harvest moon

April Moon 2014

the scent of night rain lingers on the morning air
mingling with the first fallen leaves

and white blooming autumn clematis clambering
over ledges of stone and fences in decline

resettling the summers meadow into colors
of buff and tan, then flames of sumac spark

stringent sun fades and softened the harsh tones
of late summer drought into early autumn dusk

when the grand harvest moon, oh so far away
graces the sky with her golden beauty

and the crickets sharpen their bows
first song of fall

theory of the translation of the moon

April Moon 2014

It is open to interpretation
the translation from the previously
discussed text (pg 371, sec aa;d;h)
when relegated to the standard.

So should the scholar say rain
when it is mist or drizzle or
perhaps not even rain
but the idea of rain.

One could say blue sky
and not mean the sky, or
the study of blue and its
many iterations.

What could one mean
when moon is the subject and the verb
as well as the idea and function
of the geometric denomination
of all things sine and cosine.

Lets consider from ancient texts,
the theory
that the moon
could hold all translations
in its roundness
and golden light
only to leave us moonstruck
and
senseless.

a thousand moons

Golden moonlight  Jan 2014

reflections of a thousand moons

in the eye of the lake
the window of old snow
the mirror of the wind
the spoon of the cloud

in a bucket
a bird bath
a puddle
a polished sliver of petrified wood

on a crystal
a prism
a crackerjack ring
a brass button from an old coat

within a raindrop
a dewdrop
a clear blue sky

the glass of the frame
where your photo smiles
the door where once you stood
the life you lived
for a thousand moons

The Moon Makes Me Laugh

November moon
The moon makes me laugh.
Her face pink-gold with exertion
Pushing past the horizon,
Filling the constellations,
To rise in her nights journey.
As she climbs, she prays
in the voice of my mother,
“I see the moon, the moon sees me.
God bless the moon and God bless me.”

The moon makes me laugh.
Her bright face silver with light,
Gracefully easing into space,
Moving in celestial dance.
As she rises, she sings
In the voice of my father,
“Don’t the moon look lonesome,
shining through the trees.
Don’t the moon look lonesome,
when your baby packs up to leave.”
The moon makes me laugh.

From the dark bedroom
My sleepy voiced husband calls,
What are ya’ll doing? Come to bed.
We can’t, I answer.
We have moon sickness.
As the dogs and I moon-bathe,
Naked on the back porch.

*** this is a poem written a long time ago But I thought with the lovely moon this weekend, I would dust it off and share it again.
The lyrics are from
Sent For You Yesterday by William Count Basie, Eddie Durham and James Rushing. Warner Bros Music, publisher.

lovely in her diminishment

Crescent Moon and Venus 8-2012

Waning crescent moon,
dark hued
and lovely in her diminishment,
cradles in upturned arms
the shadow of her fullness.
The dark roundness
heavy against the setting bow,
fills the void
of what once was abundance
and will be again.
Her ebbing light,
soon to darkness and rest
in a starry landscape,
until her rebirth,
the silver sliver loveliness of the
waxing crescent moon.

*** This poem was written several years ago. Now taking on a different meaning for me.

waxing and waning

Crescent Moon and Venus 8-2012

Up before wrensong,
the crescent moon and I whisper
so as not to wake the day.

She in her nightgown and I in mine,
we sit on the porch
in the cool air of early dawn.

And she listens.

I tell her of my fears-
numbering my inadequacies,
trembling in my regret,
tears flow freely
as the early morning dew.

With her sweet comforting smile,
she tells of her birth –
new moon to slim crescent,
waxing to full, rounded glory
only to wane past gibbous
into the palest slip of light
to be welcomed into the dark womb
of restful night.

Waxing and waning,
we each sigh
at the dawning sun.

*** A repost of a poem written several years ago.