerily lopsided,

warped in its beauty -

stares out of night sky,

questioning why I

would ever think, even

in the absence of stars

moon would not shine

its hello to the pre-dawn.

Julie A. Dickson

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Haiku Triplet

Beneath scudding clouds

Feel vertigo motion

Despite solid ground

The world intervenes

Un-meditated, I sway

Hearing mind clutter

Surrender to sky

Consciousness finally wanes

Contemplate silence

Julie A. Dickson

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Poetry and Shrimp

[Reaction poem to The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy]

Before I knew of the prince

in an unfamiliar low land,

I already loved poetry and books.

Then I heard his words spoken

like whispers at low tide,

a fishing net was thrown over me,

dragging me into the boat

with writhing shrimp and cod, but

while they struggled for air

I breathed for the first time.

The melody of his story wrapped me

in a rough-weather foulie.

Brine permeated

my thoughts, though my skin

shed the water like an oil skin.

Now that I know the prince’s tidal pools,

fluid, the language of poetry and shrimp,

I feel the rope burn my hands and salt on my tongue.

Julie A. Dickson