Sunday, January 14, 2024

Lost in Silence

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Julie A. Dickson

* * *

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


I hear snow in the air;
I cannot, you say?
In a way you are correct,
but lest I forget to mention
the signs are most clear.

I fear a storm brews
and you may certainly choose
to hide inside by the fire;
however, I desire to gaze up
into the heavy clouds,
shouting aloud that I love snow.

When you argue it does not
make a sound, I disagree!

Animals flee to their cozy dens,
scurrying feet crunching leaves,
birds twitter as they flit and
swoop, their wings whoosh,
and wind whispers as I repeat:
I hear snow in the air.
 Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Julie A. Dickson


My father’s favorite condiments,
salt and butter, savory much more
than sweet, though he loved dessert
almost as much, not me though.

I mean that he loved those things
more than he loved me, his hand
rubbed the table in apparent ecstasy
while eating something he loved.

I also mean that I love salt and butter,
especially on potatoes and corn,
an excuse to eat butter as he would say,
I feel the same, even though he’s gone,

even though we had that in common,
the salt and butter thing, I would have
liked a kind glance, an occasional hug,
but he was too aloof and caught up

in life, with yard work and stressful job,
with wine and cigarettes, too much
to care about me, a daughter who loved
salt and butter as much as he did.
 Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Julie A. Dickson

It’s grave

the idea of being buried underground,
even dead—doesn’t hold any appeal;
death is real and who cares
what happens to my empty shell?

Some believe in spirits, heaven
or hell, but no one knows for sure
and I can’t condone taking up space,
having a plot, would rather

be placed in an urn on someone’s shelf
or bookcase, likely collecting dust
but I trust that it’s environmentally
better—I’d be deceased after all,

the urn would those who call
some taste and charm, talk of me,
who has passed, but not in a grave,
remaining land saved for the living.


Today’s LittleNip:

—Julie A. Dickson

Hear the softness of flannel,
hopes long ago forgotten.

Feel the sound of your voice,
treasures lost in silence.

See the touch of your hand,
childhood never existed.

Taste the words of farewell,
words of promises broken.


—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for today’s fine poetry, and for providing some photos (along with Joe Nolan) to go with it!
 Winter Cardinal—Do you see him?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

A reminder that
The Poets Club of Lincoln
will have an all-open mic
this afternoon, 3pm; and
there will be a Local Author Fair
in Elk Grove today, also 3pm.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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