)
Writing by dawn
Poetry from 2025
Sisters in Summer
They hadn’t planned to try on fancy dresses at the thrift store. They hadn’t planned for their husbands to die before them, to live all these years alone. One of the dresses was light pink, the color girls wear in their hair. It was pleated and long, soft as sunrise. The other dress was teal, bunched at the waist, the younger sister’s favorite color, the color you find under the ocean where she once dove as a young woman. As they drove away from the thrift store, the older sister, who was 82, said to the younger sister, who was 78, I wish I would have boughten that pink dress. So, the younger sister turned right around. $8 for the pink. $10 for the teal. At the beach cabin later, they sat around in the long, silky dresses like queens and put together a puzzle. The older sister inhaled oxygen from her nebulizer as she picked out pieces for the border. The younger sister, whose beach house it was, asked if they should watch a movie later. The pink and teal dresses in the fading light of evening cast shadows across the table, now two young women playing cards, now two girls whispering secrets, now two seasoned sisters putting together another puzzle before bed.
*****
We are Peonies
In the season of lightwe are pink peoniesin the backyard under the kitchen window.We show up one dayclosed tight and pale as a baby’s fist.But with each buttery summer hour,we deliberately open ourselves to the world,our blushing hearts spreading wide as a palm,our only purpose to be ourself.
*****
The Day the Artist said Farewell
~for Bridget
She drank the bitter medicine downas if it were moonlightushering her into the dark.Her thirst to leave was deep.Still, she resisted awhile,the small animal of her body fighting to stay alive
while her close circle stood vigil.
But soon enough she hibernated.Only the gusty wind of her breathingfilled the room, harmonizing with the lavender and the music playing.
It took three hours for death to come,for the winter of her journeyto pull her irretrievably into some new field of white.
What she left behind were green shoots, color,birdsong in the heart,reminding us the ways we toucheach other while alive are another kind of eternal garden.
But soon enough she hibernated.Only the gusty wind of her breathingfilled the room, harmonizing with the lavender and the music playing.
It took three hours for death to come,for the winter of her journeyto pull her irretrievably into some new field of white.
What she left behind were green shoots, color,birdsong in the heart,reminding us the ways we toucheach other while alive are another kind of eternal garden.
High Priestesses of Poetry Circles 2023-2024
This Life
I want roots that hold me to this life,solid ground under my feet.
I long daily for more freedom,for the experience of untethered flight.
But what if roots are a kind of wing,a way to reach down,to fly deep into the day?
What if the more I root myself to this life,the easier it becomes to soar? ***** Thaw
I am listening for thaweven though this morning the air is as cold as hunger.Still, the buttery sun hangs in the sky,an ancient oracle of good fortune.Still, the light comes earlier every day asflocks of geese travel in a confident arrow to shores of green shoots, ice returning to water.
Where I have frozen, become stuck, hardened, I am beginning to hear the drip, dripof melting, of surrender.I am beginning to see the push, push of old seeds I’d forgotten I’d planted.And there, when I close my eyes, I am beginning to feel the hum, hum of some final sheddingas the new season of light opens and sings.
Why not let the light in?Who am I to lock the windowswhen just outside a band is playing? ***** Night Wandering
She sneaks from the watching walls of her homeinto the moon-frosted orange grove behind the fence,follows the incense of night citrussticky and sweet on her skin,her bare feet sinking into the earth’s soft stomach,rooting her to the alter of mud and seedthe water of night between her toesthe wind of trespass on her neck.
She is the nocturnal owlthe mother wolf prowling herself,for one hour escaped from the children, her sleeping husbandfree from the world’s great need.
She is the blue snake undulating in rapturous spirals through new grass,shedding her skin as she goes,returning to the citrus field where she willwrap herself around the trunk of the mother,where she will ascend to devour the fruit of the night.
Do not call her name. She will not answer.She will be strolling the ebony inner landscape,the private primitive garden.
I want roots that hold me to this life,solid ground under my feet.
I long daily for more freedom,for the experience of untethered flight.
But what if roots are a kind of wing,a way to reach down,to fly deep into the day?
