Best Dixon Poems
dividing, between north and south
by a wide belt of leather
is drawn an imaginary Tangent line
called the Mason-Dixon
close your eyes and wander
you won't need GPS
let your lips and hands roam free
and discover many delights
follicles smell of magnolias in bloom
just like the Mississippi trees
see the pleasure in my eyes
as green as Carolina seas
savor all of my kisses
dripping Virginia maple sugar
slide your hand down these long limbs
as soft as Arkansas cotton
juices flowing sweetly
that taste of Georgia Peach
come and explore these treasures
waiting, but within your reach
Some kids play soccer.
Some go out for a mocha.
I, however, chew my DIXON Ticonderoga.
I look out the window
and cringe in disgust.
They're fighting over a basketball and making a fuss.
I just nibble at my eraser.
Happy as can be
Well, I am kind of friendless.
And I’m often lonely.
Oh who am I kidding! This is the life, baby!
Sad news
whence somber church bells peal n pews
packed tight to pay homage to Graham Dixon while each mourner doth rues
in due time exits the sepulchral chamber in ones or twos.
an untimely death
tis like a whip that stings naked flesh
unimaginable by this papa
of two lovely teenage daughters fresh
into throes of young adulthood,
where world (wide web) at fingertips and skein of community. family
and illustrious lower merion
principled staff wrought mental health network
that purportedly serves as a mesh...
how and/or why (this father doth ask himself)
did one life slip thru this intricate weave
where tell tale signs of personal turmoil
usually writ larger than any pet peeve
roils inside (attested by mailer daemons) and doth leave
family, friends and strangers dumbstruck
and stunned into sorrow per priceless youth did heave
himself against premature years of his mortality,
whereby even i (a passerby per cyberspace) grieve
the permanent loss of promises untold -
thus tis death impossible to believe?
no words can salve this pain
yet, a vicarious impact felt like daggers
into my heart they reign
while whisking soul of loved
indelibly etched against logic, this tragedy doth stain
thee entire being of me,
an anonymous transient virtual wayfarer
before the sands of time for mein kempf will wane.
damn
helplessness prevails
at how to console even a milligram
what can this soul offer - when such a brutal slam
bangs against the consciousness -
where psyche rent asunder -
with a wicked WHAM!
I wait for the heat
of the Allis Chalmers crawler’s engine
to fill the tarped in space
where I sit huddled
next to levers, gauges and knobs.
The crawler seems to float.
The tule fog obscures the ground
covers everything,
all that has grown
and all that was lost.
Even the old, worn stone headstones
behind the main farmhand’s house.
But I am not thinking of that.
I need to rip the southeast field.
I put it in gear and pull the clutch
and then the throttle and black smoke
belches briefly.
I step on the track brakes
gently left, then right
to get to the headland
and then yank the left track clutch to spin
into place.
The crawler moves ahead
and I push the hydraulics
to drop the pointed shanks into the ground.
I stand now, warm
and look behind
at the boiling brown soil,
shiny, curls releasing and spilling up.
I feel the exact right tug
of the crawler’s weight
as it lumbers and strains.
I work on making
perfect, straight lines of turned up soil
across the field.
Mid-morning,
the tule fog has vanished.
I had not noticed it go.
It will return tomorrow
the farmer has told me,
blanketing everything again,
thickly,
covering all
while I pass over,
turning and raising.
Impoverished raise like farming
Owning a pig, lots of chickens, rooster, hen;
Not in the sixteen-hundreds;
Made one’s own foods from scratch,
This foyer placement in time itch;
Below the Mason-Dixon Line, 1969;
Charleston, Missouri woe to--
Tom Sawyer’s
---Black friend Jim
3/24/26
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2026©
Based on the behaviour
(bigoted intolerant prejudiced racist sexist)
of so many descendants
of those pioneers who crossed
the Mason–Dixon line
back in the day
demarcating the North from the South
in the good ol' U.S.A.
come rain or shine
I can believe
(with this empty bottle in front of me)
some of the settlers automatically
received a full frontal lobotomy
or if they did not
it's what they should have got
and strange but true
as a rule of thumb
the further north you go
the more southern it will become