Praise for Pleasures Taken for Granted

It is so easy to be grateful especially for the small things all around us that we take for granted. This poem came after a long productive day when I stepped outside for a cool breath of light moonlight. Enjoy the poem and the little things all around you. -Dawn

Praise for Pleasures taken for Granted

Praise of Pleasures taken for Granted

The alternate light
of half moon
and lightning bugs
on a soft summer night
when bed-time is long earned
and I sit in my fleece robe
with time to read and lounge
and time to sleep in although
we don’t
enjoying the dewy morning
when the sunrise has washed
white as new bloomers,
when industriousness
rises up into your limbs
and you do and move and make
and step back to see
what you have accomplished
and embrace again
the moon a little more bright.

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Solstice Energy for Love

I did some research on solstice knowing I wanted to celebrate it; celebrate a nature holiday. Nature has been such a comfort this year and again today, the longest day of the year, nature did not disappoint. Several hours after writing this poem, I gave myself a Solstice tarot reading. Interestingly, the reading was about love too. Put your energy into love my dears.

Solstice Energy for Love

Solstice Energy for Love

The thunder gods
and sun gods shook hands
at mid-summer’s eve.

Rainwater I collected,
blessed by moonlight,
gathers the energy of solstice noon.

A bumble bee,
symbol of abundance,
accompanies me in the blooming clover.

The cardinal shows himself
in the sumac as he sings ardently.

Witch hazel reaching at trailside
shades me along with maples
and the doomed ash.

Double-winged dragonflies
usher me into the midday sun.

In the sunny spots,
fields and open paths,
are daisies soaking up the sun
when it is too strong for
my shade constitution.

The abundance of nature midsummer
gives energy,
energy to cut the chords
in the way of love.
Energy to radiate, to invite,
to luxuriate in love.

Solstice is the marriage
of sun and earth.
Solstice is about growing green
and growing love.

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Father’s Day on the Summer Solstice

Father’s day is very important to me as it is to all who are/were fortunate enough to have a good and loving Dad. I see so much of him in me. We have an understanding, a deeper knowing because of it. How perfect that Father’s Day and the Summer Solstice coincided as this poem celebrates. Dad, I’ll be over with a pie later today. I love you very much!

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Father’s Day on the Summer Solstice
for Dad from Dawn

On this longest day of the year,
we celebrate our Fathers
and the Father of us all
the Sun.
Today is the feast of Baldur
the Norse god of truth and light.
Indeed, Fathers are our truth,
our heritage,
our source,
the seed from which we burst.
Symbolized by the mighty oak
able to withstand storms
with deep roots and stalwart grain,
Father too is forest, shelter, protection,
our home and foundation.
Let truth and light reign today
the longest day
and everyday
for Fathers are the root of family
and family is the bedrock of humanity.

Happy Father’s Day to my Father of truth and light!

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When You Like Your Own Company

If there are any good things about COVID-19,  it is more time to yourself. Not productive time but time to just be and enjoy your own energy affected only by the energy of nature. I wrote this poem sitting on a second floor deck surrounded by trees and dragonflies far away from any people. Find your perch.

When You Like Your Own Company

When You Like Your Own Company

A little perch
with daisies I picked for their happiness
my ears attune to the tussle of leaves and breeze.
The Dove chocolate wrapper says
“be fearlessly authentic.”
I say “be fearlessly alone,”
in my breath and spirit
soaring with the dragonflies
in this place
in this body
in this moment
all mine.


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The Real World Around a Campfire

The best foil to turmoil is quiet and nature. Even better is quiet and nature with loved ones around a campfire.


The Real World Around a Campfire

Many a yarn has been shared,
stories and truths,
‘round a campfire
dodging smoke
like musical chairs
to spots the breeze
still smooths.
We pulse closer
then telescope out
as the heat rises and falls
until the big slow-burner log
steadies the smolder
as quiet darkness blocks out
the screaming world
to just our knowing circle
with only the frogs croaking
and our laughter
in loving company
the real world
‘round a campfire.

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Tree Peace

“Tree Peace” is a riff off of yesterday’s poem “Beach Peace.” What things, places, sounds, activities bring you peace? If you’re wondering why my pants are tucked into my socks, it is to prevent the wood ticks (who live in the tall grass) from crawling up my pant leg. I had 4 wood ticks and a deer tick on me from today but, no matter, as the trees are peaceful.

Tree Peace

Tree Peace

Nibbles of chocolate
melding into my taste buds
that moment from solid to liquid
the mental burst of chocolate,
a life-form of its own.

Reading without guilt
spiritual and fantastical tales
home as experienced on another plane,
a ghost perspective.

Letting my inside spill onto paper
taking out my thoughts and feelings
bits of molded glass
the smokey light of this cloudy day
pushing through them
turning, looking at each angle.

Then, the rain comes
tapping the new leaves
like a million tinkling keys,
rain the song of nature,
rain nature’s chocolate
melding slowly into earth’s tongue.

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Beach Peace

This poem was inspired by and the title coined by my dear friend JoAnn Beeh. Where can you find Beach Peace?

