Featured Poetry Archive

Pick up all the trodden leaves,
glue them back to branches.
Remind the trees to fondle fall.

Wrap broken hearts with masking tape
to keep the pieces in their place.
Slap Band-Aids on the holes.

Tie lovers chest to chest with rope
so they can never leave each other,
paste them to their promises.

Sometimes you need
the little things
to keep the world together

Purpose

My ceiling fan has been happily spinning
for the twenty-years I have known it
without complaining
It was old even then
No one notices its silent gravity
until I stop it for cleaning
and the room tilts
then rights itself as the fan is started
How great it would be
to have only one purpose
and be thanked for it occasionally

Twins
one inside the lines
one as if they don’t exist.

"How wonderful…."
mother says
both on the frig.

little wren
give me
another chance
not to
scare you

Ice cream may trickle on furnace-hot days.
Mascara runs rivers of black with sad tears.
Feast on her cheekbones, the curves of her body.
With her, without her, both salty brine pickles.
When you are lonely, her absence is famine.
A bullfrog sings sorrow in mud.

Elephant Rug


I received a large box by mail at the door
containing a strange pink and gray elephant
rug which was laid on my bedroom floor;
my grandmother’s gift left me reticent.

My eyes widened with growing dismay;
for on the high-polished floor by my bed
lay the thing, a seemingly innocent gray
strange oval rug with an elephant head.

The elephant rug was to stay in my room;
mother announced as she stood with me there;
I felt my heart fill with utter dark gloom
as those elephant eyes seemed to stare.

Routinely tucked into bed with a hug,
cocooned myself tightly within the sheet -
I dreamed of that terrible elephant rug,
convinced that I heard a real heartbeat.

The dream-elephant rose up, pink ears wide,
long trunk extended past black marble eyes;
and even though I had no place to hide,
sheets were protection that I devised.

Awoke in the morning, my mother appeared,
alarmed at the absence of the elephant rug
recalling my dream, those eyes I had feared;
rug locked in...

HEARING MY NEIGHBOR’S FAVORITE TV SHOWS

the neighbor watches
”Friends” and “The Big Bang Theory”
LOUD
the theme songs to these
shows
shoot up through
the floorboards
to my
torture chamber

Juicy Ellipses...

how they glisten— the round balls
that trail off the page edge

perhaps into the perfect ridges
of walnut veneer

that itself is covered with debris—

paperclips in their PVC pyjamas

rolled scraps of rubber from the pencil’s eraser

quadrangles of paper
that have been used to clean fingernails

and the empty plastic stationary holder
its four hollow towers stretch

toward the post-it note montage
coating the side of the monitor









.

Making music

isn’t me
not enough voice to sing
harmony if someone better
can drown me out

you say anyone can learn
to play, to read music but
it’s as much another language
as the Spanish I struggle to recall

can’t play piano even though I tried,
gave up on me -  the teacher after
practicing a year on the old upright
I inherited from my grandmother

so I write the music in my head,
ok the lyrics are what I write, not
actual tunes, but sometimes I dream
that I am playing and singing

my fingers trip over piano keys, voice
in my head is my own and the words
flavor a melody worth hearing and
I really am making music



Julie A. Dickson

she puts on this
Italian music

old scratchy
tunes

from a concave
moon

over Venice canals
melting into the water

and
into my old country
dreams

You must be well-equipped
for days hot, nights cold.
Know how to build a fire;
keep it contained;
avoid fines.
Always park your vehicle
prepped for escape.
Learn where to walk,
and how to walk back.
Once you reach a nice spot,
make yourself part of the landscape.
Rest in some shade, or in a stream.
         Wait
'til animals come.

We scamper over boulders
naked, unafraid—bathe in cool pools
within the rocks.
At times we have sex:
sand becomes fecund
with generative possibility.
Up in Pioneertown
movie stars play fiddles,
poets caress their mics, and
snow falls on the landscape
twice a year. Swap meet at the drive-in
blooms with tools and blouses;
down at Cozy Corner there's
the best ham steak
in the state.

