Author: ThePoet

the feeders dangle like ripe fruit
in my dark yard
tempting the bear as she prowls
sleep-fogged and silent
on wide, padded feet

we don’t hear her stretch her body
to the full height
of the shepherd’s hook
she is liquid fur
and breath and hunger

When the steel bends
like a boneless limb
the dog barks, a shrill cry
hackles raised, head high, listening
as the click of her claws on the metal
strums through every part
of his ancient canine soul

At last she finds her prize
rending the feeder in half, feasting
on a meal meant for birds

The pear tree blooms
outside your window
where it has grown tall enough
for you to perch on its branches
like the cardinals and blackbirds
that sing you awake.

The pear tree’s buds
are on the cusp of opening
greening, as the days warm
a verdant mosaic
promising seckel pears
that will ripen
while you finish growing up.

The pear tree knows you
knows the seasons of your childhood
its buds will give way to leaves
just as you will give way
to leaving.

it was the moon, yesterday
when I took out the trash
and the night felt like velvet

a thumbnail moon, floating
aloof in the sable sky
the illuminated crescent
smiling in this lost place

I stood there with my garbage
reflecting on how the moon
still takes my breath away
even after all these decades
even after sorrow unmade me
then remade me
even on a night when I worry
about the fate of the world

you held my hand in that place of bird worship
where feeders dangled like shapely fruit
and we learned the names of loons, finches
chipping sparrows, cardinals

a pine-scented candle
smelled like forests
and photos of birds intrigued you
frozen, mid-song
or captured in flight, soaring
a thousand birds
perched atop a thousand branches
framed in dark wood
beneath the feeders

you wanted to touch the seed
piled high in those aged wooden barrels
dig your small hands into the millet and corn
until it stuck to your fingers
as we browsed the colony of empty houses
awaiting their first nest

we chose the hummingbird feeder
for its bright red promise
curved and delicate
it held the spectacle
of magic

time undulates and moves
a snake in my garden
pulling the hours behind it
each scale a finite moment
seconds, minutes, days, centuries

labels mean nothing
to the serpent
with its slippery tail
its size, its wisdom
echo the disk of moon
that fills the pitch-dark sky
a wide, relentless circle
flat
sharp
endless

I’m shrinking
growing smaller
reaching out
I’m ready
for the
wild
endless
journey

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