Bloom

Bloom
My Love,
my Moon,
my Muse,
my wide Night Sky,
my sweet lotus flower—
O, sit ol' lotus,
perched upon your pad,
sit & stay with me
a while.

I want to watch
you bloom, under
the rays of the moon, watch
each precious petal
spreading itself
to embrace the Universe.

I cannot bear
to watch you 
hide inside yourself, 
within walls
you would build
to block out
the very light 
that makes you shine.

So be wise
my sweet lotus,
as you wander to ponds
old & new—
your head wants left alone
while your heart wants to roam,
but your spirit will carry you
home.

Blood Moon

My latest Moon poem, composed a couple of days after last week's partially eclipsed Blood Moon...

Blood Moon

My moon bleeds tonight,
not from harm,
but because nothing can stay
Full, forever; everything
must empty
lest it burst.

My moon bleeds tonight,
& I worship her
as I always do,
more so, knowing
tonight we dance
in shadows
so thin,
only I can see—
She feels
the sliver,
like black
thread dragged
across her body,
a taste of the wane
that is coming.

My moon bleeds tonight,
& She will draw me
to her & I will slide
inside & together
We release—release
the world around us
for the Universe
about Us,
release the heart
& the mind
for the spirit
We have been
neglecting,
release resentment
for Love.

My moon bleeds
for me tonight.
¿Will she bleed
for me, again?
Only Destiny
has that answer.
I only know
the moon
must bleed,
as must I,
as must we all.

Moon Madness

Spring cleaning & I found these poems I started during Shirley Brewer's moon poetry workshop at the January 2013 MWA Baltimore Chapter meeting:

Rave

The music is so loud

it feels like it’s coming
from within, each bass
beat expelled
with my breath. I am
surrounded by neon soldiers
spinning, popping, rocking

nodding. They dance in dreams
fueled by ecstasy & immortality.

I am mesmerized

by the movements
of these modern

day whirling

dervishes, oblivious

to eyes

like mine.

Even the yo-yos

being spun, glowing

on fluorescent strings,

dozens of tiny moons

in awkward orbits,

beguile me.

Disconnect

Do you remember brighter days,

days  when I stayed
close, days when your extended
arms could not be wrapped
around me?

Do you recall those times
so long ago when you could climb
a mountain, and if your heart
was big enough, you could leap
from the peak & I could catch

you in my fullness?

Of course not. We were

so much closer then, back when

you worshiped me, revered me,

coveted my cheese. I loved you

then. But now? Now you have

grown up, grown old, grown

bitter & cynical.

I have become nothing

but cold rock to you.

Painting the Moon

I cried the night I realized
Gustav Klimt had painted

the moon. Before then

it was nothing more

than a ball

of rock, battered & broken,

sterile & lifeless.

And then came Yem,

a muse sent by the moon

itself—sent to show me

that its vitality lied

not in the presence of life

but in the weight

of our souls.

So, for Yem,

I went to art school.

I learned to see the life

in everything—nothing

existed in a vacuum

when I could make it all

breathe.

Like a willo’wisp

returning to woods

Yem winked out

before I could catch

her. Rumors were

she had to go

home, home

to money claiming

playtime was over.

So I mourned

for her. I climbed

to the rooftop and screamed

at the moon until I was raw.

I saw

it then, the face

was Judith’s;

tonight, she held

my severed head,

Holofernes’ rejected.

I cried.

I cried for Yem.

I cried for myself.

I cried most now knowing

everything had life,

everything

but me.

A Clockwork Moon

A Clockwork Moon
I dreamt of a clockwork moon,
face failing, falling,
revealing an intricacy
of gears & springs & cogs
& things & a pendulum
that slowly swings & pulls
the string that weaves
Our blessed Universe
together.

I saw Us singing to
a clockwork moon,
praising her in harmony,
raising arms in unity,
revering her;
& I could see
humanity dancing,
supplanting
it’s foul tendencies
in favor of a new reality
as it was finally
apparent that the string
pulled by pendulum
that swings connected
Everything
Like you & you & me.

