Month: October 2019

I’m running out of things to say about the moon
though I hardly have an excuse
tonight because it’s shining
through my Mediterranean block-printed curtains
waning above a smear of Payne’s grey clouds
as if it’s about to fall asleep

waiting for the sky to tuck it in

I’m running out of things to say about the moon
because its aloofness is stubbornly consistent
no matter the phase

I’m starting to like the waning moon best
what does that say about me?

I should want picture perfect moons,
the ones that float
within gunmetal clouds
in sateen skies

I only want fading moons
moons that hook with a lethal edge
I want waxers and waners
not super moons
with glittering faces
and bright orange rings

I don’t see myself
in the pregnant fullness; not anymore

my mind is blank until it begins to wane,
and for tonight
I have nothing left to say about the moon

Waning Gibbous

Dear Moon,

How do you feel about all the scrutiny? the sky set the stage for you tonight and everybody saw.

There’s so much distraction–too much celestial noise. We’re locked in static, moving through a darkness that’s too dense even for the razor sharp light of a Hunter’s moon.

Maybe you’ve seen it all before; the rise and fall of civilizations is nothing to you. And why should it be? Immortality lends itself well to a healthy perspective. Moons don’t care about the small problems of dying planets.

Perhaps I’m too harsh in my assessment of your point of view. From down here, all I see is an aloof moon, but maybe you’re just a lonely moon.

I can’t help myself. I’m putting anthropomorphic logic on this chip of a moon that spins around the blue-green Earth like a gadfly on the flanks of IO.

Full Moon – 11:26 p.m.

I’m wasting tonight’s moon
refusing to memorize its face
it is, frankly, exhausting
to regard another glowing moon
too hard to hold its perfection
as long as possible
before the waning
or worse
is simply gone, swallowed
by a forest of clouds

I wonder about the warblers
who wait for the brightest moons
and a southerly breeze
to carry them away
from these brisk autumn nights
where the trees shed
the air shivers
flying beneath the moon
to reach the place
where warm air breaths
a sighing
and their warm days
are filled with plenty

Waxing Gibbous – 10:45 p.m.

memories swirl around me
as transparent as the gauze clouds
that rush past the wide, fat, gibbous moon
the pattern distinct–distinctive
the glue that holds the night together
punching a hole in the dark
making room for the sky’s biggest witness

like those burdened, burdensome clouds
the memories hold me together
an umbilicus that spans the place where I sit
watching the orange-gilded moon

those restless clouds’ endless dance
might be a serenade
perhaps yearning for the moon’s attention
as I yearn for yours

the moon is a dragon eye, watching me
dilating the sky with its empty stare

it’s crimson-soft like velvet
thrumming, steady–a heartbeat
low and slow, gradually building
the tension, hammering hollow and sharp
that’s when I risk a fall so far
I can feel my stomach drop

when the bruised yearning turns
blue and grey and silver
shifting from hot to cold
it hurts the most
(the ache of the unjust)

I know what it feels like
to want with my whole body
stretched taught

I know what it smells like
(the hot sting of sulphur)

it must be strong enough
to carry me over the worst parts
the dawn sun behind
a haze of fog

Waxing Crescent (seen briefly at dusk)

The crescent, like me, is growing fatter
aging faster than expected
if I’m not careful, I might miss the jump
from crescent to gibbous

maybe the moon’s not used to such close scrutiny
having grown accustomed to hiding behind metaphor
blue moons, new moons, super moons
we paint false faces to suit our own narrative

when you really stare at the moon
you start to notice its imperfections
the craters that cover its pale face, like scars
how it cowers behind the granite clouds
the way its edges blur on sultry nights
making its surface ripple
a watercolor moon

we look without understanding
that the moon is long dead
a grey, fathomless orb
floating in the empty sky

Waxing Crescent – 8:30 p.m.

I’m waiting for the light to flicker out
so I can see the murky sky more clearly
my resolve is slipping because
it’s so much colder tonight
the wind’s breath is a warning
perhaps premonitory
of lingering snow
and concrete clouds

but what about the moon?
it’s rarely visible from the antigravity chair that rests in the center of my lawn, where the swingset once was–old and rusted (like me)

I can’t remember what colors were painted on that relic
blue and white, I think, with a smear of red
but here I am forgetting to describe the moon
yet again

in its perpetual absence, the sky is just as windblown
as the shivering trees. I’m worried about the warblers-
that they might leave before the rain comes
I can feel the heavy storm
deep within my aching bones

Waxing Crescent – 9:30 p.m.

I knew I wouldn’t see the moon
so I tried to memorize the sky

on this soft autumn night
winter feels far away
as distant as the crescent
its sharpness blurred
behind gauze-wrapped darkness

the night is as insubstantial
as the felting wool you used to love
even though the needle poked holes
in your small fingers
drawing forth fat drops of scarlet

the vibrance of your blood
is the only color I remember
because my brain is also wrapped
in felting wool

we’ll begin together
another October

can you still show me the moon?

I imagine you looking up
at age 8, the whole world
a reflected wonder
in your shining eyes