Archives for posts with tag: moon

mother’s moon
flower moon
corn planting moon
milk moon

call the seed
call the flower
call the earth
Mother’s bower

every moment is special
every hour is special
how to explain how we
anticipate this early night

bless my seeds pregnant
white occultant companion

low on the evening horizon
full moon illuminates
storm cloud silhouette
drifting by

granular instant snow flakes
fall, they’ll not stick
the ground is not yet frozen
but soon, soon

last full moon before winter
gold ball of immense proportion
arrives early for night, early for afternoon
the two chase each other as the coin
they pass between them leaps into sky
uncircumscribed, lackadaisically confident

sky is mute; no animals, birds, insects
rustle of leaves, only wire branches reaching out
to grey sky that glows copper, furnace, fulmination

the hour past noon is long past noon
shadows slant acute
sun shines bright in your eyes
no matter where you go—it’s never overhead
it’s right there—in your face

everything holds its breath
waiting for first flakes to fall
this is the prologue of winter
not the climax of autumn

old master sunset scatters
clouds, streamers, cumulus, nimbus
cirrus, each a steel hull glowing
recording heat fading, receding, tattering
black purple traces of evening, each moment
brighter than the eternal night behind

heavy horizon moment
mountainous moon
final full fulsome
high falutin’ futile
has one last laugh

last gold of autumn
triumphant, lands on the moon


There was no original great first line,
just you, moon — big, beautiful hang of
orange, fragile like a Japanese lantern
flower, always ahead of me, hiding behind
buildings, fat, golden, inflated, buoyant;
in a child’s game of peek-a-boo and every time,
you startle me.

The silver harps of moon rays strum
through jet black woods, erased tree trunks,
absent starlight, empty paint stroke taken
from the back of canvas, to sing
the stolen music of the moon.

The woods, between, flits the moon, silver harp.
Did I mention it is a silver harp?
A singing, moaning, boogie harp,
I hear it quite clearly (except I keep
bumping into these trees—it is so dark.)
If only I could see the moon, I could be the moon.
If only I could escape to the world of the moon!
Strut in the plane of easy elasticity that wraps, coddles,
styles and sleekens, fashion that really does something for you;
silver lips mouth the words in the sensual manner that made
the perfect screen test, that made the starlet famous, the perfect
alabaster arms, hair … let it shine down on me. Lose the trees!

I am not out of the woods yet, I stumble over hidden roots,
kick through last year’s leaves covered with this year’s. There’s
a road here, but it’s not the road I seek. I want to be up there,
with a warm moon, a June moon, want to be a big moon,
the bigger of dreams, the better that cannot measure
the depth of the moon as it rests on the surface of the lake.

That’s what I want, a full round maternal moon that will give me suck
bear me upon an elevated road far from the slivered silver glimpse, film
broke stutter of invisible trees full motion masquerade. The flick of branches
across my eyes admonishes me to remember the root of moon struck and how
it came to be …

at which precise moment I sprawl into the wet, near mud
of the road through the woods. I make obeisance to the fool king,
mad child of the sun, sometime golden, sometime chill as a fish
bone. Cream pie splats of me and the dust are music to moon ears.
The woods silently whisper, “We told you so; stick to the road,
before it sticks to you.” Cryptically, perhaps. Roots entwine my
ankles to drag me down a notch or two. The moon lends a hand
and raises me to my feet. “Wishes are not meant to be kept,”
it whispers, pathing me along the way I would follow—
one foot upon a pole to trip me, the other resting in the air;
there is music in my climbing and when I fall, I fall singing.

The moon sails into view, ever further from reach,
still passionate and swollen with memories of our lovemaking,
cool and distant now the fun times are done.
Previous companion of our routs, now silent accuser—
“your parties were no fun—at least now that they’re over.”
But then a hint—is it all over? Tiny fish sparkle on the river,
scales of the evening flash in silver light, time free;
a large generous orange moon looms over our harvest,
we cheer knowing how soon you turn into sallow
parsimonious planetoid, beacon hollow times, offer rinds
to comfort us during the trek through the wasteland of cold;
but this persimmon moment, your pumpkin coat announces
the feast that awaits us.

The moon like a long lost friend
sails back into your life,
revenant, saleswoman, wife, witch,
cold and hard now, not like
the warm fluffy pillow you took to bed
through the warmth of June and July;
the picnic is over and it is time to sing
for your supper—make it a good one.

This hardened pearl
seals nights cracking with cold,
first intimation of the steel in her soul;
guardian of authenticity, spectral
spotlight, frozen or saved, moon
is the impartial observer science
dreams of—too bad they can’t touch her.

moon wakes landscape to memory
in the face of identity we are satellites reflecting
worms, snakes, pale tubers rising in symphony
from chthonic rood; seeing mirrors tell
upon each of us; we join hands, afraid to howl

pale and translucent, we will never bend
light from its preordained path; we dance to mark
the spot where our foot lies. words speak. hands
slap. music mounts string, brass and tambourine
we tear ourselves apart, we consume our springs
of indifference, we eat our fears, excrete summer

we know this place; it is ours to defend
we mould this place into a shape of our understanding
we invest in this place, not another, nowhere other
than here, this place; we worship because it is hallowed
harrowed, it bears fruit though patently barren
someone told us it is ours and though we forget easily
we remember this, it is ours, someone told us so

the taste of this place is what I remember; the taste
of each other, my blood in your mouth, on your fist
I wipe away the regret of a moment ago and launch myself
at you, all thoughts, remembrances aside; the taste

soil, black and loam, acid sandy, salt and base, the blandness
of thirst, and the taste of dirt, is how I know this place

this place of thorns and grass, lush as a mattress, tough as stone
the throne of many a toss with thee; I know this place as it
has heard my groans, my laughs of privacy and deceit; I
conquered this place, you gave it to me; this place, you gave it to me

I remember these flowers as I wait to gaze at snow
I remember crystals as I watch this garden grow
I see a wave upon a beach far from any shore
in fields of grass that drown my sight; I rise, I soar
weightful, a thing of this earth, a moment’s satellite

the sky, a dream of far away
the moon, that mysterious land, impossible, free

Look up, it is a full moon, I can
read so clearly what I am writing
tonight. As I write I can’t imagine
what drives me, I am grasping
at memory, I grapple gab as I
make my meaning. Tell me you can’t
read by moonlight, and it is evident to me
you are right. It is a conceit of mine
to write so clearly you read me in
sheer delight. I am a styled silver script,
words that only lovers can read.

I would dwell amongst the towers
of the illegible letters of the night;
I would be the blessed of blather,
radiant reflection of stars’
shine outside your window;
letters to be read by the light
of the moon, dancing before you,
I sigh satin rose,
“look it is the moon,
a full moon,” and you reply
“I read you so clearly!”

%d bloggers like this: