HAIL MARY
Frozen rain falls,
cries frozen tears,
hail Mary in the garden,
bathed from the sky
Water runs down her face,
steadfast for years,
cold pale blue robes faded
in the same sunlight
that blesses blossoms
Sun blooms the roses
and those in her cheeks,
chipped porcelain form
quietly contemplates
flowers at her feet,
grown from the ground,
Earth Mother
(prev. pub. in Poetry Quarterly, 2020)
NOT THERE
I was sitting quietly—
you didn’t see me, or
perhaps it was like always;
it was more like I was
not there
never there, unknown
invisible non-offspring
you didn’t know
didn’t want to know
the me I was
way too much for you
too loud, too childish;
you weren’t allowed
to be a child, so why
should I?
So I sat, the not there,
sans all emotion,
feet still and hands
wringing silent pleas
unheard
eyes followed you, cast
down if I thought you saw;
much better to hide in plain
sight, not seen, not there
never there.
Curled around waist
up to neck, caress
more sensuous than
any lover’s touch,
warmth glides slow
motion under collar,
gentle embrace; snake
navigates familiar
terrain, take my hand
slow dance
I won’t eat crow
and before you go blathering on
I noticed a hint of feathers in your teeth
It might be a reach but I suspect you
were yanking them out one, two, three
until he flew off, hoping to ascend above
your intentions, knowing your plan to drag
him back down, offering a share to me
but he’s all yours
BACK WHEN I WAS OLD
Sometimes I recall when I was old,
when my legs betrayed my will to run;
I cautiously ambled—
making slow progress past claw-footed chairs,
a couch with gaudy flowers.
My chair is wheeled down long tiled hallways,
passing people I don’t know
or, have I forgotten them?
When I close my eyes, I see my mother;
and it seems lovely to gaze upon her face again.
Back when I was old, my TV at home stayed on,
recliner curved around my form like a friend.
They called me Grampy, and when family visited,
we spoke of books and raking leaves.
Now I play games like a child; we toss balls.
My days are filled with oatmeal
and creamed spinach.
I stare at my food tray, wondering if I ever
played ball or liked creamed spinach back when I was old.
(prev. pub. in Seacoast Spotlight, 2016)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The true test of humility is whether you can say grace before eating crow.
—Robert Orben
_____________________
Julie A. Dickson is a poet and YA fiction writer, a lakes girl, feral cat rescuer and advocate for captive elephants. She holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, was certified in Dementia care, worked in healthcare IT for 23 years, served on two poetry boards and is a Pushcart nominee. Her work appears in many journals, including Ekphrastic Review, Misfit, Open Door and Blue Heron Review; her full-length works in a variety of genres are listed on Amazon. Welcome to the Kitchen, Julie, and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa
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