—Poetry by Julie A. Dickson, Exeter, NH
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Julie A. Dickson
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Julie A. Dickson
ODE TO A SUMMER DAY
I long for leaves to fall,
fluttering to pavement and lawn
in their bright colors, a banner
announcing the end of summer!
Some may protest, I realize:
long sweaty walks, bicyclists
wearing tight shorts, dark stains
of perspiration on muscled backs;
what could be more enjoyable
than roasting alongside seared meat
at endless barbeques, heat wafting
as much from grill as from above?
Sun baking flowerbeds to dust,
early morning watering of new grass,
the acrid odor of mowed grass seeps
through my closed window;
air conditioner on high, day and night,
trudging to car through humid air
one can almost use a scythe to cut,
random thunder and heat lightning
spark a hot summer night, nature
shared fireworks, a quick cloudburst
one hopes will cool us off, only to
raise the barometer even higher.
Yes, they all love summer, must enjoy
sweating in little league bleachers,
hat brims low, shoulders slathered slick
with sunblock, while I stay inside
waiting for Autumn, the reprieve—
a crisp cool morning, sunbathed
afternoon, walking through downed
colored leaves, glad summer is done.
I long for leaves to fall,
fluttering to pavement and lawn
in their bright colors, a banner
announcing the end of summer!
Some may protest, I realize:
long sweaty walks, bicyclists
wearing tight shorts, dark stains
of perspiration on muscled backs;
what could be more enjoyable
than roasting alongside seared meat
at endless barbeques, heat wafting
as much from grill as from above?
Sun baking flowerbeds to dust,
early morning watering of new grass,
the acrid odor of mowed grass seeps
through my closed window;
air conditioner on high, day and night,
trudging to car through humid air
one can almost use a scythe to cut,
random thunder and heat lightning
spark a hot summer night, nature
shared fireworks, a quick cloudburst
one hopes will cool us off, only to
raise the barometer even higher.
Yes, they all love summer, must enjoy
sweating in little league bleachers,
hat brims low, shoulders slathered slick
with sunblock, while I stay inside
waiting for Autumn, the reprieve—
a crisp cool morning, sunbathed
afternoon, walking through downed
colored leaves, glad summer is done.
I DREAMED THERE WAS A CAKE
chocolate with white icing—
strange, since I prefer chocolate icing
as a rule, with golden cake
but this was for a retirement,
mine I suppose, as my old boss was there,
having bought the cake, I found it
in an office, and something made me
slice off a piece, which was so good
I took the whole thing around the office
offering pieces of myself, along with this
confection that represented so many years
of my life. I felt all of the stress leaving my body
as I handed out slice after slice, to those peers
that had sneered and belittled me, as well as
those I had worked side by side with for so long,
I could barely feel the edges of my own brain,
so attached I was to the main nucleus of this job,
now breaking away, just like a chunk of cake.
AFTER
the rain stopped
torrential is the word they use
which describes it well—
stronger than any I’d seen.
I couldn’t walk
into the pond that was my yard
leaves and debris floating
as if a hurricane blew through.
Branches still dropping
water bombs on my head
splashing glasses, blinding me—
don’t look they seemed to say,
at what used to be pansies
in a hanging pot, now draped
over as if exhausted,
instead of just drowned.
What happened
to a gentle shower, to nourish,
replenish the grass and trees;
why this angry torrent,
washing away life
a destruction, really opposite
of what is needed—as if
to pummel and punish.
the rain stopped
torrential is the word they use
which describes it well—
stronger than any I’d seen.
I couldn’t walk
into the pond that was my yard
leaves and debris floating
as if a hurricane blew through.
Branches still dropping
water bombs on my head
splashing glasses, blinding me—
don’t look they seemed to say,
at what used to be pansies
in a hanging pot, now draped
over as if exhausted,
instead of just drowned.
What happened
to a gentle shower, to nourish,
replenish the grass and trees;
why this angry torrent,
washing away life
a destruction, really opposite
of what is needed—as if
to pummel and punish.
a lonely kid
stayed to herself
not knowing
there were
other
lonely kids
shy
reserved
no one
to get these
lonely kids
together
we could
have had a
group of
lonely kids
but
no one
noticed
stayed to herself
not knowing
there were
other
lonely kids
shy
reserved
no one
to get these
lonely kids
together
we could
have had a
group of
lonely kids
but
no one
noticed
PACKING UP
years of existence
into boxes, those books
like unspoken silent words;
making a quick exit,
car overstuffed, not knowing
where to lay your head next,
while thinking regrets,
where changes might have
mattered, when none did.
Finally arriving anew—
unopened boxes left in a heap
for months until one day
on a whim you peer inside,
and there they are, curled edges,
beckoning characters wave you in,
reminding of times when their worlds
were all you had, the fantasy love,
semblance of a real life held close.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
So many books, so little time.
—Frank Zappa
__________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for fine poetry, and for finding fine photos to match!
Julie A. Dickson
For info about upcoming
poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
last year’s rain
tatted acres of
Queen Anne’s Lace
