Julie A. Dickson ------ four poems

Entwined

I am the wind.

Moving air about

more out of boredom, really,

I despise inactivity.

I am the earth.

In silent caves, on rocky cliffs

the darkest forest deep,

The mother beneath your feet

I am the ice.

Thin coating over cold water,

fish peer through my window,

a circling hawk flies in shadow

I am the fire.

Always hot, I burn,

my sorrow in dying embers,

flame gone, no one remembers.

I am the sky.

Not so much above it all;

I wrap myself around

these elements that are bound.

All factions are in kind,

cohesively entwined.                                                                    

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

Brown and White

When she boarded the school bus, the first thing I noticed were her very brown legs.

The only portion showing was between ivory-white socks, carefully rolled down –

identical cuffs against her ankles, and the knee-length hem of her plaid uniform skirt.

Somehow, my eyes stayed transfixed on her shins, so dark in contrast to my pale legs.

I looked down quickly, as if to verify this, but also because I didn’t want to stare.

I was a new student, my first day in fifth grade. I didn’t know a single person,

didn’t know how to make friends. I glanced up as this girl slid into the seat in front of me.

I studied the back of her neck, at the tightly curled hair that I wanted to touch.

But I did nothing. I looked at the cover of her notebook; Clara seemed to be her name.

I finally uttered my first words in a soft timid voice, as if to myself, “This is my first day.”

Clara turned sideways in her seat and smiled. “Don’t worry. Don’t be scared.”

I had been on the bus for over 30 minutes and Clara was the only one who had spoken to me.

It was a small town in 1965. I didn’t know about prejudice then, had never met a black girl.

At school, in a sea of faces, none looked at or talked to Clara, but I didn’t know why.

Because of our brief exchange on the bus, she reached for my hand and led me to the classroom.

I didn’t have any other friends that year in school. I couldn’t have known that my simple act

would mark me, drawing a line in the sand so clear that no one would step across.

Clara and I sat side-by-side during that 5^th grade year, in class, at lunch and on the bus.

My parents moved away the following summer and I never saw Clara again. I was saddened

that I didn’t even get to say goodbye, that she would look for me in the fall, never knowing…

Twenty years later, on an escalator in a mall, my five-year-old daughter placed her hand

atop a huge dark hand behind hers on the railing. I looked down and saw brown and white.

We both looked up and smiled. He grinned at us, not seeming to mind her touch.

I thought of Clara for the first time in so many years, our skinny shins, brown and white.

Two lonely girls who met on a bus and became friends at a time when no one approved.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

Whispers on the Wall

A vagrant vacancy

whispers to the wall,

in silent proclivity

illegible scrawl.

Meaningless message,

or does it preclude

a venomous vestige

most humans elude?

Wander on freely,

most unconcerned -

perhaps quite naively,

no danger discerned.

Disquieted candor,

facts unparalleled -

blindly meander,

our consciousness quelled.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

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

Table 3

Needs More Coffee

I’ve been to diners north of Nelson, true

that’s reaching into Canada, you know

BC, for sure took in objectors then,

since ’73, it was the place to go.

So when I made a road trip to the south

to be exact, a town within the states

Bonner’s Ferry Diner, there I stopped

where they boasted some impressive plates.

The coffee shop was crowded on that day.

I sat upon a lonely counter stool,

removed my jacket, drank a steaming cup

a stranger in this place, I played it cool.

Suddenly, a nearby waitress said, “more

coffee for the Neos at table three.”

I froze with my mug halfway to my mouth,

courage gone, I did not turn to see.

The noisy crowd continued with their meals,

I gazed around me, no one seemed to care

that word still echoed, sounding quite surreal

not a word was spoken, not a stare.

Sat silently for moments, didn’t move.

When I finally turned around, I gazed –

a group of shaved head men at table 3;

recalling stories told, I sat there, dazed.

Being from BC, I had not seen

America, by definition spoke

diversity, the melting pot, I heard

the sight before me almost made me choke.

