—Poetry by Julie A. Dickson, Exeter, NH
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Julie A. Dickson
TIDAL RIVER
Congregated spectators of fish wait,
standing in gravel and sandy outcrop.
low-tide watchers on temporary shoals,
small river islands and peninsulas.
Erstwhile gull-flocks swoop in, squawk,
nab insects and splash in warm tidal pools,
feathers bright-white and dove-gray in sunlight,
wings open to evaporate feathers.
Tidewater inches up, slowly higher;
tiny island inhabitants encroach
on one another’s claimed territory,
preciously staked land, closer together
than is their preference- some push off
to nearby rock ledges, they overhang
on limbs, gulls and cormorants contrasted
dark and light against the river backdrop.
Birds grab remaining food from crevasses,
then even the most persistent stragglers
erupt in a whoosh from the stony pools,
scream terse farewells until the next low tide.
Congregated spectators of fish wait,
standing in gravel and sandy outcrop.
low-tide watchers on temporary shoals,
small river islands and peninsulas.
Erstwhile gull-flocks swoop in, squawk,
nab insects and splash in warm tidal pools,
feathers bright-white and dove-gray in sunlight,
wings open to evaporate feathers.
Tidewater inches up, slowly higher;
tiny island inhabitants encroach
on one another’s claimed territory,
preciously staked land, closer together
than is their preference- some push off
to nearby rock ledges, they overhang
on limbs, gulls and cormorants contrasted
dark and light against the river backdrop.
Birds grab remaining food from crevasses,
then even the most persistent stragglers
erupt in a whoosh from the stony pools,
scream terse farewells until the next low tide.
White mugs
upside down on
formica tables,
coffee-stained
thick porcelain
mugs with too-
small finger holes
that trap
hands, or burned
them when you
grabbed around
the middle.
Strong black coffee
a little burnt-taste
lingers, even with
extra cream, poured
room temperature
from tiny metal
pitchers with the lid
that plink down
when poured out,
paper placemats
set under bent-tined
fork, spoon, knife
on napkins, one
to a customer, please.
Menus still a bit
sticky, even though
they get wiped with
a wet towel once daily,
when they fill little
glass pepper and salt
shakers, rice to prevent
clumping in summer.
Low murmurs prevalent,
an occasional laugh
breaks the monotony
of dish-clatter and cook’s
bell when an order is up.
Even if you've lived here 30
years, you’re still a newcomer
in this diner, this little town,
holding a thick white mug,
pouring over a thin local
newspaper, town gossip
whispers around you,
best eggs anywhere,
they say. You agree.
upside down on
formica tables,
coffee-stained
thick porcelain
mugs with too-
small finger holes
that trap
hands, or burned
them when you
grabbed around
the middle.
Strong black coffee
a little burnt-taste
lingers, even with
extra cream, poured
room temperature
from tiny metal
pitchers with the lid
that plink down
when poured out,
paper placemats
set under bent-tined
fork, spoon, knife
on napkins, one
to a customer, please.
Menus still a bit
sticky, even though
they get wiped with
a wet towel once daily,
when they fill little
glass pepper and salt
shakers, rice to prevent
clumping in summer.
Low murmurs prevalent,
an occasional laugh
breaks the monotony
of dish-clatter and cook’s
bell when an order is up.
Even if you've lived here 30
years, you’re still a newcomer
in this diner, this little town,
holding a thick white mug,
pouring over a thin local
newspaper, town gossip
whispers around you,
best eggs anywhere,
they say. You agree.
I could never
smoke cigarettes,
had asthma.
The very odor
made me wheeze
and cough
not that anyone
cared much,
even in the car
they smoked
till I was choking
sometimes
I was nauseated
but they still
smoked, filling
the car, cloudy
plumes drifted
to ceiling, not
before I breathed
it, but in high school
my efforts
to be popular,
I pretended
to smoke, carried
Winstons, in case
someone asked,
does someone
have a cigarette?
BLINDED
Shade my eyes from that blasted
Winter sun rising on morning drive,
bigger eye-opener than breakfast or
the extra-large coffee in my hand—
even sunglasses don’t help much,
blinded vision, squinted into slits,
startled as truck runs up behind.
