the transitional girlfriend of the calendar.
Not like the other months. Her personality a mix of closing a door and lighting a bonfire; bittersweet memory and new imaginings. You meet her and instantly you’re comfortable–she’s a bit of extended December.
She is the palate cleanser, the slate-cleaner
she looks the other way and has regard for but no connection to your past. January only looks forward with you.
Halfway through you’re cozy, in love, comfortable hibernating from the rest of the year. You picture yourself being together another 11 and a half months.
When the birds start singing their wake-up call outside the window in those last few days, you realize it’s not forever. You need more. More than January can offer, and you miss the predictable familiarity of other months.
Like any bridge relationship, she helps us out of the used, the stale,
the old and into the full-of-potential, bold new year.
As much as you are grateful for her constancy and loyalty
you leave her
more turbulent, less kind and
marginally forgiving time. A time you already know.
with open arms
to welcome you back to the calendar.
Eventually, January will do what she does best: begin anew.
And they tell me the only thing I can do is pray.
It’s so powerful, so mighty, so positive.
So why do I feel so powerless, so scrawny, so angry?
(This is far from my usual mode of positivity and optimism.)
One of you has been betrayed.
It is clear from your posts that your heart is leaking pain everywhere you go
like an old car leaves an oil trail down the street.
Some of you are ill.
I do not say “sick” but ill. Your body is fighting a fight while you are held hostage by those ravages and maneuvers.
Some of you will have surgery soon.
I know you are afraid.
A few of you are having parenting issues — whether you are the parent or the child.
A lot of frustration and needless back-and-forth of not listening to each other and power plays. (This you can handle yourselves, but I pray about it anyway because it couldn’t hurt.)
Many of you are healing or lonely or hopeful Love will come through the door…
that your own prayers will literally be answered.
Honestly, I want to answer every single one.
Gratitude is everything, I know this.
(Where is that magic wand we had as kids? We could just wave it around and *poof!* everything was magically
time for supper and then a bath and story and bed.)
So many of us just want the very best for those we know and Love
and for those we hardly know but Love anyway.
I ask for better
I ask to be given opportunities to be a better person, mother, friend.
And they are provided hand over fist.
We mend what we can, as best we can.
After that, the only thing left to do is give in and pray.
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.
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
Dar Dawson 2015
Among the stones today, I realized so much of my life remains virginal. Pure, unexplored, blank canvas clean opportunities – awaiting my hand, mouth, heart to travel their invitations and enlightenments. Above the crust.
Among the stones, gray soldiers a’row silent senators convened by various ends, bid solemn tiding: ideas brought here do not flourish; the goal, to finish one’s tour empty. Not depleted but filled by life, and emptied into it. Less to bury. Below the crust.
Among the stones today, a vow so strong and voracious rose ancient and wild. Waste no further time in worry over that which I truly have no control; love full and wholehearted whomever strikes that chord, and live that same way: largely without sheepish quieting of my Self to please others. Loud among the living…and among the stones.
Dar Dawson 2017
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.