What if the more I root myself to this life,the easier it becomes to soar? ***** Thaw
I am listening for thaweven though this morning the air is as cold as hunger.Still, the buttery sun hangs in the sky,an ancient oracle of good fortune.Still, the light comes earlier every day asflocks of geese travel in a confident arrow to shores of green shoots, ice returning to water.
Where I have frozen, become stuck, hardened, I am beginning to hear the drip, dripof melting, of surrender.I am beginning to see the push, push of old seeds I’d forgotten I’d planted.And there, when I close my eyes, I am beginning to feel the hum, hum of some final sheddingas the new season of light opens and sings.
Why not let the light in?Who am I to lock the windowswhen just outside a band is playing? ***** Night Wandering
She sneaks from the watching walls of her homeinto the moon-frosted orange grove behind the fence,follows the incense of night citrussticky and sweet on her skin,her bare feet sinking into the earth’s soft stomach,rooting her to the alter of mud and seedthe water of night between her toesthe wind of trespass on her neck.
She is the nocturnal owlthe mother wolf prowling herself,for one hour escaped from the children, her sleeping husbandfree from the world’s great need.
She is the blue snake undulating in rapturous spirals through new grass,shedding her skin as she goes,returning to the citrus field where she willwrap herself around the trunk of the mother,where she will ascend to devour the fruit of the night.
Do not call her name. She will not answer.She will be strolling the ebony inner landscape,the private primitive garden.
High Priestesses of Poetry Volume 1 2018
How does a Mother find Time to Write a Poem?
The mother in the kitchen cutting carrotsthe music of the knife on the wooden board click, click, clickrhyming with the first words of a poemforming in her head
until the sound of her young son’s voicecalling
the poem flying like a small, brown birdthrough the open windowup to the highest branch of the pear treewhere it sits for 5 days
until early one morningwhile the mother is folding laundrythe soft oval of her husband’s blue socksremind her of the poem
the mother shuts her eyeslistens for the poem’s heart beat tra-la, tra-la, tra-la
until the sharp cry of the doorbellsends the poem scurrying under the living room sofawhere it hides for 2 weeks
Then one evening at the computer paying the billsthe mother’s fingers suddenly begin typingas if they are possessed by Spirits
the mother does not stop when the phone ringsthe mother does not stop when the cat meows outside the closed doorthe mother does not stop to check on her sleeping child
instead the wings of the mother’s fingers flyingthe notes of a song that will not be silenced coming, finally, home
The mother in the kitchen cutting carrotsthe music of the knife on the wooden board click, click, clickrhyming with the first words of a poemforming in her head
until the sound of her young son’s voicecalling
the poem flying like a small, brown birdthrough the open windowup to the highest branch of the pear treewhere it sits for 5 days
until early one morningwhile the mother is folding laundrythe soft oval of her husband’s blue socksremind her of the poem
the mother shuts her eyeslistens for the poem’s heart beat tra-la, tra-la, tra-la
until the sharp cry of the doorbellsends the poem scurrying under the living room sofawhere it hides for 2 weeks
Then one evening at the computer paying the billsthe mother’s fingers suddenly begin typingas if they are possessed by Spirits
the mother does not stop when the phone ringsthe mother does not stop when the cat meows outside the closed doorthe mother does not stop to check on her sleeping child
instead the wings of the mother’s fingers flyingthe notes of a song that will not be silenced coming, finally, home
HIGH PRIESTESSES OF POETRY
VOLUME 2
2019
Unrobing(a pantoum)
The birch tree is taking off her clothes tonight,the old bark falling like white scarves to the ground.The wind’s eager hands grab at her,tear away the tight fit of last season.
The old bark falling to the earth.Underneath the new skin, moist and honeyed,pushing through the tight fit of the old self.Messy birthing under the full moon.
Underneath the new skin, moist, sweet.The woman kneels to her years on the winter ground,birthing herself under the opal moon.Her cry is an owl beating its wings.
The woman and her years kneel on the loosening ground,the compost of her becoming a white offering at her feet.The owl raising its wings.The birch tree is taking off her old clothes tonight.