Light directly into my eye, shocked
into consciousness, some shadowed
figure asks unintelligible questions,
but the light! Can’t move my arm,
blinded, I can’t focus my addled brain
on words or coherent thoughts, can’t
make sense of where I am, lying
supine, where? On the ground?
Months pass, lying now on chaise,
lounging languorously, beach sand
blows gently across my battered body,
arm still encased in itchy plaster cast,
eyes peer from behind Ray Bans, close;
blinded again, sun spots on my eye lids
dance in an amusing macabre comedy.
Shade my eyes from that blasted
Winter sun rising on morning drive,
bigger eye-opener than breakfast or
the extra-large coffee in my hand—
even sunglasses don’t help much,
blinded vision, squinted into slits,
startled as truck runs up behind.
Light directly into my eye, shocked
into consciousness, some shadowed
figure asks unintelligible questions,
but the light! Can’t move my arm,
blinded, I can’t focus my addled brain
on words or coherent thoughts, can’t
make sense of where I am, lying
supine, where? On the ground?
Months pass, lying now on chaise,
lounging languorously, beach sand
blows gently across my battered body,
arm still encased in itchy plaster cast,
eyes peer from behind Ray Bans, close;
blinded again, sun spots on my eye lids
dance in an amusing macabre comedy.
JUST A WHISPER
What is that, just a
scant fragrance on my pillow
I grab the edges and breathe in
the essence of you, not there
but still there somehow, did I
dream you were here beside me
it was much too long ago to leave
such a trace, I smile, realize
your leaving was just a whisper
of fragrances, memories I would
know, imprints of you, long
before you ever thought of going
PINK FLAMINGO
Not a trailer park, please
don’t let it come to that
but I did it, moved in
right next to the pink
one, mine was dull
in comparison, beige.
Bonnie always said
hers looked like a
gingerbread house,
with its turquoise trim,
reflecting ball out front,
stone gnomes, spinners.
I was the new girl,
a divorcee,
the ladies whispered
when they thought I
couldn’t hear, or perhaps
I was supposed to know
that I wasn’t part of their
little troupe. Bonnie was
my only friend there
for years until she died.
Bob moved in, arrogant
and puffed up, a parade
of women in and out
of his place, now
painted bright red.
The ladies stopped
talking about me.
I looked out back
discreetly, of course
at something he built
in the backyard,
four up-ended pallets
as back-drop, tiki lights
on the ends, sandy
pretend beach in front,
reflecting ball there, and
a plastic pink flamingo.
I saw chairs, a fire pit;
The gnomes and spinners,
craned my neck to see,
until he caught me looking,
beckoned to me really,
to admire his little
paradise, no thanks
I waved back, going
back to my dull beige
existence.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If you are a dreamer come in
If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar
A hoper a pray-er a magic-bean-buyer
If you’re a pretender come sit by my fire
For we have some flax golden tales to spin
Come in!
Come in!
―Shel Silverstein
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for today’s fine poetry, and for the photos she has found for us!
Not a trailer park, please
don’t let it come to that
but I did it, moved in
right next to the pink
one, mine was dull
in comparison, beige.
Bonnie always said
hers looked like a
gingerbread house,
with its turquoise trim,
reflecting ball out front,
stone gnomes, spinners.
I was the new girl,
a divorcee,
the ladies whispered
when they thought I
couldn’t hear, or perhaps
I was supposed to know
that I wasn’t part of their
little troupe. Bonnie was
my only friend there
for years until she died.
Bob moved in, arrogant
and puffed up, a parade
of women in and out
of his place, now
painted bright red.
The ladies stopped
talking about me.
I looked out back
discreetly, of course
at something he built
in the backyard,
four up-ended pallets
as back-drop, tiki lights
on the ends, sandy
pretend beach in front,
reflecting ball there, and
a plastic pink flamingo.
I saw chairs, a fire pit;
The gnomes and spinners,
craned my neck to see,
until he caught me looking,
beckoned to me really,
to admire his little
paradise, no thanks
I waved back, going
back to my dull beige
existence.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If you are a dreamer come in
If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar
A hoper a pray-er a magic-bean-buyer
If you’re a pretender come sit by my fire
For we have some flax golden tales to spin
Come in!
Come in!
―Shel Silverstein
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for today’s fine poetry, and for the photos she has found for us!
Public Domain
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!
.jpg)
also known as the
Flam-Snake