—Poetry by Julie A. Dickson, Exeter, NH
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Julie A. Dickson
Fine, not fine…
How much is there to give
when I receive even less—
no blood left in this stone
When I am alone, untended,
I think of times when I sat
reading a book for hours
when I had not many worries
I was careful then, not to provoke
father’s anger or even awareness
Now that I am independent,
I am my own caretaker
There is no one else here
no one like my mother
when she asked how I was
and I lied and said I was fine
How much is there to give
when I receive even less—
no blood left in this stone
When I am alone, untended,
I think of times when I sat
reading a book for hours
when I had not many worries
I was careful then, not to provoke
father’s anger or even awareness
Now that I am independent,
I am my own caretaker
There is no one else here
no one like my mother
when she asked how I was
and I lied and said I was fine
Boiling Water
Before ant traps, poison, or other means,
Mother boiled water, carried the steaming pot
outside to the unsuspecting ant hill. To my horror
scalded, and dead ants would float away in rivulets
from the sandy pile, my mother defensively said
“too many ants in the world”. In my child’s dreams
I heard them crying, lost brothers and sisters lying
dead on our driveway, survivors carrying their dead
in a funeral procession. They say ants are intelligent.
I doubt boiling water was any more humane than today’s
pesticides or ant traps. In dreams, I feel scalding water hit
my skin and wake suddenly is if I were one of those ants.
The scream
pierced silence like an ice pick,
stabbed me in the ears until my
hands flew up to cover them.
Now I know why they call it
blood-curdling, though my ears
were not actually bleeding but
goose-flesh covered arms still
raised, hands to ears, I felt fear
run through my veins like ice.
Bipolar
How many times
have you called
in darkness
dragging me
from sleep
groggy hello
to your manic
tirades
your repeated
escapades
clothes thrown on
bleary-eyed drive
to wherever
up for hours
cross-legged
watching you fidget
speed-talking
unable
to relax
I stay awake
until dawn when
finally
you wind down
crashed
under my afghan
I crawl back
to my bed
lying awake
no more sleep for me
I creep back
to your side
lay my hand on
your brow
wondering
how
you’ll awake
wired or
deflated
I’ll be there
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Poetry empowers the simplest of lives to confront the most extreme sorrows with courage, and motivates the mightiest of offices to humbly heed lessons in compassion.
―Aberjhani, Splendid Literarium: A Treasury of Stories, Aphorisms, Poems, and Essays
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for today's fine poetry! Julie first appeared in the Kitchen on 12/11/22.
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
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!