I dreamt of a clockwork moon
suspended in a blue-black sky,
now free of its flimsy disguise,
illuminating everything in sight
a glow from which nothing
could hide—nothing wanted
to. Finally, the strings
that connected everything—
you to you to you to him
to her to them to it to you again—
were obvious. No one
was willing to return
to the thought that
we are all alone.

I dreamt of a clockwork loom—
You just know her
as our moon,
but close your eyes
& stretch your mind
& you too will feel the fine
tapestry of Universe
she weaves. Once
you do, like me
you too will dream
of strings and all the things
connecting us to
the vastness of infinity.

Phase

I just realized I never posted Phase, one of my Lunar Cycle poems. This poem, along with Lunacy, appeared in the anthology Life in Me Like Grass on Fire. Enjoy!

phase

Waxing—

She approaches

cautiously

knowing Her desire

but afraid of the price:

the loss of everything—

livelihood, trust, reputation,

child—everything

that She’s fought

so hard to build,

again.

She is only ever

completely Full

for a mere moment

before lapsing—slipping

back as slowly

as she came,

Waning—

when She walks

away She takes

with her the last

vestiges of hope

I can carry—

I was virtually dry

when night

finally fell

revealing

Her glow—

and now She slides

slowly, solemnly

into the dark

leaving me alone

under

a black Sun.

Her risks are greater,

but mine

may just prove

fatal.

lunacy

Lovely Luna is waxing and nearly full. Here's one of my Lunar Cycle poems, this one published in Life in Me Like Grass on Fire. This one was inspired by being surprised by the moon being clearly visible one early afternoon in Reisterstown.

lunacy

I love to see
the moon,
at noon,
high
hanging
in cerulean
sky,
fighting
the bright Sun,
proving
Her own power
does not rely
on His
absence.

Praying in the Temple of the Moon

As my regular readers know, I've been writing a series of poems over the past nine months inspired a newfound love for Luna, our gorgeous moon, along with Italo Calvino's story The Distance of the Moon and my romance with Valerie, my own personal moon goddess. I wrote this one yesterday (07.08.09) after participating in one of Val's rituals. It's barely edited, a bit rough even, but I do love it. I hope you like it.

Praying in the Temple of the Moon

I went to church
last night
the first time in a score
of years,
but it was unlike
any service
I’d ever attended.

I climbed onto a rooftop,
slipped under
a cloud-capped canopy of
night sky,
the fullness of my Moon,
my altar,
the sounds of a Remington
summer night, traffic up
& down Howard,
onto & off the JFX,
my soundtrack.

For a while,
I just sat there
feeling my place
in the Universe,
a floating fleck
connected to
Everything.
Then I slipped out
of my clothing—
bared myself before
my Moon.

I prayed like I’d been taught
to pray by the Witnesses,
the Baptists—The Mormons
did it best—show gratitude
for your blessings, ask
for what you want.

It was harder than
I first imagined:
My blessings have been nearly
innumerable,
my needs seem so greedy
after the Universe’s generosity of late,
But I just knew,
& I knew
the Universe knew,
you know?

I repeated my pact:
for as much as I get
I’d make sure to give back
& I sealed my mystical missive
with the holiest act
of Love.

I awoke to find my Moon
had almost completed its track,
the Sun was creeping up,
His overbearing light
threatening to hide Her
for another night.
But my service was done,
my ritual complete,
my rites restored.

It was not the churches
of old, full of preachers teaching
Jesus, & right from wrong,
defining evil;
but in the Temple of the Moon,
in a pew carved
from the Universe itself,
I was closer to God than I’d ever been.
I was happy.
I was whole.

UPDATE: This poem was later published in Smile Hon, You're in Baltimore, by Eight Stone Press.

Lunatic

Lunatic
I see
her eyes
reflecting
from the quartered
moon shining on
my grinning
forehead
as I trudge
around long
suburban
blocks thinking
of nothing
nothing
nothing
but her

I laugh
aloud
at how silly I sound
in silence, in
darkness broken
only by pinpricks
poked by stars
& that inimitable
grin reflecting
her eyes
upon me

I fear
that I will wave
my arms like mad
and be dragged
away: a lunatic
whose love
for the moon
is mistaken
for madness
October 5, 2008


Thanks to Christine Stewart for her help in editing this poem.