The old bark falling to the earth.Underneath the new skin, moist and honeyed,pushing through the tight fit of the old self.Messy birthing under the full moon.
Underneath the new skin, moist, sweet.The woman kneels to her years on the winter ground,birthing herself under the opal moon.Her cry is an owl beating its wings.
The woman and her years kneel on the loosening ground,the compost of her becoming a white offering at her feet.The owl raising its wings.The birch tree is taking off her old clothes tonight.
HIGH PRIESTESSES OF POETRY
VOLUME 3
2020
Burning
It’s the Autumn the world comes to an end.The trees on fire, the sun a small, red ember in the sky.The fires move as fast as a panther over the parched groundthrough small towns, farms, forests, fields.Afterwards, where the panther has fed, there is only carcass, ash and the foundations of home.
What lingers is the wretched witch of smoke.The smoke travels hundreds of miles as if by magic,laying her dark cloak over the people.We cannot breathe, cry the people from behind their masks.I cannot breathe, moans the earth.We cannot breathe, croak the birds. I cannot breathe, whispers the black man as he is held down.
What lingers after fire is smoke.What lingers after smoke is fear.What lingers after fear is anger.What lingers after anger is hate.What lingers after hate is separation.What lingers after separation is longing.What lingers after longing is reaching out.What lingers after reaching out is connection.What lingers after connection is relationship.What lingers after relationship is tolerance.What lingers after tolerance is trust.What lingers after trust is unity.What lingers after unity is love.
It’s the Autumn the world comes to an end.The trees on fire, the sun a small, red ember in the sky.The fires move as fast as a panther over the parched groundthrough small towns, farms, forests, fields.Afterwards, where the panther has fed, there is only carcass, ash and the foundations of home.
What lingers is the wretched witch of smoke.The smoke travels hundreds of miles as if by magic,laying her dark cloak over the people.We cannot breathe, cry the people from behind their masks.I cannot breathe, moans the earth.We cannot breathe, croak the birds. I cannot breathe, whispers the black man as he is held down.
What lingers after fire is smoke.What lingers after smoke is fear.What lingers after fear is anger.What lingers after anger is hate.What lingers after hate is separation.What lingers after separation is longing.What lingers after longing is reaching out.What lingers after reaching out is connection.What lingers after connection is relationship.What lingers after relationship is tolerance.What lingers after tolerance is trust.What lingers after trust is unity.What lingers after unity is love.
HIGH PRIESTESSES OF POETRY
VOLUME 4
2021
Pear Meditation
It rained pears this year,dozens of golden orbs falling each day, heavy with generosity.
I placed all the pears fit to eat in a blue & white bowl on the table.The rest I picked up with a red bucket,threw into the compost bin,the heady, sweet perfume reminding me of sun and death and pies.
I knew when all the pears were on the groundfall would be here.School. Scarlet leaves. Pumpkins. The air cool and full of peace.My sister turns 54 on Fall Equinox Eve.I turn 55 on October 16th.Our mom turns 75 on October 1st. How did we get this old?
Still, we are not far enough gone for the red bucket.There is a sweetness and a quickening to these golden years, this introspective season.Life turning, turning, falling, falling,dancing like glorious autumn leaves in the windcelebrating the harvest moon andall these women full and savory with ripening.
It rained pears this year,dozens of golden orbs falling each day, heavy with generosity.
I placed all the pears fit to eat in a blue & white bowl on the table.The rest I picked up with a red bucket,threw into the compost bin,the heady, sweet perfume reminding me of sun and death and pies.
I knew when all the pears were on the groundfall would be here.School. Scarlet leaves. Pumpkins. The air cool and full of peace.My sister turns 54 on Fall Equinox Eve.I turn 55 on October 16th.Our mom turns 75 on October 1st. How did we get this old?
Still, we are not far enough gone for the red bucket.There is a sweetness and a quickening to these golden years, this introspective season.Life turning, turning, falling, falling,dancing like glorious autumn leaves in the windcelebrating the harvest moon andall these women full and savory with ripening.