John Grey _____________________ three poems

CONFINED TO BED WITH BOOKS A-PLENTY

The heroes, the heroines,

the casts of thousands,

made themselves comfortable

on the blanket top.

Then they went to work.

It was December.

The trees outside were stripped bare.

Head cocked on my elbow,

I reported to the protagonist

as he scampered across the hillside,

pursued by soldiers.

Shots rang out.

He tumbled down the side of a hill,

Thankfully, the bullets missed.

Wind picked up,

rattled the windows.

It began to snow,

even in in my room,

but only for a page or two.

 

I KNOW IT’S STILL FEBRUARY BUT…

 

Another fake spring.

Some melting.

A bud here and there.

A sun worthy of the name.

But then temperature drops.

More snow falls.

Thawed liquid freezes into ice.

Buds retreat.

Old Sol is more trickster

than benefactor.

The calendar givers orders.

Eventually, weather does what it is told.

 

 

APRIL-TUDE

 

Wild rain and better things to come.

Bird calls from all over the globe

not just the wintry residents.

 

Inspired by wind,

I'm whirling and twirling again.

I can still be cold

but not the kind of bitterness

that moves in for the kill.

 

The nights don't smother the day any longer,

fit neatly into their appropriate hours.

The full moon is fuller.

The new moon is newer.

The half-moon ignores the other half.

 

From meadow to forest,

wilderness is wildness once again.

 

Soon enough, pollen invades my nostrils.

Long, languid days drag me sunward.

An old song sings in my mouth and my skin ripens.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three poems ____________________ Julie A. Dickson

 

Not like the Classics

[nods to Catcher in the Rye, The Member

of the Wedding and The Fox]

 

I don’t remember Holden Caulfield,

never read of his disillusionment, dead

brother, phony adults and failed schools

until I met a real life Holden, nothing

like the classic novel, full of wonder, I

 

was a member of a wedding, a bridesmaid

twice, never felt part of a group as a teen,

indeed struggled for a place among adults,

not like the classic, runaway begging to

be accepted, sat on the wooded edges like

 

a fox, observing life, no jealousy, just

marched on, few women friends, men

entered and left, some without incident,

others leaving heartache, not like them -

classics where a tree falls atop a friendship

 

 

 

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, New Hampshire

 

Role Reversal

 

She suddenly had the feeling that she

was somehow older than her mother

Gram died only weeks before, not even

time enough to grieve for herself, but

mom was obviously lost, after months

of hospital visits, time was empty now,

a hole where her vigil used to be, daily

phone calls from mom to gram, gone.

She naturally stepped into a new role,

checking on mom often, welcome calls

filling a void also allowed them to bond,

a new relationship was forming, a kind

of role reversal; now she felt as mother

  

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, New Hampshire

 

waiting to die

 

foot turned in

stroked out look

on her pallid face

holds the same book

 

for hours

 

blank expression stare,

without seeing words

going through motions

familiar yet absurd

 

stumbles

 

through endless day

even longer night

sits weary

no more does she fight

 

to speak

 

no one hears

her strained voice

barely a whisper

given no choice

 

waiting to die

 

 

 

 

Julie A. Dickson

Exeter, New Hampshire

 

Poem _______________ David Gilmour

 

DEPTH GAUGE

 

Standing on the sunlit bank

Throw yourself into the stream, shadow and all

If you are in substance ready to plumb the depth.

The experience you suffer daily is enough to appall;

Immersion in that material swamp—contents not forms.

Viewing the off-season family theatre from the crack

In the stage door; star-struck neighbors hanging round,

Stiff with drink, animated bags, stalking before the flood-

Lights and backtracking into the barren set.

There’s furniture, sure, the place is packed,

Furniture and pictures just for the sake of mood.

 

You are seeking contact with the wild world,

Aren’t you? I mean beyond the daily tragedy,

Where unnerved Furies can be temporarily tamed

By gutbusting laughter, or where a saint, crowned

By an atom-bomb blast, stands as an icon on a knoll,

Glowing like the beaming Dalai Lama in Dharamshala.

Hey! Forget those black-light dashboard skeletons.

In this scene The Presence smiles a happy refugee.

 

Do you really need the wisdom of bombastic Agamemnon?

Foreverafter fearful of the backyard bathroom?

That cannot help much.  Noooooooo!

For the scientist and the poet,

Creative data abounds

To study humankind in ways beyond the norm:

You know, fragrant thoughts of forests in Borneo;

An FM-band humming B. B. King, the blues bard,

Singing “Hummingbird” just on the verge of twilight

Greening.

 

Come on then!  The horned Bull has been sacrificed,

The Ram has run,

The Fish have played upon the horizon

In spring morning’s celestial stream.

If you are going to enjoy the Waters,

Fall, sun at your back,

Throw yourself in, shadow and all.

 

David Gilmour