Lucy P Dickinson: Musepoetographer

Featured Original Poetry



When I am 12

at Camp 4 Winds

Westward Ho

we trek into the hills

on an overnight,

arrange our sleeping bags

around the fire

where my bed

ends up next to yours—

canoe instructor,


After everyone

is asleep we murmur,

accompanied by

pops and sparks

as an ocean

blushes stars

above our heads and

nothing holds

me down, tells me

I can’t fall

headfirst into that


(Selected Poem, Ars Poetica 2017)

Meeting Annie Leibovitz

At Elliott Bay Bookstore

I stand in line for an hour,

wind through a forest

of pregnant bookcases.

When I finally summit

the iron-railed staircase

and approach the oak table

on the second floor balcony,

I hope to catch a glimpse

of the top of her head

as she signs her new book

of photographs, called Pilgrimage.

When it’s my turn,

she looks up—

hazel eyes behind

amber frames.

She smiles and says,

“Purple headband.”

I open my mouth slightly.

She points at my head

and smiles again—

“I like your headband.”

(Published Ars Poetica 2016)


Life Coaching Session With A False Prophet

Across that polished stone

tabletop at Cheshire Cat,   

in that booth at the back,

you ask, “But is it enough?”

Later, you reach, grasp my

cool hand across granite 

marked by a sepia cross.

It’s like in my dream–

my hand barely moves

against your warm skin.

You say, “I apologize.

I should have asked first.”

Secretly, I want you 

to bring me jasmine tea,

your fears and hopes; 

a hazel-eyed child.

I tell you about that Christmas 

Eve at Tesuque Pueblo, 

those deer dancers who

shape-shifted, became leaping stags.

Housesitting For The Widow

His ashes smell like

charcoal dust in

her living room

where I watch Titanic

on a September

afternoon, curtains


Clocks tick

in the background

of every scene.

I watch prostrate

on pastel blue carpet,

palms cradling head,

2 yards from that

cedar box.

When my wilderness

guide ex-boyfriend arrives,

pulls his green Subaru

up to manicured

parking strip, he kisses

me in that dim parlor.

I protest.  “Stop it,

I want to watch

this part!”

(All Images and Poems Copyright Lucy P. Dickinson 2015-2023.  All applicable rights reserved.)