Fortresses

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

 

 

THE HOUSE WHERE I NEVER LIVED

I never lived where I was born,
heard no laughter from 5 siblings
playing ball in the dooryard, no

sound of approaching Impala
returning from fire station, hands
covered in soot, headed to shower

arriving at dinner table set for seven.
Mine was a quiet home, distant aloof
father who preferred quiet reflection

in his ruby port-filled glass, his wife
stoically serving a handsome roast
arranged with identical tiny potatoes

surrounding browned meat, a fence
sentry guard against sound, neither
joy nor sorrow could gain entry.

Table of seven raucous and loud, I
never knew petty arguments over
who got the last meatball, elbows

jabbing playfully followed by rooms
full of sisters, brothers nearby knocking
on walls; my room was lonely, silent

ballerinas caught in mid pirouette flanked
lacy white curtains overlooking yard,
empty of siblings, strewn bikes and balls.

I left where I was born with no memory
of five older siblings, lined up walking
to school from a house where I never lived.

 

 

 

 

RUNNING RED

Stark white handkerchief he handed to her
                suggested surrender
to wipe at the corner of bloodied lips
                as if by accident
this had occurred rather than by hand
                raised and struck
She peered down at this crimson smear
                would never wash
out, not from white cotton, nor memory
                permanent stain
slashed like the knife held to tender skin
                trickle of blood
mesmerized, hypnotized her face blank
                but for single tear
rolling silently down plump brown cheek
                wrists running red

 

 

 

 

EMPTY PLACE

Emotion releases from within
an empty place of longing,


loud crashing sounds of rhythm


meet soothing melodies of joy


the rise and fall of music keenly


playing on my heartstrings


hopelessly rising inside me


lifted up to crescendo


only to leave me weeping


waning only when I was drained


Now music feeds, awakens  


warmth, words filling the void
the place previously empty
poetic phrases emerge, satiate

 

 

 

 

MY FORTRESS, MY FAVORITE PLACE

“I have my books and my poetry, to protect me…”
                —Paul Simon

Surrounded with books and music
high walls manned with mythical sentries
stronger than any castle, no moat needed

I built my fortress, my favorite place
first, to hide within its walls, to keep out
forces that might consume me

I began to write, my passion ebbed from me
in waves, yes, like the ocean tide. At first
ripples hit the empty page gently

Later, the waves via ink hit the page, a barrage
of feelings, torn from me, a riptide pulling me,
dragging me under, coughing, gasping

I survive. The words flow from me in escape,
the healing I longed for. The tell my story
from my fortress, my favorite place. Safe.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.

—C.S. Lewis

____________________

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

 

 

 

Julie A. Dickson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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