Julie Dickson --------------- three poems

 Ghost Warrior

 

 

I am not the ghost;

let me be clear on this.                             

The ghost is my past

and my most fervent hope

is to at last be free.

 

I am the ghost warrior,                                               

fighting invisible echoes,

a story that is better forgotten,

realizing no gain or reward

from listening to a ghost.

 

I am its bane, to silence a voice,

an apparition I cannot see or hear,

though I hum music , close my eyes

to assuage fear, writing the very words

that will allow this ghost to rest easy.

 

Julie A. Dickson

 

An Absent-stance

 

 

I implied you were never there

yet there you stood

stolid

stoic

 

Your absent nature left me

alone in a peopled room

without empathy

without touch

 

Nothing expressed plainly

your volatile nature left me

confused

wanting

 

Implicitly absent in your stance

a father that wasn’t

loving

caring

 

 

Julie A. Dickson

 

                                                                                                                                    

 

Beach Rose

 

Snow falls soft as cotton,

blankets a withered vine,

twisted about a trellis pole.

 

A single beach rose, dark pink -

frozen, locked in translucence,

a treatise of summer bloom.

 

 

Julie A. Dickson

 

 

Lakshman Bulusu ----------------------------- poem

SPECIALLY CHALLENGED

By Lakshman Bulusu

I am specially challenged—

The experts call it OCD, BPD, depression—

The words ‘mental illness’ resonate in my mind,

my life shattered like a well-crafted antique,

splintered to pieces.

Moment by moment, this thought eclipses me.

Until one day, I realize I have to come out of this darkness.

Even the night has the moon and the stars

and the day has its light.

I thrill in gardening:

plant seeds of marigold and sunflowers,

till the soil in furrows with a cultivator or a garden hoe,

water daily using a green watering can

with patience as far as my passion can hold.

Behold each blossom, a newborn seasonal beauty.

I take to painting, try to imitate Jean-Michel,

create faces with expressions of

joy, gloom, anger, despair—

in ages of a child, aged, blonde, and old-aged—

in ranges of white, black, brown, and

the versatility of light.

I resort to basketball. In a court set up in my backyard

practice shooting the ball into the hoop.

Sometimes I play alone yet overcome the solitude 

by living in the next throw, this time to make it a better one.

The music of the Beatles’ Come Together and Michael Jackson’s Thriller—

the song and beat rocking through the speakers

overwhelm me as I drive through the countryside flanked by green fields.

I recite hymns of Lord Ram at an ancient temple,

sometimes so immersed it becomes a soliloquy.

Every chant of it chases the blues away that kept chasing me.         

I engage in literature, sonnet to free verse,

a monologue or a dialogue, as an inspiration

to those sharing my space.

I write poems to characterize myself in a comic vein.

I venture out in the open, take a sojourn at the beach.

I find solace in that I can challenge my challenge.

A signal of mental wellness:

At the end of the evening, relaxing in a chair,

sipping tea, and acknowledging passers by.

Wendy Beamish ------------- two poems

LOST

When I was young

And wild and joyful,

I met a mystic sage

She had a dark and golden heart

And promised me endless light

Being greedy and wanting

more happiness

I barely listened to her

song

And blithely followed her

As she spiraled down

To uplift you,

She told me,

I will take you

through the

Deepest darkness

Blackest blight

Searing sadness

And when you rise

you will break the

Surface

Like a swimmer

Bursting into the light

Following her down,

I became lost

in infinite night

in piercing pain

in tireless tragedy

Without the sage,

Doubt and Panic

overtook me

knowing I would

never be the same

But I fought,

lost

Going up

Going down

And up and down

Again and again

And years passed

this way

As I fought to break

the surface

And sometimes I thought

I saw the light

Other times

I was soaked in darkness

And each time

I was near

The light

I healed a little

And then I

realized

The light was not

Joy

But

Wisdom

Inspiration Lost

Perfectionism is

spotless white gloves,

freshly fallen snow,

unblemished porcelain skin.

But perfectionism

is parallelizing

when you're in

its grip

And inspiration

becomes mere

Respiration

Perfectionism is

the hammer that comes down

on the nail,

the noose that hangs,

the seal on the coffin,

Perfectionism is

drowning in your

own idealism

Unable to

reach my ideals

Inspiration

becomes mere

Respiration

Perfectionism

has stopped me,

death by asphyxiation 

by a Tyrant

of my own making

And when can I breathe

just a ... little

I wonder

Who decides what perfect is?

For if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

perfect can take on many forms,

leaving it amorphous

The answer cannot

be

stopping

or

Holding tight to harrowing idealism

but

finding away

to

Exist between the lines

To allow mere respiration

To become inspiration