The feigning moon
Hiding behind the hedge
Cocks her head as though to run down the alley
Leaping to the top of the old oak
She winks and smiles
The seining moon
Scoops up fistfuls of stars
Letting the waters flow through her fingertips
And into the ocean sky
The reigning moon
Crowned with comets
And sparkling diadem
Deigns look down from her sapphire throne
To our upturned faces
Where we are held rapt
words that rhyme with waning part 2
I decided to write a silly poem about the moon
But your name kept coming up in conversation and with it
the way the moon looked that night
And the way the air moved with the trees
As though they had secrets to keep
There is nothing really that rhymes with the waning moon
Nothing that I can think of except that it sometimes rhymes with the snow
And sometimes with the way your blues eyes capture the moment like a polaroid camera
How is it that I have lived all these years and didn’t know
that shaking those pictures didn’t make the image appear any quicker
My impatience to see what I had just seen
To record it somehow so that it will be clearer
that waxing and waning are still metaphors
And my hair is still silver in the soft white light of the April Egg moon
I don’t believe in ghosts
though sometimes I wish I did-
to see her face and maybe sit for a while together.
Yes, I would be willing to believe
just to hold her hand again
and laugh through my tears.
Grief leaves stains-
a little like sweet tea
on an old linen cloth-
its hardly noticeable.
He would build us kites
from the newspapers funny pages-
dull colored newsprint,
a bit of wood and a roll of string,
the kite would soar into the wind
and we knew
he was magic.
He would let us hold the spool,
the string tied to the kite
already out of sight
in the odd half light
of a west Texas spring late afternoon.
I would feel the tug,
urgent and insistent,
as if I could be pulled from the earth
I woke this morning
feeling that pull
that urgent, insistent pull,
from almost sixty years ago,
into the spring light,
catch the ribbon tied in the highest reaches of the old oak
the ribbon that holds those years
when you had other things to do,
when you left the living to others
while you gave & toiled & wandered soulless from room to room
leap high in the air
Dang if she did’n run off!
Lookin’ so sweet and all
But she can traipse down the ridge
And disappear quicker ‘n a wild hog.
Left me here
Cryin’ in the ice and snow-
And jes look at them poor old daffs-
Layin’ down liken they was dead.
But she’ll be back, I reckun.
Yep, no doubt about it
She’ll saunter in here
Lookin’ all innocent
And fresh as a new born calf
Smellin’ of lilacs and dog roses
With a circle of sweet grass in her hair.
You bet she’ll be back
Actin’ like she had no idea
We was lookin’ for her
Spring – oh, yeah, she’ll be back.
*** A poem written on another snowy April day a few years ago. Woke this morning to a couple inches of the white stuff decorating the spring flowers. SPRING!
i thank You God for most this amazing day
By e e cummings
i thank You God for most this amazing day:
for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)