Little grey squirrel
appears atop some lumber,
sees me as a refrigerator,
starts to nose around.
He scampers up a leg of our redwood picnic table,
finds my yellow bowl—lifts a few fragments
of homemade granola
to his mouth. Then,
across the sand,
a big black tarantula
strides...

I met this poet
at school
he was honest

“fuck you,” he said
“your poetry sucks”

“okay,” I said

this was after I told him
how he might make a couple
of his stanzas better

I met another poet
over drinks
after a poetry reading
he was interested
in fucking me

“editors suck,”
he told me
“most of them can’t write
they exist
to piss us off”

“it’s true,” I said
“we should publish
ourselves
but would that make us editors,
too?”

“hmm,” he said
“wanna go back
to my place?”

“I’d like to,” I said,
“but your poetry
sucks”

SEXT

I don’t know how to sext

but if I did

I’d sext
you something stupid
like
cum over here

and you’re so dumb
it’d probably turn you on
which would turn me on

and I’d wish I’d never sexted you

because all I’d have in my hands

is a stupid phone

Anything you want,"
he chirped.

"Bring him back,"
I replied,

and his face changed.

my
girlfriend
is
a
royal
bitch
before
coffee

after
coffee
she’s
just
a
bitch

For Dan. @Daniel J. Flore III

Caterpillar of Yellow


Caterpillar of yellow, a debonair fellow
crawls as inchworm up thistle and vine
Prefers yellow hue, and if I was you
I’d tell him he’s decked out quite fine

Stylin’ I’d say, you’d best back away
and let him get on with his task
Interrupt nature; don't try to assuage here
he’ll tell you his plan if you ask

Munching on flower, alone by the hour
blend in like a camouflaged bird
Once eaten his fill, he’ll be stayin' until -
on his way with nary a word

What’s that you claim, you know his true name?
Acronicta Americana in books
Such a fuzzy guy, soon after he’ll fly
once in branches his cocoon is hooked

Then after a time, while attached to the vine
miraculous change to occur
Emerge as from cloth, a young dagger moth
spreading his wings, flies away in a blur



Julie A. Dickson
Previously published in the Poet’s Touchstone

The black rose of poverty

the black rose of poverty smells
like the money you wanna ask your parents for
old leftover refrigerated pizza
the leather of a wallet there's no point in carrying
gasoline you don't have to get to a doctor
you can't afford
and a big "why"
turning from the clicking ceiling fan
you just may find yourself swinging from

Toby poked a hole
in the woman he loved.
His belt buckle, the culprit.

She hissed like a snake
so he ran like the Dickens.
The trailer is all hers now.

Stay on that fucking bus

past the monoliths saluting the sky with their geometry
beyond the three story red-bricks
who merge in a wanton blur as you pass
on to where the road becomes a gravel path
forking out to the cliff tops from which you may jump





.

blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblhbalhabuythisbookblahblahblhablahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblablahblahblahblahblahblahblablahbblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahbblahblahblahblahbhablahblahblahblahblahblahblah

-Daniel J. Flore III, author of a book.

Two floors down a man plays
his stereo

it is 3 a.m.

two hours ago I thought
to go down there and tell him
to shut it up

or play something I liked

but I didn't...

most men are unbending
at that hour

perhaps I will invite him
to tea
someday
        and chop him
with an axe.

’55 on the Green



Green truck haphazardly sits

outside window as if slumped

on a comfortable couch,

deserves to rest, wing-tip elbows

outstretched, watching the view

as if to say, “you too”?


Shows signs of wear, like anyone

mature  – a few wrinkles

and scratches, lines of age,

in ’55 all the rage…

but now provokes strange glances,

uncaring it clambers along,

taking its time, “I earned it”.


No one’s gonna kick tires now,

got no AC, don’t bother asking.

Sure, windows get stuck and

at times there’s a backfire –

“excuse me”, must have burned

some oil that upset the gut.


Antique, who’d of thought

back in ’55 that I’d still be around,

and now what’s that weird sound?




