Dawson loved poetry and occasionally wrote some of his own. What I've found, I've posted here.
Many good misty mornings at that there Lakeside Chapel.
In my time it was realm of the Choctaws.
But always available in individual case
as butt hit the warp of the boards.
Silent space at that age
with view of the Lake
In days we knew not what meant contemplation
It was just thinking.
Communing with Universe Bigness of God.
But always with accord to good earthly caution
that we not slide sideways
for fear of a splinter ensharded in ass.
Such beautiful place
such full locus of Ridgecrest
is sweet Lakeside Chapel
where in private commune with out Maher
we learned if we slide sideways
their just might be a penalty of splinter.
Have not been there in a good many years
But give good regard to the muscle and love
That pounded on some anonymous day
to send those vertical posts down.
Camp… Lakeside…. Un-sanded Chapel.
I submit that within each of our camper memories
lies recall of our collective groan
When Tribal Leader entered the cabin
and extended his hand encased in white glove.
That empowered tyrant was in search of dust-bunnies
and white cottoned finger, traced across rafters,
could always find furries.
After our efforts with mop, bucket, and broom
we bowed chagrined heads in deep sense of gloom
that we might lose the race for best in inspection.
But we perked up a bit at our next Tribal meeting
when told that the “rafter test” was none but a null,
as no cabin could pass such white cotton scrutiny.
The older one gets, more fades to reflection
the importance of standing at full strict attention
as imposing TL would enter the cabin
with clipboard, checklist, and sometimes white glove.