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Barbara Dickenson Poem
A Dylan Thomas State of Mind
It’s precisely 2:45am...the time when
~ if I’ve fallen asleep ~
I always awake to find
Myself drenched in sweat.
I lie here beside my beloved
~ as I have so steadfastly since
16 November 2016 ~
Thinking about...wondering...pondering
The end of my existence.
I am not talking about
Taking my own life.
NO!
I’ve seen, heard, touched, tasted, smelt
too much...
I’ve survived too much, felt too much...
I value Howard’s sweet...sweet...
Nurturing soul’s devotion
To keeping me alive these past 40 years
To raise my hand against myself...now.
I AM talking about these things:
Where do we go when we die?
Do I have a soul?
Will I be conscious — at the moment it happens —
That I am drawing my very last breath?
Sometimes, when I awake in the early morn,
Howard is motionless beside me
And I stare at his beautiful face.
Dare I reach out and touch it with one finger?
What if it’s stone cold?
His flesh heavy...dead?
Death.
The End of Living.
The End...The End...The End...
Last January I begged for surcease...
For an end to the pain...
An end to the physical torture...
An end to the psychic suffering...
The constant thoughts of:
“Is there a Hell?”
“Will I go there if I take my own life?”
“What does ‘eternity’ mean?”
Now this morning of 19 October 2017
I am thinking...feeling...praying:
Please...Please...Please...
God/Goddess/All That Is/The Universe/The Spirit
Make my neglected hated scorned body
Healthy and whole.
So I may live
today...
tomorrow...
next month...
next year...
Do not let me go gentle into that good night.
I am alive now...
And I rage...
I RAGE NOW!
....against the dying of the light.
Barbara Dickenson
19 October 2017
Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2017
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Barbara Dickenson Poem
To Eat A Peach
Spring is here.
The delicate tree blossoms replace
the delicate white lights of Winter.
From the petals fruit will grow.
Pears, plums, apricots, cherries,
nectarines...
Peaches.
I set the unripe soft rose and yellow
orb on the windowsill.
Two days later I tenderly lift it
and gently squeeze its warmth before
I wash it.
Biting into it...
the sweet liquid is Ambrosia.
The juice runs down my chin onto
my tee.
I greedily suck the peach’s flesh dry.
I daydream as I munch.
Peach cobbler, peach pie with a lattice crust,
peach shortcake, peach muffins,
stewed peaches, peach tea bread,
slices on your cereal, slices in a bowl with cream.
OR...only for dessert?
How would a
chicken breast soaked in a peach marinade taste?
My taste buds begin chattering.
Summer’s here!
corn on the cob, okra, tomatoes:
small ones that pop in your mouth
and big beefy wedges that
garnish crisp celery slices, carrot medallions,
tender Bibb lettuce, sliced mushrooms, cucumbers,
asparagus, broccoli, Vidalia onions, cauliflower...
Watermelon, blueberries, cantaloupe,
strawberries, honeydews, raspberries...
Juicy hot dogs, spicy barbecue, thick charbroiled hamburgers,
hot German potato salad, 3-bean salad, macaroni salad,
potato chips and French onion soup dip,
soft pretzels dipped in brown mustard, popcorn...
chocolate chip cookies, Snickerdoodles,
strawberry shortcake,
chocolate cake with red, white and blue frosting for the 4th,
apple pie
— softball, Mom, doggies —
I awake with a start. There is drool
on my pillow.
Another day begins but it’s really
not another day.
It’s the same day I’ve been living
since 1 May 2017 ~
The day I let the dentist pull
out the last 5 teeth I had
in my lower jaw.
And as I come to consciousness
my tongue pushes
against and spills out over the
the soft toothless tissue that burns constantly
and is covered in a thick gooey saliva ~ place a
teaspoon of Elmer's
glue in your mouth ~ if
you care to have a taste
of my reality.
Summer’s here.
Clear your palate.
Clean your plate.
Barbara Dickenson
1 May 2018
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Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2018
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Barbara Dickenson Poem
Ode To A Gym Teacher
Amid brassiere and derrière
She strives to put her clothes on.
Her panties there, stockings here
The rest of it, she throws on.
At the mirror, shining bright
She struggles with her powder.
She holds her place with main and might
As others try to crowd her.
How can she dress so nimbly
In but five minutes of an hour?
The question’s answered simply:
She did not take a shower.
Barbara Dickenson
August 1966
Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2018
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Barbara Dickenson Poem
Dad, I remember well the night I grew up.
I know you remember that night too...
I know you never forgot this happening:
It was 1966, an early Fall night, around 10:30 when you called the police.
