Friday, June 15, 2018

Julie A. Dickson ----- three poems

Facets of Light

When time has forgotten trust
it must be relearned, a must –
fallen down a well, deep
with walls steep
to challenge
emergence into daylight.

Words held tight,
hands clasp in poem,
songbird in flight
lands on a branch, warbles,
its song sweet, shares
blue crystal marble -
sun catching facets

formerly dun, taciturn,
dust dimmed the light,
but phrases clear senses
must remove fences,
new dawning may occur,
a tear-filled blur of verse.

Julie A. Dickson


Luck of the Draw

A deck of cards before me
with challenges I am dealt
contains kings and queens
that would rule my life.

I draw unknown numbers,
a myriad of choices,
a jack offers a helping hand,
joker brings me laughter,
greatly needed.

The deuce is me, wild -  
seeking comfort in words,
love in harmony,
beauty in nature, sparked
with a bit of adventure.

Perhaps with a jack and joker,
we are three of a kind.

Julie A. Dickson

Life Line

Sometimes talking represents
a tangible line, thread of conversation
tethering, like holding hands,
a life line of sorts, rescue from
the pull of a quicksand day,
when demands decay tranquility;
it offers a refuge, reprieve from
monotonous  motion,
restores calm thought,
a restful resolve.

Julie A. Dickson

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Matthew Banash ---- four poems

Blue Heron Lake Conestee 12/31/17

A blue heron multi-tasks on

The creek’s shore, feathers ruffled by

A sharp, winter wind, balanced on

One thin knuckled-kneed gray leg like

A miscast weather vane, turning

His head slowly this way and that,  

Yellow eyes scanning clear riffling

Water for lunch, aware of us.


Pain is universal I want

To tell the fallen toddler

Looking at his hands on the edge

Of the playground. We bring it on

Ourselves but there is a way out.

Then, distracted by his mother’s

Distant call he is off crying

Quietly, reaching for her hand.

Fumes for the Test Group

The uniformed militia march

In near-step wearing beards, glasses,

Navy blue blazers, tight pants and

Suede bucks as the obtuse layers

In the air like tiramisu.

An older man sips his coffee,

He’s waiting on a subway train

Standing in heaps of broken glass.


The smell of breakfast cooking, eggs

And sausage, first and second

Cups of coffee, the morning light

Streaming through the blinds will do for

A newspaper. Children at school,

Work or worse, not yet lost to the

Days which still get you.  But first,

Soak the dishes in the kitchen sink.  

Monday, April 23, 2018

Two Poems by Julie A. Dickson

Accidental Touch

Write with independent ink,
set out on paper to scribe life,
full of events and worry,
action and joy, cathartically capturing
aspects of apathy, musical moments.

Words cannot hold completely
the total of a life, not yet complete,
at times left empty as a hand pulled away.
At other times, the same hand is
calloused from hard work,
overfull with heavy loads,
but when the hand  encounters another
and accidental touch ignites a spark of
creativity, the hand takes off –
the ink has a mind of its own.

The hand longs for another,
seeking out the joy of touch,
not always accidental.

Tom’s Rose

Tom’s Rose bloomed
With abundant petals
each dropped gently
from her arms
to flutter on the wind,
to live the way of flowers,
seeding the ground,
growing into brilliance,
aging with dignity,
until finally they return
to their blessed earth mother

Julie A. Dickson
Exeter, NH

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Poem by Robert L. Penick

As society bares its teeth at the mirror,
As cowards plot war in boardrooms,
As the pious founder in lust
And the meek labor without rest,
The Earth turns, unaware,
Rotating, floating, adrift
From the matters of man.
The scoured forests are just blemishes,
The sulphur dioxide drifting motes.
The polar icecap is a melting cube
In God’s eternal cocktail.
This world will sniff and sigh,
Then gather a deep breath,
Before scattering Man.

--Robert L. Penick