Published Poetry

Grandmother’s Dresser

Always there, tucked in a corner of her bedroom,
yet somehow lonely, forlorn looking, as if having its
own stories to tell.

On tip-toe, barely, I studied the items on its top
in plain view
wondering, with a heart so young, what to make of
it all.

An old red lipstick drew me in,
inviting me, tempting me,
its color bold, powerful, disturbing.

Neglected, tossed aside, my grandmother no
longer painting her lips,
no longer wishing to look just so.

Could she have been younger once,
my unbelieving mind asked,
taking me aside privately.

Did red lips beckon her spirit then?

Older now, much, and still inclined to
seek her truth, a strong solid woman of
the prairie, no frills, no fancy lipsticks
imagined.

Puzzling over this artifact of her dresser,
of my young girl’s memory,
she has lips so plain, for a gentle kiss,
a soothing prayer,
a whispered good-bye.

Grandmother’s dresser, a rich fantasy,
a place of tiny details, pieces of things,
uncertain things, a button, a comb, a
piece of string — a private place.

Things moved here, there, will she know,
will keen eyes, all blue, detect the story of dark liberties,
my penetration of sacred space,
this worries me so, as I hurry down the hall to the bedroom,
the dresser, as it sits all somber, knowing, and rush to put things
right in place, as remembered,
as hoped.

–da hickman

Vermillion Literary Project Magazine

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Pure Luck

Express lanes wide open,
Sale prices unadvertised,
Time for a noon nap,
Reading the right book,
Running into an old friend,
Losing a few pounds,
Chocolate cake fro breakfast,
A movie that surprises in all the right ways,
Waking with a sense of calm, contentment,
Benign test results after an urgent medical visit,
A dream that refreshes and inspires,
The perfect cup of sweet tea,
A birthday card that conveys lasting humor,
The gentle shower in mid-July,
Shoes that fit,
Towels that stay soft,
A silent look, understood instantly,
Grief that bestows grace and dignity,
Finding a lost pen,
Meeting someone who becomes a lifelong friend,
Remembering a forgotten idea,
Winning the lottery,
Never turning gray,
Catching the bride’s bouquet,
Hitting all green lights,
Being first in line at the lunch counter,
Watching a baby cardinal leave the nest,
Stumbling across a lost piece of jewelry,
Sleeping in without an interruption,
A trip to the grocery store without forgetting that special item,
Buying an antique with exceptional, unexpected value,
Encountering joy under hardship,
Noticing beauty within darkness,
Escaping or avoiding sudden violence,
Finding a parking place in a crowded lot,
A planet that changes in time to save itself,
Expecting rain, enjoying the sun,
Wishing for the right things,
Relishing the fury of change,
Giving without an agenda, keeping score, regret,
Welcoming exploration and truth,
Singing when sadness prevails,
Eagerly empowering others,
Listening with an open mind, a willing heart,
Making room for anyone left behind,
Refusing to judge the difficulties of others,
All of this must be a matter of pure luck,
Or, then again, is it?

–da hickman

Fine Lines Journal

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Forever June

A noticeable warmth of spirit,
a strong, seeking mind,
a caring, thoughtful approach,
that’s June.

Surrounded by antique treasures
collected over a lifetime,
she beams with pride
at these wonderful works of art,
at the significant, the insignificant,
sharing her profound appreciation
for all that life has given her.

Every corner, every spare spot,
in her welcoming home,
speaks of an abiding love for the
splendid gifts of time and history,
for the honest glitter of creativity,
for unknown hands that have toiled
to surprise, to shape and define,
hers reaching out, joining theirs,
linking energies, passion, love from afar:
strangers spawning an invisible network of peace,
of goodwill, amidst kindred spirits.

Blues, yellows, greens,
the colors of rainbows the world over,
come to reside on west Market street,
with June.

–da hickman

Fine Lines Journal