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

Jackie Anderson ---- four Cinquains

DAYBREAK

Daybreak

Sipping warm mug

Silent awakening

Newborn day shining pure white light

Clean slate

---------------------------------------------------------

JOLTED

Jolted

Shocked and shaken

Cruel attack rends my heart

Healing faith revives, I will rise

Stronger

--------------------------------------------------------------

MOVED ON

Moved on

Went your own way

Voice smiling through my phone

Like a visit at home today

My son

BROTHER

Brother

Charms, aggravates

My reaching out falls short

In deep abyss of chasm wide

Love hides

George Held ----------- poem

No Light

   “To Hell in a hand basket”

   “This is the end, my friend”

1.

Only clichés and other folks’ words

come to mind in the lowering dark

of a world gone to pot or to black,

as the pot calls the kettle,

but what are clichés for if not to bring

succor to us suckers who long for light

not necessarily at the end of the tunnel?

But there’s no light in sight, none.

2.

We who are doomed to die salute you

who motor on in the face of bomb

threats, mass shootings, frightening

policies drawn up by crooked governments,

you who warmly welcome a new child,

you who go to church, synagogue, or mosque

to pray, to receive succor, you who feel divine

peace in the presence of God, a god.

3.

But no god’s in sight, none. So what

if I can’t pray or find peace without,

only rarely within, where there’s no

light, just a reptile response to life?

That’s no question for a lyric;

save it for an ode or an epic

or a drama; stow it away

from the gray light of a new day.

Mary Anna Kruch ---------------- poem

Angels in the Evening Woods

Far from the city noise,

I walk the woods,

try to block out a president

who has made life hell

for the least among us --

allowing my imagination to wander

Night approaches; I do not fear the dark.

At twilight, the evening woods

create profound silhouettes,

they rise, a line of stiff, solemn soldiers,

heads touching the navy blue of sunset.

I study how the towering red pines

shelter families of deer who live

beneath their fine-scented branches –

how the trees supply sanctuary

for even the least among them.

It is night, but I cannot close my eyes.

Even during the hunt,

deer, owls, and rabbits

will sleep in the shelter of my soldiers,

angels in the evening woods.

It is night, but I cannot close my eyes.

I think how differently guards

at the border view themselves --

follow orders blindly

strike fear in the hearts

of families with no place to hide in the night.

Where are humanity’s protectors?

Who supports and defends families

 who flee violence and death?

Those families are hunted; they fear the dark.

They may be moved out of sight,

but they cannot be erased.

The woods cannot shelter them.

Where are the protective arms

of civilized duty?

Who supplies sanctuary

for even the least among them?

Even as I walk far from the noise

my eyes remain open.

We must learn

from the angels in the evening woods.

Haiku ---------- Lenora Good

Like thin chocolate

the Rio Grande pours past me

            I thirst.

Dragonflies

tango above the water

            tiny scarlet flames.

Thor's hammer bounces

across the clouds—

            puppy shakes in fear.

Why is it easier

to accept my death

            than yours?

Three Haiku ----- James Roderick Burns

How dear

the small, lit window!

How distant!

*

Mossy cobbles

flatten and shine under

the wash of tyres

*

Stillness –

the night-bird’s cry flits

from wall to wall

Three poems by Julie A. Dickson

Rock, paper, scissors

“Paper or plastic”

I call out to the river, as if it has a choice

Un-chosen bit of plastic flotsam

drifts lazily, white billowed mass

undulating in the current,

Market Basket logo still visible -

floating advertisement flows downstream

catching briefly on twigs and rocks

Stick extended, sad fishing expedition,

a sodden reminder of human invention –

cheaply-made goods destined to join

as kindred polyethylene spirits

on gull-swarmed piles of immortal refuse,

floating detritus , an eternal  wasteland at sea

Mind drifts with the river current -

photos recalled:

Distorted turtle shell grown around plastic ring

Contents of dead whale’s belly strewn on a beach

Skunk’s head stuck in a plastic peanut butter jar

Glass grinds back to sand

Paper mulches into earth

Rock, paper, scissors

Plastic prevails

Julie A. [Dickson] Richter

Exeter, NH

Julie A. Dickson ---------- three poems

Rock, paper, scissors

“Paper or plastic”

I call out to the river, as if it has a choice

Un-chosen bit of plastic flotsam

drifts lazily, white billowed mass

undulating in the current,

Market Basket logo still visible -

floating advertisement flows downstream

catching briefly on twigs and rocks

Stick extended, sad fishing expedition,

a sodden reminder of human invention –

cheaply-made goods destined to join

as kindred polyethylene spirits

on gull-swarmed piles of immortal refuse,

floating detritus , an eternal  wasteland at sea

Mind drifts with the river current -

photos recalled:

Distorted turtle shell grown around plastic ring

Contents of dead whale’s belly strewn on a beach

Skunk’s head stuck in a plastic peanut butter jar

Glass grinds back to sand

Paper mulches into earth

Rock, paper, scissors

Plastic prevails

Julie A. [Dickson] Richter

Exeter, NH 

Cavendish

Tendrils of gray smoke

crossed sun rays,

shone through gauzy curtains

Grandfather’s two-toned brown pipe

was filled with tobacco,

Cavendish scent

My young nose abhorred cigarettes

but his intriguing two-toned brown pipe

emitting such a rich fragrance

drew me in

I moved close enough

to taste the aroma on my tongue

His eyes closed as he drew in;

I watched and then closed

my own eyes

Julie A. [Dickson] Richter

Exeter, NH

Violet Dance

Air clear, billowed clouds lay against the blue.

