Blogs

Moon Series 2017 - Day 4

10/4/17 - 8:34 p.m.
Waxing Gibbous (Almost Full)

October's holding autumn back,
the warm air has the crickets fooled,
but not me
I feel the cold beneath this shallow night
see the scattered leaves on my dark grass
sense the sap slowing in every living tree
and above it all,
far from humming bugs and changing seasons
hangs the moon, tempting us with fullness
as if her fleeting light knows what it means
to be down here among creatures
that breathe and squirm and die
I forgot how to see past the stark truth of things
there's no magic left, not without you
my sorrow covers the bare moon

Moon Series #4 - Day 3

Moon Series 2017 - Day 3
Waxing Gibbous

I've never been sadder than I am now
alone beneath a moon you can't see
I remember your bright face
more vibrant than the moon
content to lay your crystals out
on velvet cloth
uncluttering the energy stuck inside
not unlike my grief
--
I am halfway to you
It's as if the moon is lighting the way
its milky white face a beacon
in this maze of unreality
and I want to believe
I must believe
that your spirit is with me
here beneath this damn moon
watching me write
listening to the cicadas
content with your new place
in this untenable universe

Moon Series #4 - Day 2

8:07 p.m. Waxing Gibbous

A button moon fills the night's center,
an apprehensive moon, painting the sky black.
My frantic mind tells me I can't see it.
I'm blind even though the sky's as clear
as it will ever be.
the cold air cut the clouds away like spinder silk,
the moon is fully visible,
to everyone but me
The heavy weight of my sorrow
is its own cloud
covering up what's right in front of me,
tensing my shoulders,
glazing my eyes to the truth.
That the moon doesn't feel my small life
should be my cue to let all these burdens
drift up and up until I become as weightless
as the tales I tell myself.

Moon Series #4 - Day 1

Waxing Gibbous - 8:09 p.m. - 10/1/17

I am alone with my slippered feet,
alone with the aging year
as the sky gifts me with nothing but the moon
though I search for something bigger
some formation of clouds and stars
that wrap the darkness in splendor
can this be the same moon
that hung above our heads so long ago?
when you were made of giggles
and wide-eyed wonder
when we drew the sky with black crayon
and turned circles into stars
when that old picnic table held our weight
and the cats rubbed warm bodies
against our shivering legs
does the moon remember
how we strained for a glimpse
and I taught you about metaphor?
somewhere in the Earth's long history
the echo of that night has just begun,
the three of us outside, peering up
feeling our mutual anticipation
for whatever the moon had to give.

Wood

If you sit outside long enough
you notice that the trees change,
the creek of aging wood,
the lichen on gnarled branches
even in death, the trees offer refuge
countless perches within exposed branches
a high vantage point to observe
the neighborhood cats
with their fat bodies and languid eyes
The abundance of my backyard surprises me
the tenacity of growth, as if my tiny plot of land
is on the cusp of being consumed,
swallowed by the encroaching mountainside
with its wild dazzle of swaying pines
and the tangled vines that choke
the hickory and ash
I wonder at the strength of trees,
how the wood wants to reclaim it all
this lawn, this house, this feeble garden
it's likely to succeed

Anticipation

Three more days until I greet the moon
There's no telling what I'll see.
The moon holds no meaning of its own.
I'm throwing my expectations
up at the sky, prepared to see the moon
through the lens of my own reality,
but I'm not comparing myself to the sun;
beautiful in the harsh, dazzling way of diamonds
and razor-cheeked models with hollow throats.
last year, the moon looked sharp and ominous
a sickle moon, ready to slice me in half
a cold moon, stealing the warmth from my skin
pulling the breath from my lungs,
in billowing clouds the color of bone.

September Again

I brushed the moving seasons with my fingers
feeling the light grow heavier
as the weight of autumn pressed closer
and the moon sat lower in the sky,
squat and round and brooding.
I have no lightness left,
no light,
the terrestrial prison around me
holds no fascination
I am old, at once,
tired of missing you
afraid of bearing this grief forever
afraid of the fast turning days
afraid of my slow, inevitable decay.
I envy the dead.
If our spirits are eternal
than why do we forget?
Why do we come back?
I'm locked here
as lonely as the cold moon.

Connecting

No matter how tight our grip, sometimes
the world takes them
into a swirl of dark emptiness.
I hope that death is just the threshold
a wardrobe, an oak tree, platform 9 & 3/4
in a London train station.

Can she see me
as I grope and weep and rail at time?
watching from her place in eternity
maybe she's laughing as I count the days
the seasons
which are connected end to end, a circle
I feel her reaching out
I smell her
I know the weight of her spirit,
as familiar to me
as when her infant self
was warm and safe in my arms.

Impermanence

I resent the passive cruelty of time
how it strips away our moments
pushing us into the unprotected center.
Myth offers no comfort
with its false narrative
There's no past for me, no future
It's all ghosts.
The moon lends itself well
to fictions of the mind
and night and day and death,
I doubt the sky mourns the sunset
or the Earth dwells on melting snow
or spring laments those buds
taken too soon by a late frost.
We're cursed to dwell
on the strange permanence
of our desires.

Patience

The nectar sat, untouched
fermenting like cherry soda
in the June heat.
I waited, but you didn't come
when the wine berries ripened in July
when I tied crimson ribbon to the trees,
where it flashed like ruby slippers,
when we planted bee balm and purple salvia
drawing fat bumblebees to the yard,
you didn't come
when I exchanged red nectar for clear,
when we moved the birdbath
filling it twice a day,
still, nothing, not yet
until I realized the final piece
was all about me.
to have patience,
to be still,
to sit like aging wood, letting time slow...
You came, your blurred wings humming,
beak needle thin,
helping yourself to handmade nectar
answering my invitation
with the gift of your tiny magic

Syndicate content