Jerry had been...agitated...for several days.
Muttering under his breathe at dinner...
“kill ‘em...the gun...the gun...”
He’d shake his head briskly side to side
As if dislodging unwanted thoughts.
Neither you, nor Mom, nor I gave the slightest indication
we had heard a word.
But when the police showed up, I heard you talking lowly to them.
Then...Jerry was being dragged backwards down the front lawn
...in handcuffs...twisting, resisting, screaming
“I’LL KILL YOU ALL! SO HELP ME GOD! YOU’RE ALL GONNA DIE!”
They folded him into the back seat of the squad car
pushing his head down and shut the door.
A few windows of nearby houses had lighted briefly
then went back to peaceful darkness.
I knew always that much you remembered.
But I do not know...and never will...if you remembered this:
I had watched it all from my bedroom window.
Then I heard a sound unknown: my father sobbing.
Loud and deep from your chest they rose
And filled the stillness of our soundless home.
I quietly walked the short hallway to the kitchen entrance
And saw there a man and woman embraced in torment
beyond my ken.
Mom held you up in her arms, embraced your slumping
wracking frame as tears fell from her tightly-squeezed shut eyes.
I was 14. I’d known for years — known? — felt, heard and seen was
more like it...that something — unknowable — slumbered in our home
In the basement lair where Jerry dwelled.
Then at maybe 4, 4:30am I was asleep in my twin bed
in my room next to your’s and Mom’s.
I awoke when I felt you lay the length of your 5’ 8” body
down onto my bed and press up firmly against my back.
You were wearing your light blue boxer shorts and a white tee shirt.
“Babe?” you whispered in my ear. “You awake?”
“Yes, Dad, I’m awake. What’s wrong, Dad? Tell me? Are you OK?”
I turned over and slipped my right arm around your shoulders.
You had hunched them closely into my pillow and
Had nestled your stubbly chin into my neck.
Your drew in your breath sharply...then not truly
to my amazement, wracking sobs burst from your chest...you couldn’t stop...they came forth, unabated.
Oh, Dad, my Dad, my dear wonderful
so so sorrowful Dad, I said to myself.
Your anguished cries tore at my young heart.
What can I possibly say...or do...to give you comfort?
So, I rocked you gently and held you closely;
stroked your arm, stroked your brow
And whispered words, I hope you heard.
“It’s OK, you can cry, Dad.
Let the tears flow...and flow...
please, go ahead, Dad, I’m here, I can hear whatever — whatever! —
you want to tell me.”
Your deep heavy sobs subsided. Then
you nuzzled your face deeply into my ear
and quietly murmured:
“What do you do, Babe, when your child is
so very ill, so very sick,
so very dangerous?”
“You bring a child into this world;
he looks healthy and whole...
and yet how can you tell his mind is so badly damaged?”
“I had to do it, Babe! I had no choice!
He would have killed us! You know that,
don’t you? He wants us dead!”
Your words stopped then.
Again I lay there thinking, “What can I possibly say to give this man I do so
dearly love any words of comfort now?”
But...no words would come.
I could only act instead of speaking.
So again I stroked your arm from shoulder to wrist and rocked you gently,
just a bit.
Until finally, to my lips, came these words
— a gift truly from beyond my ken —
“It will be alright, Dad. Please...please
hear these my own words to you, my dearest Dad, and trust them:
Tomorrow will be a new day;
Tomorrow is here now.
You love your son, your only son.
I KNOW that, Dad! I know it.
And...I’m sure your only son,
very deep down, knows that too.
That it’s true.
That you love him deeply, dearly, completely.
I know that’s true.
Rest now, Dad. Rest.
Tomorrow’s here now.
Tomorrow’s here, Dad.”
Your breathing slowed; your eyes had closed.
Then, without speaking, you pushed up out of my arms.
Swung your lithe frame over the side of my bed
and walked out without a word,
Pulling my bedroom door shut behind you.
Barbara Dickenson
28 December 2017
Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2017
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Barbara Dickenson Poem
Missy ~ The Leprechaun Cow
The Leprechaun Cow
The Leprechaun Cow
You’re very lucky if you have seen her.
Strolling through the mists at twilight,
Riding on a crescent moon.
She’ll protect you through the dark night
And you’ll know that very soon ~
The Leprechaun Cow
The Leprechaun Cow
Will lead you safe to a new day dawning.
With a flick of her tail
She’ll bid you good morning.
And leave you to tell
Of the time that you saw
The most magical Leprechaun Cow!
Barbara Dickenson
Autumn 1992
Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2018
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