Moon Series 2016 - Day 7

Waxing Crescent - 8:40 p.m.

The moon's face shines
with reflected light,
flat and sharp as shrapnel,
while the cold air whispers
its promises of naked winter
There's no silence this time
only the busy noises
of a young night
as cars exhale,
devouring the pavement
while the happy chirp of crickets
play another symphony
I sit close to all of it
beneath that crowded sky
feeling, for once, as the moon must
distant and aloof,
a buoyant observer,
I can't see the dust
that must be caked
in every crater and groove
the moon looks bright and new
creeping towards its fullest spectacle
while the Earth grows older

Moon Series 2016 - Day 6

Waxing Crescent -- 8:37 p.m.

This same spot
where the old table was
where we sat, peering up,
hoping to see it,
counting stars,
wondering at the thick, painted sky,
black as soot,
black as sleep,
black as the stone hearth,
its embers, long dead.
but this night,
this cold, clear, cloudless night,
yields no moon
I doubt it even exists
though I saw it glimmer, a wink,
between a clutch of leaves
(their story almost over)
I search the sky
as if each star is a gift owed to me
a found treasure
plucked from the dark canopy of space
to wear at my throat

Moon Series 2016 - Day 4

Waxing Crescent 8:34 p.m.

The ashen sky disappoints
resting heavily above the too-dark night
with nothing left to show me
no more surprises
not even an echo of the moon
and that's not enough
because somewhere, not far away,
people luckier than me
are gazing up from cozy porches
and backyard bungalows
at the bright yellow crescent
a smile for charmed souls
while I sit in a lawn chair
made for summer moons
and weep over the dying leaves
trying to imagine
a thousand moons
like string lights
swinging from the clouds

Moon Series 2016 - Day 1

Waxing Crescent: 6:33 p.m.

October stakes its claim
on the steel clouds,
drawn so tightly over the black moon
which waits, motionless,
too close to the sun.
I saw the rolling fog, a shroud,
dimming the aging day,
promising nothing more
than a cloaked moon
giving me permission
to forget about the sky.
Autumn's cold stare
is a warning,
turning the leaves gold
plucking them from their perch
before they're fully aware
that the fierce brightness of summer
is already gone.

Another Autumn

The silly crawl of weekend days
Feel like they don’t exist
And they really don’t
We made them up,
Just like all the illusions,
that feed our squirming battle for relevance.
The shift might be permanent
The leaves, already yellow,
Sag like old skin on thirsty branches
The late summer draught
Robbed September of its bluster
Bringing a wave of mustard-yellow
Leaves to this valley
Before October has time
To contemplate autumn
I might feel a small twinge of the old me,
When crunchy leaves mean another shift,
A boat lurching beneath my feet
Life keeps doing this, carrying me forward
Without any guidance


I forgot how to find compassion
So tied up in my own heavy knots
It's Impossible to let my anger go
Maybe you understand
Maybe somewhere behind
Your wall of entitled need,
You remember empathy
Maybe if you stopped
Coveting your own life,
You'd find there's no comfort
In your monkey mind
That babbling, dependent creature of habit
You bare your teeth and shriek,
All outrage and bluster
Then retreat into the illusion
Of your own importance
The ruined sky can't help you now.

Two Sides of Surrender

I’ve grown brittle, inflexible
The tension straining my solid core
Skewing the notion of myself
Mocking my denial
I wonder if I shatter
Will it be a relief?
Will my broken pieces shoot into space
meteors flying past the the moon's dark shadow,
Until they sink back through the atmosphere
Pulling me down
to burn on reentry

The treasure’s lost its color
The gold long ago turned brown
With years of dust, crusted over
Like thick salt
You can’t scrape it away
Rubbing with fixed determination
Looking for the wheat yellow gleam
Of once bright coins
Hoping it will bring you back
To a place when shattered resolve
Wasn’t a goal,
Giving in wasn’t a victory


I saw the grass
crested with droplets
like tiny crystal balls
in sleepy morning light
and my whole day felt wide open
but after the dew dries up,
all that's left is exhaustion,
a pendulum of barriers
unhappy nows
and the day's possibilities
unravel like a spool of ribbon
leaving me in a tangle
of bright confusion


The dark part of your soul leaks out
onto the pixelated screen.
It pulls you in, a caught fish,
hook lodged in your throat,
too painful to remove
as you post your rage,
your ALL CAPS soapbox POV,
shaking self-righteous fists
at imaginary crowds,
cheering your own agenda.
It makes no difference
not this kind of anger
not the narcissistic self-love
not the animated preaching
of the false underdog
clamoring for notice
your ears, tuned out, tone deaf
to the music, sweet and familiar,
your lullaby is deceptive
it's fooling you
breaking the connections
one by one by one.

Butter Dreams

It's like Jacob Marley's chain,
thick and permanent,
this old pain,
dragging it behind me, exhausted,
carving deep gouges
in the impermanent Earth
Sorrow is contemptuous
It's made of yarn, like soft sweaters
draped over my life,
dulling the noise,
where I sit spinning in the center
like a forgotten record
on an old turntable
as if it could drill down
as deep as I need to go.
splitting me open
like a pomegranate in the fall
those sideways slices, so careful, precise
but I still get the juice on my skin
staining my hands like red paint
staining the wood
all for those sweet seeds
they might have secrets
I might find my truth

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