Six oak stood in a circle, near a high rock wall,

capstones toppled into thick grasses.

The six, when night fell, joined low branches,

hands held in a graceful forest waltz.

Ancient murmurs welled up their trunks

reaching tall in joy, swayed and turned.

By morning, the six returned to their places

in the grove; a new patch of deep purple violets

stood as a reminder of their nocturnal dance.

Julie A. [Dickson] Richter

Exeter, NH

Three poems ----- Julie A. Dickson

Tell me Your Name

You are sad I cannot remember you?

I feel sadness about many things.

Don’t keep asking me who you are –

please tell me your name.

I see a photograph on the wall,

it’s me as a young man

no, I cannot recall

my deceased wife’s name.

Don’t keep asking me, as if

it might come back to me.

I remember I wore a red tie

to high school graduation,

a gift from my mother –

what did you say your name is?

I don’t know where I am,

the people here seem friendly;

can I please go home today?

Now, you look sad again…

I cannot think of any words to say;

did you ask a question just now?

Outside the window it looks like spring;

I’d like to go outdoors, please.

I hear nice music playing nearby;

will you push my chair closer?

I’m sorry I’ve forgotten again;

I’ll try to remember, just tell me your name.

 Aftermath

Camp Fire memorial

Scorched blackened beams

lay crisscrossed over fallen rubble,

ruined walls decimated

into haphazard heaps,

unrecognizable lumps,

someone’s former home.

Among scorched grass and trees,

a brick sentry remains -

lone witness to vast devastation,

burnt embers, smoldering ashes

accumulate among the residue

of unspoken screams.

A squirrel raises his head to listen;

weary whispers quiver in the aftermath

amidst damp decaying debris.

 The Game

Governess looks on

Mary teaches the game to her sisters

Middle holds her hand up to dissuade Lisbeth

from bothering the chess pieces

So serious, this Meg, the thinker…

Governess has seen her sneak books on history and art

whilst Mary dreams of husband and children,

learned chess from the Earl

Their father rarely speaks since his wife’s death

Mary can reach him, smiles and bright colored gown

Lisbeth the silly girl, the youngest

taunts and teases patient sisters

Dresses bound up, braids tight, jeweled bands

baubles saved from a mother long gone

A summer outing, the game

Governess looks on

Chrysanthemum Poetry Anthology

We are planning to resurrect Chrysanthemum Poetry Anthology. Please stay tuned!

Sherry Rabbino Lewis ---------------- five poems

RODEO RIDER

Time’s a bucking bronco

furious to shake me off,

still I hang on tight

strictly from pride.

Guess he’s gotten bored with me

wants to test the next damn fool

who’ll mount willingly

to dare the ride.

Whirls me in a tesseract:

Past and Future meld with Now

grandchild fused with child,

and I am young.

Once I rode a horse called Gold

tried but could not make him halt:

missed the flapping reins

whipping him on.

Feared I’d ride forever

but his weary legs gave out.

He stopped, snorted mist

and let me go.

But…

Time’s a different sort of beast:

relentless, cruel, untiring.

We’ll not part gently.

This much I know.

THIS MORNING

contrails stitched your initials in the sky

first sharp, then cotton fluff, then gone.

My friend said you were saying hi

from someplace northward of the sun.

But she finds comfort everywhere:

In music from a passing car,

or robin lighting on his chair,

she sees a sign from her lost love.

So she insists you’ve come to me

as hummingbird with onyx glare

suspended inches from my face,

or strange cat waiting on the stair.

He would not leave his chosen place

as if his home was always there.

(And smiled at me with amber eyes—

your color when your mood was fair.)

Such moments do not prove you live.

The comforts we create are lies.

If answered once, I might believe

but what I ask you do not give:

Because you never come in dreams,

no matter how I plead and call,

each “sign” is merely what it seems.

The sky is empty after all.

ABSCISSION LAYER

For a time

all appears the same:

the leaf remains attached

by memory.

Only the tree

senses its loss.

So with love:

Long before they parted

the wound had healed.

SPRING STORM

After days of sun

and arid shirtsleeve heat

we moved geraniums outside,

took covers from the picnic set—

grateful for the end of cold.

Suddenly, at noon

an over-stuffed dark cloud

on its way to somewhere else,

burst loudly, dimpling all the earth

with icy golfball hail.

Finches chirped, confused.

They fled to sheltering trees

shaking winter from their wings.

In moments, all was coated white

and startled silence reigned.

Bright sun soon returned.

The grass glowed  green again.

Then, mockingly, a single peal

of thunder rolled like laughter from

the jokester in the sky.,

LET’S BE FOOLS TOGETHER

Let’s pretend that we believe

that in the sky there is an eye

that sees and grieves,

an ear that hears us cry.

Let’s imagine there’s a Guide

who has a real plan for us.

Let’s jump with joy, forget our pride,

Let’s loudly shout in chorus:

“Thank You for the sunshine!

Thank You for the rain!

Thank You for the beauty!

Thank You for the pain!”

Let’s eat the junk that kills us.

Let’s breathe the air that chokes.

Let’s let the rich ones steal the world

from all us simple folks.

You know what?  I don’t care.

Let them ravish everywhere,

Send the victims to the chair.

Give the guilty ones my share.

I’m weary of excuses

for my fellow man.

I’m tired of the abuses

they commit since time began.

Let’s admit there’s nothing,

no reason for it all.

Let’s be fools together

forget the things we know—

Let’s be joyous fools together

Just relax…and let it go.