Sad Songs & Cowboy Coffee

 

—Poetry by Julie A. Dickson, Exeter, NH
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Julie A. Dickson

 

 

STINGING TOUCH

Sans umbrella
no use in this downpour with wind
forgotten slicker
clothing sodden, stuck to shoulders
rain pelting
face running wet with faux tears

How different
standing naked in daily hot shower
eyes squeezed shut
long hair sodden, stuck to shoulders
water running
luxuriant down face and body

sky opens up
icy cold stinging

shower caresses
lover’s touch

 

 

 

 

COWBOY COFFEE

I dreamed she got a tattoo
my mother
[didn’t even approve of tattoos]

on her back
she lowered her robe for me
to see a map.

It looked like North and South
America
silhouetted in black.

She talked
strangely, spooning coffee to make
cowboy coffee,

called ‘cuz it wasn’t perked
just grounds
boiled in water, rather gritty.

Need a dock
she said, for the boat when it reached
a city.

She always wanted to live there; without
the map,
how would she know where it was?

Confused
I stood sipping this burnt coffee wondering
about her;

that sore-looking tattoo on my mother,
her escape
to some far-off city, not wanting to ask

why or when
she would leave, longing to ask her—
take me.

 

 

 

 

Never wanted a brother

but there was no choice at the time,
parents adopted him, defective baby,
in the hospital more than out,
a preemie, they called him.

They made me hold him on my lap,
I spose he was kind of cute
whispy blond, but cried all the time
surgery for tonsils right away;

finally shut him up for awhile,
but he never seemed to play with me,
always on his own—‘cept breaking
my toys when they weren’t looking,

so I pinched him on his leg—
he was crying in our family picture
but I smiled, got back at him
for once, they took his side always.

Older, he stole from me, worse
than breaking my stuff, pretended
to be my friend, borrowed money,
never paid back, crashed my car,

blamed it on me, of course.
After parents stopped financing
his entire life, he vanished for good.

Never wanted a brother, but I guess
he never wanted us, either.

 

 

 

 

Before

there were stains upon his chest
on every shirt he owned, he sat
upright and important in a swivel chair
at a desk, phone balanced on one shoulder,
Cross pen jotting down notes in a cipher
only he could read, like secret code.

Diminished to sitting, strapped into a chair,
orthopedic to minimize stenosis pain,
remnants of today’s lunch and perhaps
several dinners painted a mosaic canvas;
muted reds and yellows reminiscent of past
sunsets enjoyed after a day’s work.

Stains that don’t wash out, memories etched
into cotton now, reminder of days no longer
remembered, gone as soon as eyes close –
into dreams of that desk, crisp white shirt
with immaculate tie, labor disputes mediated;
no food painted his canvas then, he ruled

the days with weighty decisions, hands
in a stance of authority, but now tremble
birdlike, curled into himself, secrets held
tight inside forgotten days, lived and re-lived;
reduced to that canvas, myriad watercolor
contrast to clear memory and crisp white shirt.

 

 

 

 

SAD SONG

Don’t know why hearing that song
gives me pause and makes me cry—
I s’pose it made me think of you,
though we were through long ago,
really before we began.

Signs posted on roadways, I saw
didn’t seem to warn, not mine—
plastered on walls, messages
I was wrong, but remind me still
when I hear that sad song.

 

 

 

 

WAITING

In amongst
those over 65
many over 80

live in small
mobile homes
[don’t call them trailers]

walk by—
can hear televisions
up too loud

TV having taken
the place of life—
reduced to bystanders

not bedsitters, exactly
not walkers, perhaps
chair yoga people

those seen in ads
in matching outfits
or strolling with leashed

small harnessed dogs
that don’t pull too much,
cat curled up on a lap

wave and talk together
of children rarely seen
grandchildren never met

it’s as good a place as any
to be mostly forgotten, waiting—
lone pink flamingo on the lawn

 

 

 

 

COUNTING CARS

Under the eaves
in a feather bed
unable to sleep
I lay listening
to the night

quiet
but for crickets
and tree frogs
a late night
chorus

Count sheep
grandmother said
you’ll fall asleep
It didn’t work
still awake

‘til I heard
a whistle
2 am freight train
fully loaded
100 cars

approaching slowly
a rhythm
rocking me
into slumber
counting cars

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

 

—Allen Ginsberg, from Ginsberg, A Biography 

 
__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for today’s fine poetry, and for finding us photos to go with it!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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.

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Just remember:
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for poetry, of course!

 

Flamingo-Snake

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
thin metal legs
guard the porch—
pink flamingos!