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Beach Peace

JoAnn went to the coast
for a day of “Beach Peace.”
The rhythmic waves rolling in
moving the blue-gray and green depths.
The humm of ocean white-noise
as you sit in the forgiving sand.

How can I find beach peace
so far from an ocean?

I look around and see
the farmer racking hay
a green wave behind his rolling wheels
moving in rhythmic long strokes
over the summer field.

The cereal bowl in my hands
the steady crunch
the calming milk
the clink of spoon to bowl
with each little scoop.

The hummingbird sipping
from the feeder
her tininess
her flutter
as she dips into the sweet offering
again and again she visits
looking at me through the window
knowing me.

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A Clutch in the Woods

Spending more time in the woods during the COVID-19 social shutdown has so many benefits to mind, body, and spirit. You realize that you are part of nature, not apart from it. You see the cycle of the seasons, of life and death. Justice and fairness are human concepts that nature does not practice. While I cannot shake my human psyche, it does make me think more holistically to be a part of the woods.

A Clutch in the Woods

A Clutch in the Woods

A clutch in the woods
near a lovely ash tree.
The whistle of tending birds.
A baby squirrel following
his mother’s lead.
The woods are full of babies
of learning
of new life
and many deaths.

Why does the turkey lay 14 eggs?
Could the racoon and skunk
who prey upon them
eat nettles instead?

Life is a matter of chance
and nature does not mourn,
the master recycler
nothing is wasted
all has purpose
even the snake
and the mosquitos
who feed the bat
are gears in the wheel,
the turning wheel,
the ever-turning wheel
which does not stop for me.

I tend my purpose
until the day I to
will be recycled,
as is the way of things eternal.
I am no more
and no less
than a turkey egg
in the greater woods.


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Dandelion Puffball

Some people call dandelions weeds. And, maybe they are weeds, but they are beautiful weeds. Not only is the dandelion bees’ first food of spring, they magically transform into artful puffballs. They go gray so to speak. This poem appreciates our puffball stage. Enjoy!

dandilion puffballs

Dandelion Puffballs

Ready to begin again,
another reincarnation.
The bees are finished with my flowering.
They have moved on
to the vibrant goldenrod.
I transform myself
from bright youthful beauty
to an ethereal art-form
holding the wisdom of the ancients
ready to carry on,
carry on
lifting off the grounded taproot
into space and circular time.
I am the seed,
the seed with wings,
a piece of the flow
adding my consciousness,
my improved consciousness,
to the trade winds.

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A Poet’s Garden

This poem came out of my Sunday morning gardening time. In the course of writing it, I figured out why I have never been a great gardener. It is not so much about production as creating a place, a place of life. Enjoy the poem and the photo of a Goldfinch drinking water from a dandelion leaf in my garden’s circle of asparagus.

A Poets Garden

A Poet’s Garden

The birds and I
gardened early this morning
in the soft light
before the bugs are up.
“Ee-oh-lay” the Wood Thrush told me.
The Rose-breasted Grosbeak,
thankful for our cracked corn,
sang to me,
“Cheer up,” “Cheer-a-lee,” “Cheer-ee-o.
Pairs of Cardinals
with the laser gun sound effect call
“puh, puh, puh,”
made me laugh.

There is not more grounded
than sitting in the dirt
and chicken manure mulch
yet the birds pull at my soul
clothes-pinning it to the tree tops
until I ripple in the breeze
and feel their calls in my throat.

Surely this is why I am not
a proper gardener
plunking seeds and starts
in vague groupings
more like an impressionistic painting
than an orderly, sense-making plots of rows.

The basil is near the uncaged tomatoes
because they both go with buffalo mozzarella.
The grasshoppers will eat the broccoli leaves,
so, I plant more of them
because grasshoppers add movement
to the bolt up-right green.

Potatoes and mint are together
to control the mint from wandering afar.
Squash is exiled to the far corner this year
after taking over the tomatoes and peppers last year.
Maybe I will give them something pretty to climb on.

Peas are new to me.
How will I resist eating them as shoots
especially as they live
in the partial shade
with the arugula and spinach.

The birds are invited into the garden,
an antique bird bowl
with delicate fairy dipping her toe
into the rain water.
They like to perch on my bench
a high spot to rest their weary hollow bones
between feedings of greedy cowbird chicks
transplanted in their lovely nests.

There is more to do in the garden.
After-all, that is what a garden is for
like a child’s sandbox
a place for the bees and I to light.

I leave the dandelions
for the bees and me
their smiling yellow
and ethereal seed globes.
The weeds with no purpose
must go, of course,
although they hang on
with tap roots and
spitting seeds.
We play, weeds and I
on our teeter-totter
sometimes up and sometimes down.

Despite this poet way of gardening,
the chicken manure
always delivers a bounty enough
for fresh, pickled, and frozen for winter soup.

Nowhere else is there better food
than that which comes from your hand and hoe
and silky rain.
The birds agree, “ee-oh-lay!”

*Bird call mnemonics from

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