Did these men personify the norm?

Whites supreme appeared the badge tattooed.

It caused my fear to surge, I wondered when

to Nelson more might flee from war, elude

oppression, hate and violence that they face

out in neon light the signs were there,

in diner, I saw faces that would fight,

at table 3, around me, everywhere.

I left the Bonner’s Ferry Diner then

thinking that America digressed,

turned its back on all the progress made

extent of which, I never would have guessed.

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, NH

Marjorie Sadin ----- Three poems

Published by Bewildering Stories

I Miss Stars

I miss the stars

And the salt of the ocean.

I miss the whinnying of horses

And the smell of pine trees.

I miss you.

And your scent like the mulch of the earth.

I miss mamma’s granola.

And the sound of the guitar.

I miss cotton fields

And August in Savannah.

I miss sparks from a fire

And steaks grilled with corn.

I miss childhood.

Was there ever one?
I miss innocence

Cloaked in words.

I miss parades

And peace rallies.

I miss promises

And pacts between pals.

I miss the stars

Orion, the Crab Nebula, the Big Dipper.

I miss long nights

And waking to touch.

         

Poem of the month Subsync Press Nov. 2016, The Trove March 2017

How to Live With What You Have

Throw out torn socks.

Save scratch paper.

Meet friends for coffee.

Make love on the creaky bed.

Pick up the dog’s shit.

Hand wash dishes.

Watch TV without cable.

Use a cell phone without texting.

Use the metro instead of driving.

Travel light.

Let the dicey heavens win the lottery.

Die penniless writing poetry

Go nowhere.

And always be near.

Published by Eunoia Press

Coffee and Ice Cream 

                

We greet the morning,

coffee and ice cream for breakfast.

The stream flows east toward the river.

The eddies from the stream are like shaving cream.

I dip my feet in the stream.

I kiss your cheeks.

When the sun sets its red curtains,

I am overcome.

I follow you to the shadow of the moon

where there is no light.

Sierra Golden ----- two poems

Legend

Sitka, AK

Porky wrote a pamphlet for the cruise ships

about an island populated with pink flamingos.

He explained how each year a special flock comes north

because a rare hydrothermal vent ten meters west of the island

spews hot water and chemosynthetic archaea,

creating the ideal climate for the brine shrimp flamingos eat.

Not much bigger than the Murray Pacific parking lot,

the island’s rocky shore and Sitka Spruce are the only place

in Alaska that a flamingo will land.

This rare flock has recently diminished to five or six,

one or two hanging upside down, but they used to number fifty

or sixty and be pink as Porky’s gums when he smiled,

hanging plastic flamingo bodies from trees.

Once, flying in a friend’s old Beaver, Porky dropped

a batch of tires on top of Mount Edgecumbe,

came back on foot to light a bonfire and stamp April Fools

on the volcano’s snowy cone. The Coast Guard didn’t know

it was a false alarm until they flew over the dome in a chopper.

These days I suppose Porky would go to jail for a prank like that.

Otters eat thirty percent of their body weight each day

because they have no blubber for insulation. People say

Porky ate his whole weight in pranks each day

to warm his tobacco-stained whiskers and curled toes.

He had no old lady for insulation and the winters here

bite like a wet dog. And the dark, it isn’t even lit by stars.

I keep dreaming of Porky, wishing death wasn’t so chronic

a condition, wishing he’d come back and make me,

teeth shining in the night, smile big as a gibbous moon.

Last Season

When my hands curl and cramp,

stiff and wracked as cracked kelp,

I’ve been sweeping this seine

into careful heaps for too long

and when I sleep palms pressed flat,

protecting fragile tendons, flex of the wrist,

I dream my fingers bloom with lichens,

stems and caps pooled with freshwater.

What is it to stay? To know dirt?

I want to watch roots cast shadows

in the dark, to watch how light spreads

like an emerald wake under a maple in sun.