Julie A. Dickson

Roaming Road

This new featured poetry site has taken a hard turn
brambling brush on each side
I like that my old car has already sent me beyond the “dead end” sign
city lights in my rear view mirror
And somewhere far below someone is working in a factory
making huge steel gears
not knowing there is a full moon
or what buffalo do at night

"yeah, i don't know why they don't
legalize this stuff," karsten said.

i watched the thick plume of smoke
snake up out of his joint
and collect at the top of the ceiling

"yeah," i said

"it's like, can you imagine
if they made alcohol illegal
again
like they should, cuz the stuff is
way more lethal
than weed"

"it is," i said.
"i even hate being around people
who drink alcohol."

"they're scary," i said

"they are," karstens added

"plus they destroy other people's
lives with their shit," i said

"yeah," he said

"pass me that joint," i said

"here you go," he said

i inhaled
leaned back
looked out the window
at a tiny wisp of smoke
coming out of the chimney
of the building across the street

"i forgot what we were
talking about," karstens said

"it's okay," i said
"i did, too"

MY BOOK COSTS 7 BUCKS

my brain matter is worth 7 bucks
read me on kindle and I’m worth even less
my frustration is fourteen cents prolly
my longing is a bright new shiny penny
the love in the book is free
buy me cheap
I’m a cheap bastard
I’ll take your 7 bucks
and give you poetry that
looks like satan vomiting
through my nostrils
and Jesus
cleaning up the mess

I’m numb, my brain’s a’ haze
I can’t take the news anymore
I need to grab my ol' fishing pole
get my huckleberry ass out the door

gonna catch me a rainbow trout
take out the hook & set him free
I’ll watch him swim away
his fins & tail waving at me

I’ll have a picnic in the shade
& leave the ants some bread & cheese
the only news I want to hear today
is what the birds tell the trees

There are mornings when
"Good Morning America"
wakes me up
and I don't need to
open my eyes
to know you're still
not home

    ●

There are mornings when
we stand in the shower
together, for hours
and lick each other's
wounds

    ●

There are mornings when
the phone rings
only once

there are mornings when
I pick it up
quickly
to a click

there are mornings when
I get calls
too

    ●

There are mornings when
I feel I know what will happen
to us
years from now

and roll over.

Soft bite
The bright packet
One bar of the fire
Pangs tear down my gut

Drift of cobwebs
Old furniture
Imbecile dog snoring in the corner
Nouns upon nouns
God casting his ivory net

Drink the last of the warm pink wine
Run the iron over the stale shirt
Undo the manky cuffs
Grime fast in fabric
Sludge under the rubber insole

Though they grit their teeth all
the while
while they hate their own sound
sound
for the sake of echoes
they hear
hear

Why Bird Songs Are Never Seen

One day for reasons still not understood
Sun decided it needed a new way to say I am here

So it sent a peculiar light
that turned everything golden orange
clouds water trees grass
windows buffalo and all the animals’ eyes
even the songs of birds

Though it was difficult
Sun liked it
resulting in every morning after
being that color

But the birds fearing hawks
and thus not wanting their songs to be seen
demanded Sun make the songs invisible
which is why they are now only heard


[November 5, 2022]

1
with your eyes closed
pretending to see
only the dark
parts

$30 SHORT OF RENT

I was on the couch thinking people were spying on me. Delusional like nausea of the brain and anxiety exploded. My pills don't work but they help. Didn't matter, I had already taken them. Then the diarrhea came. A couple of rock turds that seemed like they were speaking to me pushed out saying, "IT'S ALL OVER FOR YOU." Then a stream of consciousness black and brown water current of shit (me with no life jacket) poured from the guts of my mind anus. I laid back down. The phone rang. It was my wife, "We're $30 short of rent we need to deposit $30 now. It's due today or we will get huge late fees that we don't have the money for.” I had no cash on me only a debit card with money on it. I had to get my shit together even though it all already came out of me. I changed my ass crapped underwear. I hadn't showered in days. I sprayed dollar store body spray all over me, even my hair, to make sure I didn't stink. I had to run over to the grocery store as a maniac...

This is an
amazing



poem