Ladle. [Poem]

Pre-dawn crickets telling tales of the evening’s revelry 

Ghoulish parties in the wood

Mocking, the Jay banters and catcalls the Titmouse

Rough coffee, home-smoked bacon
Frittata in the oven

A walk through the trees
Wizards and witches finishing touches on

tomorrow’s hallow’d garments

with little more than chocolate and striped corn

we bid adieu to October, all Saints are we.

Happy, Haunted, Sunday.


Vow in Autumn. (Poem)

Nothing haunts me more than the things I never had the courage to say.

Partnered with longing to take back spears thrown in the heat of battle, or the enmeshment of insecurities weaving a relationship fabric so warped, it serves as a battle flag to avoid that same slope and ditch in the future.
Destiny.  Fate.  Karma. God.  Loneliness. Consequence.  No consequence.  Proximity. Repetition. Inebriation. Lust. Curiosity. Boredom. Challenge. The Hunt.  The Ease. Familiarity. Chemistry. The Lure of What We Cannot Readily Have.  The Urge to Fix.  Genuine attraction.  The Need to Disappear.  The Hope of Being Found.
Many and random are the ways we come to each other.  Complicated and baffling, passionately embroiled or dispassionately detached, waltzing in circles until one makes a move.  Then another.  And, still, another, until we are picking up speed and lowering eyes and taking down walls and dropping to our knees in gratitude that someone, finally, Loves us.
Flaws and all. 
Secrets and perversions and all.

Quirks and habits and rituals and all.

Agendas, addictions, disintegration and slang and dented armor.

It all falls away
Layer upon layer

As the larch and birch shed summer

Leaving us raw, naked

Unhinged and insane

And out in left field, limbs to the sky, 

one more time

Until you finally have the courage to come back inside 
And sit beside the empty chair, lay

In the empty bed, curse

The words and venom and

Shamed by fear, ask, and ask

And ask

Dar Dawson 2015

Greenroom. (Poem)

A slow-glowing firefly rests where the cottage red garage door meets the pebbled tan foundation.  

It lights, labored, out of breath from a long summer winging warm night air.  

Across the gravel, honeysuckle continues a thin late bloom.  One must come so near for barely a hint of perfume that filled the entire yard merely weeks ago. 

If you rush by either on your way out for the evening, you’ll miss two of summer’s highlights taking their final bow.  

Let us ease into long sleeves, and blankets, and sleep, windows open as long as we can.  

Most of us are awful at farewell.  I aquiese to autumn one falling leaf at a time.

DJDawson 2012

Unapologetic Season. [Poem]

August, the Sunday of the summer months.

Suspending the start of autumn, an air of distracted denial in these late summer days.

Our activities hum
similarly round in their tune.

Bring in the fruits for winter’s cellar and holiday cheer.
Relearn tying shoes and making lunch.
End earlier to rise earlier
Summer’s growth spurt in hand-me-downs to the delight of youngers
Beat the rugs, weed the garden, inhale the sun
Latecomer hydrangea, frilled and elegant
unapologetic in size, boldly confident this summer has no end

I pull on the salmon shorts those
embroidered with navy lobsters (the only lobsters I’ve had this season)
button a favorite lightweight chambray shirt
the footbed leather always cool to my soles
as the dog writhes and wiggles her welcome and
release out the back door.

It is, thankfully, summer, still.

Written August 30, 2014.

Moth. [NaPoWriMo 2017] 24 April 2014, journal.

Midnight sweeps

a quiet exhale adieu

the gentle vale drops

mist across the moon

kissing shoulders

they turn away

seamless pivot and undulation 

peace, deep under the stars.
The pause and kick reset of the old refrigerator

familiar mechanism, hum

a sentry centered in the dark downstair
snoring lightly, pointing ground birds to flight

the dog wings swift over my white comforter

and just as she is about to catch her folly


gasping for air in a chase she did not run

she spikes stiff and re-curls

a quiet exhale adieu

the gentle vale drops
mist across the stubble grass

spooning under the same sky

miles and minutes – only minutes – apart.
Dar Dawson (c) 2014

On Over-Thinking. (Prosery.) NaPoWriMo 2017.

If overthinking is a combination of being intelligent but not having a hobby, or being over-caffeinated and not getting enough sleep, or being a little bit stressed and wearing your coping mechanisms so thin you can see through them like a bad alibi, or not socializing with your friends who distract and lift you positively, or not seeing your beloved enough, or whatever the trigger is that makes you think about everything way too much, then I know exactly what that is. But knowing what it is doesn’t help me solve it. And knowing that I overthink almost everything to the point of badgering it into little tiny pieces doesn’t make it any easier for me to stop. There are many people, mostly women my age, who have this inability to just relax and be, and enjoy the very moment we are in. And that is really all we have it any given time:  this very moment. Why ruin it with a bunch of overthinking and needless worrying? I don’t have the answer to that question…but if you give me 10 minutes I can think it through about twenty-dozen times in three different languages (and still have no answer). On the upside, no one can ever accuse gals like us of making an impulsive decision since we’ve thought about everything for the last four thousand years.  I did not choose to marry the brain that cannot be stilled; it is almost forced upon me. A bizarre arranged relationship between my intellect and my fears (many of which are self-inflicted or wounds from ghosts past).
It’s a thief of joy, at its unmastered worst. A creative hybrid rocket fuel at its best. I’d rather be in a constant state of excitement – even about the mundane then to twease apart the banality of things that don’t really matter anywhere but my too-busy brain.  Meditation, I’m back.

Journal entry, 17 April, 2014.


Astral Astray. (NaPoWriMo. 2017) 

Listen close for the stars above have such good things to tell you.

Listen honestly, into the twilight

let your eardrum lean hard into the sky to hear the song being written just for you.

High above the embrace of hearth, of more import than daily distraction, high-hanging only for you

lofty strung lightnotes of 

praise and


from the Ancients.  

Every evening looklisten up.

the path you seek

the answer you desire

the tine you need to choose

all overhead, singing for you.

listen deep, lean in hard





originally written 9 April, 2013.