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. …

Neil.  09.08.2015

What a strange place to be Sending intermittent thoughts Small prayers to ‘wasband’ he who was my husband On the untimely but not altogether unexpected death of his brother, Cornelius “Neal”   Named for their father   late last week, diseased liver and rattled core gave up and ghosted him to the other side younger…

Independence Hymn. (My thoughts on singing today.)

You know my father stands up and sings. And his mother, Melba Shorthill Bradshaw Dawson, she stood and sang.  Beautifully.  And I bet my newest U.S. passport your grandparents did, too.  Stand up men removed their hats (and still should) and sang. Singing our National Anthem is not about sounding good or “talent” or jazzy,…

NaPoWriMo. On This Day. (Prosery. 8 April, 2014)

This life? This blustery calm circus of vibrant color and deepest freewheeling emotion? This wild Bossa Nova in 3-6-5 tempos of random kindness and distempered change punctuated by groaner punchlines whose menus never serve the same fare twice? This life where invisible wisdoms and sweeping awkward gestures of sweetest affection hold our hearts in most…

Pre-Launch. (Journal entry. 8 April 2015)

Him: “Looove your wild, plaid poncho!” He is shepherding his two wiggly small people into their way-too-big mini-van; one of whom, the smaller, has dashed out behind the car between our cars–the driver trying to back out of her space, thankfully aware of the dasher, who has been dragged back by his father to the…

Winter Blanket. March 18, 2013. [Poem]

  It is a falling-asleep sound snow turning unheard to blustery icy tiny cannonballs against the panes separated by damask curtains of black and white we go about our evening alterations one to blanket one blanketed both to rest a spell one to melt one to manifest desires and epiphanies in tomorrow’s light. DJD 2013

Salt Breathing. [Loose poem]

Old stomping ground. Exhale Hill, as it is known by those of us who move away from that wide open big water and miniscule cliffside life. water methodists and whalers yachtsmen gossips artists the faithful and the bedhoppers claythrowers gemworkers taverners dutiful counselors It all seems so endless when you are there, going about the…

How it Began. Feb 2, 2013.

​Pajamas under my overalls, I drive from bank to bank getting together oil money. It’s complicated but it is there. There is gratitude beneath my frustration at the cold. Yet the only thing I can think of, for some reason, is all my friends who have children growing up – for a variety of reasons…