Give In, Not Give Up.

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
better
solved
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.

DJD 2014

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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.
DJDawson 

Harumph.

Home Alone, adult style.  All menfolk out of the house for the night.  My evening plan to attend the roller derby nixed, though I could have attended had I gone in my own vehicle.  (An option left unsuggested.)  But, I shall sit outside in the cricketsong and honey-pinking sky against the mountains, with a favorite pen, drawing paper and adult tonic, and ask myself why I allow others to decide what is right for me. (I do this more than I care to, and more than I should.)  

Stern, well-shaped brow bent in moderate resentment (well, I did ask, didn’t I? And this is what you get.  Duh.)  Just lettin’ it gooooooo.

Dar Dawson 2016

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

Forgiveness.
Dar Dawson 2015

GhostWalk. (Poem)

​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

Cover Art.

Stillhouse Press selected one of my photographs for the cover of the newest works of Carmen Gillespie.  The Ghosts of Monticello should be available mid-October.  I am thrilled and honored to be part of this book!!

http://www.stillhousepress.org/carmen-gillespie/ for your copy.

Cover photo:  Dar Dawson

#poetry #recitation #slavery #photographersofwordpress #coverart #womenpoets #stillhousepress #bookcover #ghostsofmonticello

Reveal.

Might take a while but I think we all recognize the “good” in “goodbye”.  Maybe not simultaneously or even assign it the same weight or meaning.

Weightlessness is fine for wandering or aimlessly bobbing around, here and there.  But there came a desire to be grounded, certain, and that never happened.  It is then we choose, again, direction and propulsion.  

We do this, change course, many times in life — whether by choice or organically.
I am so blessed to be loved and valued, and that is all I know, right this minute.  Right, this life.
DJD