Jodi Adamson received her BA from Huntingdon College and her pharmacy doctorate from Auburn University Pharmacy School. She works at a local retail pharmacy as a staff pharmacist. Along with her illustrator, Stacey Hopson, she has published an illustrated book entitled The Ten Commandments for Pharmacists, a humorous look at the world of pharmacy dos and don’ts.
Jodi was the Alabama State Poetry Society Poet of the Year 2015. Her poem “Lost Civilizations” won first place in the Alabama State Poetry Society Fall Contest. She also had her poetry reviewed by NewPages.com. New work has appeared, or is forthcoming in Amarillo Bay, Chantwood Magazine, Clackamas Literary Review, The Coachella Review, Crack the Spine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Existere Journal, Forge, The Griffin, Juked, The Old Red Kimono, The Prelude, Rio Grande Review, riverSedge, Rubbertop Review, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Slab magazine, The Starry Night Review, and the anthologies Dreams of Steam III, It Was a Dark and Stormy Night, and New Dawn Unlimited.
AN APOSTROPHE: WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS, THE ARTIST
Dr. Williams,
We have walked the same corridors,
both halls of poetry and the health profession.
Decades separate us, but you and me, we are alike.
Analytical imagination, duality of my personality,
caused a lot of consternation.
Can creativity breathe with such practicality?
Free thinking not be hampered by science?
Feeling be expressed through exact line spacing?
It was you, your calling, your regular wording,
shared your answers with the world.
Poetry, emotional wealth, not betrayed by compression,
extraordinary depth in precision.
Science, an inspiration,
not a limitation on the imagination.
Both allowed waltzes on prescription pads,
taking turns at the lead.
Pediatrician poet,
imitation, the highest form of flattery.
Please remember my parodies of your work were but
empathy and accolades
and you taken by surprise
was left speechless.
Clap, enjoy absurdity, this world, that bewilders us both without poetry.
MAILBOX ETHEREE
Poor
Mailbox
Standing there
Useless until
Communications come.
What does it do all day?
Shiver in the cold weather?
Bask in the warmth of the noon sun?
Perhaps, it picks a fight with the mailman.
That would explain its crippled black back.
MIGRAINE
I’m
Trying
To stop
The slow slide
Of my sanity as the
Throb in my head escalates
And life blurring and chilling as
I approach the slope of no return.
THE SHOWDOWN AT THE HARD ROCK CAFE
Waiting in the restaurant lobby, opposing fandoms
Sought sustenance and maybe alcoholic beverages.
To the left, Atlanta’s Labor Day weekend’s Chosen, the geeks
Their weapons peacebonded except the distinctive ire on their faces.
To the right, interlopers, confounded, frightened, football fanatics
Had fallen into the Twilight Zone with no clue how to proceed.
Jocks, stiff standing like their spiked hair, huddled while stone angels waited for them to blink.
A blond Slayer, her honey, readied their stakes; a tiny fairy spiraled pink curls round her finger.
The steamy couple surveyed the scene behind their brass goggles; a stilettoed, spandexed superhero smirked.
A corseted buccaneer changed her “arrg” to awkward, turned to her witchy friend,
“Remember they are more scared of us than we are of them.”
Flashing red dots, buzzing box interrupted, Princess Elsa waitress appeared, with icicles and snow flurries.
Let it go.
Hovering past memories of victimization faded.
After all, they all were fans, loyal and brave in their respective uniforms,
Who sought sustenance and maybe alcoholic beverages.