Julie A. Dickson ---- four poems

Rejoice

Single bird perched upon snow covered tree

he huddles, head nestled out of the wind

swaying his thin frame ‘mong branches blown free,

desolate landscape, lone bird wonders when

this storm will subside, the sun to emerge.

Snow covers feathers, his beak under wing.

Lifts up his head, storm seems on the verge;

sun breaks through snow sky, he’s ready to sing.

Flies over meadow now coated with snow,

straight to a farmhouse with silos of corn,

scattered, the seeds, they call from below,

landing to feast on this cold sun-filled morn.

Recalls the chill night he spent in the tree,

rejoice the morning, when storm set him free.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Secret Melon

Lying on the floor in the hallway

unseen

I saw grownups in black slacks,

lace collars

a party in my parent’s house

hidden

I wanted sweet cantaloupe melon,

watching

mother cut fruit all afternoon

fruit salad

for guests she said and only smiled

at my request

for a bite of melon, ripe and delicious

wait, she said,

the leftovers, you can have breakfast

I frowned

I crept into the dining room, under the table

reached up

quickly grabbed a piece of melon,

juicy cantaloupe

I popped it quickly into my mouth,

so delicious.

I crawled back to my bed, still tasting,

happily

I went back to sleep now, waiting

for breakfast

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Survival

When words escape me like so many dreams

everything changes, different it seems.

Travel upon memory buried in snow,

while drifts blow over wherever I go.

I trip over roots, hidden -- I fall

on my knees but I realize that overall

the whole point of a journey varies;

some may stumble while others tarry,

confused, might wander among the rubble,

pick through detritus that caused this trouble,

reminisce smiling past times when I knew

a trembling voice, from one of a fool.

Isolated, alone in a din,

Ignored or passed over -- turn myself in-

to the fray, if I  write about life,

will they recognize, imagine my strife?

Yes, overcome, I’ve lived onto this age,

earned the right to own all of my rage.

A pass is issued, somewhat of a badge,

a ticket, an entry to lift up this latch.

Open a new door, within my own time –

appreciate brilliance, begin to unwind,

unravel the voices beneath the snow,

whisper survival through words I now know.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Ashes

I know just where my father’s ashes are interred,

but I wonder if I really knew him.

My mother’s ashes were buried next to his,

but while his were in a faux-granite urn,

hers had been dumped, unceremoniously

from a cardboard box directly into the ground,

by my father ten years earlier.

I thought of this atrocity, this role-reversal,

how much my mother hated dirt,

would have preferred the clean sealed urn.

It was he, who would have wanted to be dumped

into the ground or over the lake he loved,

but instead he was locked inside an urn.

Sometimes I wish I could have torn open his urn,

thrusting him to the wind, scooping up the memory

of my mother, to capture her essence

but then I realize that she is more free

than my father will ever be.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH