@dovesdanceatdawn / dovesdanceatdawn.tumblr.com
Poppy red blends with blue and purple. Moon tilts from rousing earth.
Early risers call to another ilk. Waves lap up nocturnal spoils.
Squirrels climb down from their nests, check their hiding places.
Bold yellows join orange and red, brightens blue, and sheds fading night and somber chill
for morning glow. *
True colors form a tragedy disguised as too much. Heavy liquor steers a conversation beyond fair borders and warm bodies lying on sofa cushions.
Inexperience prods the naïve to disregard the change in mood. A shattered revelation curdles benevolence into hatred. A mistake transforms into projected harm. Carelessness with a slighted heart.
An insult seeps into the wounded. A witness becomes guilty in the eyes of the crushed. Misunderstandings embed deeper, an excuse to label blame. Actions dulled by alcohol, a scapegoat digs a grave.
A late night greets me at my worst. She laughs; opens her arms for an old friend, provides confidence and quiet in the dark, blocking sand and vivid dreams.
To greet her forgoes the body. Aching joints and pounding head, scratchy eyes desperate for some reprieve. I tell late night about my day, she listens, distracts.
Sandman tries to outwit night; early morn is smarter. Screen light filters out his charms, filler drowns out countermeasures.
When most tricks fail, sandman retreats, makes a note to return in ten. Early morning gifts me with her success, unclothes my fears, thwarts respite, bathes my shame in gold.
All the birds stopped singing at half-past ten. Autumn flowers curl and shelter their petals, leaves twist and hide against wavering stems.
Debris rises; trash and decay, loose gravel and earth, leave the ground to meet the stars.
The green sun flashes a warning call to the gaping hole in the sky. I grip tight to an ash tree. Its roots loosen,
with house foundations and concrete chunks. Five past eleven, I lose my grip. Half past the hour, I freeze.
Blue and grey swirls on the wet sand do not deter the guests. The menu looks promising: sun-cooked meat and exposed bones.
Not all at once, they are not rude. Confident, they wait for their turns to pick a spot rich with nutrients, mindful of shifty crabs.
A delicacy, a morsel to savor; its meat is akin to woodland food. Guests rip pieces from underneath tatters, and pick around rubber, metal, and cloth.
Wrapped in a quilt vibrant in golds, reds, greens, and sparks of violet, October nestles in his nook.
He gathers novels leftover by May, places them on August’s table.
Apple cider warms his body, brings color to his cheeks.
October unfolds his glasses, wipes them clean. He grabs a book and immerses himself in the story.
H: “Resetting your life is a rubber band loosening. It’s listening to a bird’s song at a different angle. Something like that. But it’s also the empty spaces. The cold spots on the bleachers no one wants to sit on in chilly weather. Walking in an empty field in the middle of the night, caught with the streetlamps turned off. It’s more than you expect to face.
“A hard reset is chipping away at an iceberg. Hard resets involve separation. Disconnection from a stagnant life. Faded grass stains in old jeans, disappearing over time. Once the melody of your world shifts, old faces no longer appeal. Actions and behaviors change, and with it, how you react. Reality checks pour over you like dry ice fog, coating the edges of your perception. Sometimes it hurts, but over time it is liberating. Maybe.
“A soft reset is withdrawal. A break from the everyday. A pause between movie scenes; comfortable silence. Soft resets are mental vacations. Once you return from a soft reset, you feel--I don’t know--lighter? Springy. Nothing like the harshness that comes after a hard reset. Oh, no. You don’t find the dark spaces in a soft reset. The shadows in the attic.
But sometimes, they’re there.”
I thought it again over chats and slow nights. Considered its importance, picked it apart.
Repeat and reframe until it sounds like a drizzle creating music on a metal roof.
Mesmerizing sharp images soften like wax. Aloud it is a hush in an empty field, fragile in the night, a twig shook loose.
Sharp canines rip open thin layers of defense mechanisms and poorly healed hurts. A warm tongue licks life experiences until teeth stains red, and the stench fills the air.
Black-tipped paws press on my chest. Fox's eyes close; hunger pacifies a trickster. He eats his fill of me and my wounds, rips old scars to clean each pocket of the poison stewing inside for years.
I lean toward his cleansing and the grounding pain. The dinner guest swallows more of hidden spoils. Names I drowned in a dark pit where my memory will not loiter for long.
The fox digests hardened old dates, slights beginning to soften. He samples sticks and stones forgotten underneath the gorge my subconscious built. He eats,
and I let him; he yips and I sigh. I pretend I am pampered, get comfortable, while he devours a crater out of me.
A Cottontail chews tender leaves west of traps and weathered fencing.
Its ears quirk up, its body stiffens. Greens jiggle between its teeth.
Rabbit listens to footsteps crush cucumbers vines and cabbage heads.
The rabbit wiggles when steps retreat, and munches more of dinner.
An old friend removed her face. She placed it on the table and filled it with candy.
We sat outside our comfort zones, occasionally dipping our hands in sours and gummy bears.
We ate until wrappers littered our laps and she could wear herself again.
Huddled in a dream's shadow, I struggle to focus on a message. Words blur and blend with empty space; details hover above my head.
A stranger out of bounds. Tension drapes its weight on my shoulders. It combs my hair, wraps me tight, sings a lullaby.
I reach out in the shadow, pull a name from the air and squeeze until I remember why I linger here, standing in the dark.
Full of stars, voyagers, and space ghosts, the night sky calls attention.
The last of the ancient dragon speak a riddle to the Earth. They hear the night sing stories, answer with legends of their own.
A griffin pauses her late-night snack, listens to the melodic sky. She gifts her ancestors with new-found knowledge, gives her regards to moonlight.
An earth spirit whistles a little tune to the speckled night and quiet marsh. It was a song a knight in shining silver told before his final breath.
A representative of death watches the show of fallen giants and twinkling dust. The sky recounts his favorite tale; he makes himself comfortable.
円山 応挙 Maruyama Ōkyo (1733 – 1795) 百蝶図, One hundred Butterflies 1775
Anxiety unwound, the lizard licks its eye.
Ants run over its feet and tail; green skin transitions into brown.
Hi everyone!
Just checking in with you about what’s going on with this blog.
I haven’t abandoned it, so let’s get that out of the way first. This blog will remain on semi-hiatus due to real-life matters being a priority. I wasn’t able to post in the previous weeks like I want to, but it looks like I’ll be able to soon.
If I am not able to post today or queue any work for tomorrow, I’ll post some poetry next week. A potential hurricane/tropical storm slowly moves through my location tonight, tomorrow (Thursday), and Friday, and there is a chance I will lose power tomorrow or Friday.
Okay, that should be it. I’m going to go finish last-day-before-the-storm preparations. Hopefully, I’ll be back on later today.
Anyone in the path of Hurricane Dorian, please stay safe.
-M
I. Fingers assess the damaged tree, touching sores and scorched wood. Black streaks fan out in jagged lines, unwanted gashes on the bark.
II. A tulip sways in the springtime wind, fresh pollen attracts a new swarm of bees. Yellow arachnid hides inside, waiting for a meal.
III. Raindrops cool a stripped, fallen oak, the surface of an elder’s corpse. Amphibians find refuge in its rotten heart, feeding on the bugs in old veins.
IV. Honks disturb shore life after dark. The moon, a slice in the graveyard shift. Heron wings beat music above lapping waves; a new fishing ground holds promise.
