February 4, 1912 by Jessie Clark

‘Twas on a Sabbath morning,
From distant homes they strayed,
To see our old Niagara
In her mantle of white arrayed.

And with Jack Frost’s protection,
The tourists thought how grand
To be on the noted ice bridge
Anywhere to stand.

But the strength of Frost was feeble,
Compared with mighty force
Of the rushing undercurrent
Unchanging in its course.

For soon the ice was parted
And, alas! too quickly was seen
People on glassy islands
Floating down the stream.

And there was Mrs. Stanton
Just paralyzed with fear,
Saying to her husband
Let us die right here.

Near by a brave young laddie,
Who was running his life to save,
Heard the call: “Come back and help us
To escape a watery grave.”

And as he thus responded
To try and save another
He said to his companion:
“Don’t you tell my mother.”

But a message of mental telepathy
To that mother quickly flashed,
While ropes were dangling here and there
And the cruel waters splashed.

For she saw in a glass of water
Ice and people, too,
Rushing about confusedly,
Knowing not what to do.

Then she thought of the treacherous river,
That water so fierce and wild,
And exclaimed: “I have a presentiment
Something has happened to my child!”

Brave men worked hard to save
The two who still remained
On that block of ice much smaller
Than when it first was framed.

For, Oh, they were surrounded
By Niagara’s silvery crest,
Which none were allowed to step on:
Not even a noted guest.

Kneeling in prayer they were ushered,
The time was very brief,
Until the Whirlpool caught them
And gave them sweet relief.

Image and insert containing the poem by Jessie Clark courtesy of Niagara Falls Museums, accession number 2024.016.29. Many thanks to Assistant Curator Sara Byers for bringing this to my attention.

Read about the tragedy here.

Hear Me Roar by Ann Marie Steele

*Niagara*, 1857 by Frederic Edwin Church
Image courtesy of the National Gallery of Art

The roar of Niagara Falls, while eluding sound, doesn’t fail to irradiate
sight with its jazzy waves and frothy strokes of jade — these sweeping

illusions, swallowed whole by the Deep, howl against deafening winds, westward
and warbling — veiling the fading sunlight holding Hope hostage—

as renegade avalanches are welcomed by a deluge of stratus tears wailing louder
than the Sky itself — the gaze lustily cascades over escarpments of

towering cliffs while the river’s limbs engulf the clamoring boulders — dark talons
of the night threaten to eviscerate the roaring cacophony of

discord with the manifestation of gloom alone— if the eyes can imagine the jaded
purging into the Deep, can that which does not roar still be Heard?

Ann Marie Steele wrote this ekphrastic poem, inspired by Frederic Edwin Church’s 1857 painting Niagara, which was first published in The Ekphrastic Review, October 20, 2023 in their Ekphrastic Challenges series. Read about ekphrastic poetry in Niagara.

Ann Marie Steele, who resides in Charlotte, NC, America, is a writer who dabs mainly in free
verse and prose poetry. She holds a BS in Journalism (News-Editorial), and an MA in Secondary
English Education. Ann Marie pens pieces about love and loss, and what she observes and
experiences. The loss of her youngest son, Brandon, has influenced much of her writing. Her
works have been described as “resiliently defiant.”
Ann Marie has been published in The Ekphrastic Review with her pieces Every Lilly Donned with
Grief, I Dare You, Pretty Please, and Hear Me Roar, as well as in Exist Otherwise with her poem
Scintillating Symbiotic Sea. When not teaching high school English, Ann Marie
enjoys partner acrobatics, where she can often be seen flying upside down.

See Ann Marie Steele’ blog at annmsteele99.medium.com/

Dry Falls by Julie A. Dickson

dewatered — *Dewatered American Falls From Prospect Point Observation Tower; Showing Rock Build-Up at Base, 1969*
Photo by Albert Knobloch
Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library

Back in ‘69
was decided to divert
mighty river
to dry falls.

Why, you might ask
For the Army Corp
to remove large rocks,
great majesty to fall

further into depths
at the base, Maid to see
splendor from the mist
but did they expect

remains to be found,
those fallen and drowned
forever lost in those rocks?
Spectators traveled far

and even those near sought
to see the dry falls, huge
drop sans thunderous water;
I was among those there

young teen at the railing,
hundreds lined up, a turn
to witness such an event,
dried up river bed, dry falls

never seen again since,
burned into my closed eyes,
even photographs cannot
diminish that great memory.

This poem was written in 2024 and is previously unpublished.

Julie A. Dickson is originally from Buffalo, NY. Her father’s family was from Guelph and Vineland Station, Ontario, Canada in the late 1800’s, they founded the Culverhouse Canning Factory there. Dickson lived near Lake Erie and Niagara Falls until her early teens, when her family relocated to Massachusetts. Always the lakes-girls, her poems often reflect in memories of Lakes Ontario and Erie, and visiting the falls. Her poems appears in many journals including Ekphrastic Review, Misfit, Open Door and others; full length works on Amazon. Dickson has been a guest editor, past poetry board member, is an advocate for captive elephants and shares her home with two rescued cats.

Julie A. Dickson was the guest editor of the Ekphrastic Review challenge to write a poem inspired by Frederic Edwin Church’s painting Niagara, 1857. See a page about ekphrastic poetry of Niagara, including the poems from the Ekphrastic Review

Read about the dewatered Niagara Falls

Yellow Slicker [1967] by Julie A. Dickson

Yellow Slicker [1967]

smelled slightly sour
perhaps oily –
definitely stained

The rubber boots
were too large
for my child-sized feet

We stood in line
my brother and me
between slicker-ed parents

Slowly we walked down
metal stairs into a cave –
rush of water loud in my ears

damp, moldy smelling walls,
water trickling down, looked
at the floor to ensure firm footing

until we reached the look-out.
Cave of the Winds, they said,
strange to a child of seven

whistling and howling winds
blew through, spraying my face,
a fine sheen of water soaking me

Peered out from behind a sheet
of water, thundering past cave
opening to the rocks below

I squeezed mother’s hand
feeling the power it yielded,
yellow slicker enveloped me

Niagara Ball Falls by Julie A. Dickson

Ball bounces to theriver Niagara

swept downstream in torrents of

rushing current thunderous wild

over falling into mist gone

Kept back from theedge mother

clings to my shirtback I scream

loss of ball the worst thing ever

Father tells ofbarrels going over

on purpose on a dare tightrope

stretched acrossraging cold river

My child’s eye blindto such feats

Guinness book but some deaths

Broken bodies barrels swirling

detritus among rocks angry water

thrown up tantrum of white mist

When they dammed thefalls dry

one year we saw wood fragments

dare-devil bones but not my ball

Niagara Ball Falls written and published in Mini Mag 2023

Read about When Niagara Falls Ran Dry

Category: Niagara Falls Poems

February 4, 1912 by Jessie Clark

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Hear Me Roar by Ann Marie Steele

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Dry Falls by Julie A. Dickson

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Yellow Slicker [1967] by Julie A. Dickson

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Niagara Ball Falls by Julie A. Dickson

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