Finding hope when life's the shits.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
—Dylan Thomas
Tell me more
of light, of dying
rage.
Does it linger
obscenely as spring blossoms
singing to their branches?
Do they not wither too,
the wild wise petals
in summer’s thunder?
The good and grave
giving kindly to lightning,
caught in an echoing clap.
Resting, at last,
in gentle autumn,
crackling like fire.
Does it linger—
rage?
Or lie to rest quiet
blanketed by snow?
Kat Dornian, 2025
By Kat Dornian
Give me dust
Give me soil
Give me grubby knees
grass stains
and bruises
Give me sand in my hair
and bugs on my shirt
Fruit flies
butterflies
ladybugs and ants
The caterpillars falling from trees
The bumbles and buzzes of bees
Give me berries
to dry in my pocket
Give me rose hips
fresh peas
and oak leaves
Leave an acorn
a half-chewed cherry
a sunflower seed
Leave a feather
and give me a song
call the crickets
nocturnal cats
and chirpy bats
Give me the full moon
the blue moon
and the harvest moon
Give me clouds
when I’m out
Sunshine
when I’m in
Give me rain
and snow
and long nights
filled with stars
Give me wool
and warmth
and a cup of tea
from fallen leaves
And when it melts
Give me dust
This poem carries a lot of the same rhythm as Lemm Sissay’s “Some Things I Like” from his book Listener. Why is that? Well, I’ve been memorizing that poem because a poetry video I watched recommended memorizing a poem or two. I repeat the poem multiple times a day as I’m working on storing it, so when this call for dust came to me, the rest of the poem unfolded in the familiar rhythm.
Let me know what you think. What does “Give Me Dust” evoke or bring up for you?
The following story is an experiment in a “rough-verse“ storytelling. I want to get more of my meandering stories onto the site alongside my personal updates. Most—like this one—will be first drafts as I move more value onto practice than perfection. This is a start.
Magpie collects her things.
A beautiful array of knick and knacks:
Buttons and foil, beetles and fluff.
Magpie arranges them, day in and out.
Adding to her hoard, lovingly displaying
the ribbons and caps, rocks and cones.
Magpie searches for more.
Flitting about for the debris left out
on steps, on stones and hidden in coves.
Magpie is never satisfied.
Magpie re-arranges, again, everyday.
Button here, ribbon there, fluff below, rock above.
Her newest foil scrap lacks a spot.
Magpie places and re-organizes.
Worrying about the collection —
trying the foil here, the foil there.
The lovely foil
Wind blows a mighty gust.
Catches foil, carries it away:
Flitting and floating, falling and falling.
Magpie sails after foil.
But she’s too late.
Lovely shiny sparkly foil, caught by River.
River takes foil far
while Magpie screams down stream—
desperate cackles and mournful titters.
Wind and River pass by.
Watch Magpie as she woefully sorts
buttons… beetles… fluff.
Magpie spies on River.
She pleas with Wind at every sunset,
expecting her foil to be returned.
“Foil is long gone, far past,”
River and Wind whisper to Magpie.
Still, Magpie clears the perfect spot.
River turns to ice, Wind turns cold.
Magpie nestles deep in her nest:
Beetles and rocks, buttons and ribbons.
An old scrap tickles her.
A treasure long neglected
across the months of spring to autumn.
Magpie remembers now —
the way the tarnished thing shone before it was forgotten
and coaxes it from hiding to its spot.
The lovely foil.
Wind may one day play though
and take old foil to the River.
But now, it cradles under Magpie’s breast.
Treasure for this moment.
Kat Dornian