Tuesday, December 22, 2020

 Julie A. Dickson

Homage to Fear

Cadralor poem



Darkness descends, ebony blanketed sky

skeletal branches loom, arms outstretched

provoked terror mounts to crescendo,

perspiration soaked skin beneath hooded

jacket, eyes wildly searching path.



Rope swing sways, empty now.

Swimmer dropped into unknown depths,

awaits his brother, bubbles -  breath

to break swirling water, clouded

with silt, no sign yet.



Voice of anger permeates silence,

cringe into the nearest retreat,

caustic cacophony, sadistic screeches rise

in volume while madness beckons

from every perceived safe corner.



Dog lurches against his chain,

pass by quietly, ignore barking,

jaws clenched watching foam appear,

strangled growls, front paws grapple

rough ground, walk away quickly.



Empty water bottle, lips cracked

parched swollen throat feels raw,

heavy leaden footsteps through sand,

dry desert floor, sparse saguaros,

phantom shadow feigns cool oasis.


Julie A. Dickson












In the woods

Leave yourself behind

Peaceful pines surround you

Sun set


Julie A. Dickson





Hold on Tight




They told her she was barren,

her damaged womb felt as sad

as her empty heart, no baby

to love -  until work from home;

quietly allowed fetus to implant, calling

to her, I will be born.



My father was replaced, with this

stranger, peering out through blank eyes,

not the volatile man he was,

firmly planted in an orthopedic wheelchair;

dementia stole my father, but I

admit I sometimes prefer this substitute.



A young tabby, alone in the city,

tail broken and flattened, thin, starving,

trapped, sent to a stark crowded garage;

she fears humans, but accepts food,

finally placed in a forever home,

languishes sated in a sunny window.



Dark blue eyes not open much

at first, so sleepy and hungry,

arms stretched out over his head,

emerged from my daughter, already loved,

held close to hearts, swaddled tight;

cannot stop touching his soft head.



A stroke left her weak, feeling

helpless, lonely. No more will she

create her lovely hand knitted sweaters,

we talk of Ireland; she smiles

at memories held, gardening and plants,

hand clasped softly in mine, remembering.



Julie A. Dickson







Cherita Poem


I shouldn’t have tried to look inside


The abandoned house boarded up

but for this single window


Dog and I approached to peek in,

disturbed hornet’s nest, sentries

reminded me of our lapse in decorum


Julie A. Dickson











Rope Swing


Grab ahold tightly, don’t lose your grip.

It’s important to look beneath as the rope

swings left and then right.


Over dark veiled water, you cannot see anything;

could be rocks or soft sand below;

don’t let go too soon unless you feel safe


but if you sway with the rope, back up the hill,

there are surely rocks, boulders even;

you’ve hit your heels before and it hurts.


The gnarled rope shows signs of age, knots frayed

with the years, but its still strong enough to hold

your weight until you decide whether to jump in.



Julie A. Dickson

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