At Niagara by R. Nathaniel Dett

dett
Photograph of R. Nathaniel Dett from his The Album of a Heart


List
 to the sounding cat’ract’s thundering fall 
Or hark to spirit voices in the wind. 
For methinks sometimes that these strange moods 
Are Heaven-sent us by the jealous God 
Who’d thus remind us that no human love 
Can fully satisfy the longing heart. 
Perhaps an intimation sent to souls 
That he would speak somewhat, or nearer draw. 
Therefore I’ll to Him.   Talking waters, stars, 
The moon and whisp’ring trees shall make me wise 
In what it is He’d have my spirit know. 
And Nature singing from the earth and sky 
Shall fill me with such peace, that in the morn 
I’ll be the gay glad self you’ve always known. 
Urge me no further, now that you understand. 
A nobler friend than you none ever knew— 
But not this time.   Tonight I’ll be alone ; 
And if from moonlit valley God should speak 
Or in the tumbling waters sound a call 
Or whisper in the sighing of the wind, 
He’ll find me with an undivided heart 
Patient waiting to hear ; but Friend,—alone.


Source:  R. Nathaniel Dett. The Album of a Heart.  Jackson, Tenn. : Mocowat-Mercer, 1911.

About R. Nathaniel Dett

Barn by Lorette C. Luzajic

I’m surrounded by apples. The buckets are heavy laden, spotting the front and sides of the barn with mounds of red rounds. David’s saws settle in behind the bounty.  He points to tomato vines weaving a fence on a heap of boards, to other cauldrons blooming his brother’s favoured seeds. The air is full of saw dust and skunk and Jonamac must and the sugar of warm raspberries. David shows me the jigsaw and what he is making. He hacked down the dying walnut tree himself, clawed it from the dirt with his hands and his tools, and here it is, transformed into chess: a raw rook, a crooked king, near perfect pawns. David built the barn we are in, figured out how to fit the pieces together and raise them with his own two ruddy hands and instructions from his Dad and his granddad. He is 20.  He has a slow grin and a sharp twinkle behind his glasses. When he was two, he padded over to me with an orange extension cord wound expertly around one arm, pressed the other end to my neck and made animated noises. Started digging holes and mixing cement that same summer, in his floppy yellow boots. He never cried, not until two decades had fallen away and he and I were standing together at the foot of a hospice bed, saying goodbye to my father. Dad, I said, the barn. If you could only see this kid’s barn! He never would.  He never walked again. We buried him. But in the midsummer sunset, the rooster weathervane raised to that roof brands the night in his blood.


Source: The author.  This prose poem first appeared in Verse and Voice (Hong Kong)

barn
Lorette in North Africa with her camel friend.

Lorette C. Luzajic was born in Niagara Falls and lives in Toronto. She has a degree in journalism from Ryerson University, but has been a lifelong student of art history and poetry. She is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal devoted to literature inspired by visual art. She writes prose poems and small fictions that merge personal experiences and observations and the contemplation of visual art. Her works were selected as Best Small Fictions 2023 and 2024, and have also been nominated several times each for Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and Best Microfictions, as well as seven times for Best American Food Writing for her column on food and art in Good Food Revolution. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed-media artist who has collectors in over forty countries so far. Visit her at www.mixedupmedia.ca

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.

 

julie a dickson
Julie A. Dickson


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 ReviewMisfitOpen 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, 1857See 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]

slicker
Cave of the Winds, Niagara Falls NY
Two separate touring parties, one approaching and the other leaving Hurricane Deck . In foreground is Wildcat Stream. In background at right, Bridal Veil Falls and at left, American Falls

From a postcard in the collection of the Niagara Falls Public Library

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


Julie A. Dickson

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 ReviewMisfitOpen 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, 1857See a page about ekphrastic poetry of Niagara, including the poems from the Ekphrastic Review

Flow by Roslyn C.

Flow, like ocean waves

Everywhere

Reaching


Roslyn C. is a student in Ms. Chivers’ special needs class at A.N. Myer Secondary School in Niagara Falls, Ontario.

See other poems by Ms. Chivers’ students