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
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
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,
that the moon
could hold all translations
in its roundness
and golden light
only to leave us moonstruck
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 polished sliver of petrified wood
on a crystal
a crackerjack ring
a brass button from an old coat
within a raindrop
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.
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.
Waning crescent moon,
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.
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.
Reaching toward the setting moon
I rise from the sounds of sleep
into the cold starry sky
falling into the pale light
I find a comfortable spot to perch
at the crossroads.
My dogs mill about, running down scents
of critters, small and furry.
Dust settles as the evening stars rise,
and coolness spreads from the dirt road,
smelling of undergrowth
or long lost tombs.
send the pack out to tree
the foraging raccoons and rat tailed possums.
Their wild baying rounds back to the east
as the horned crescent mistress rises-
the pale moon
casting her light across the threshold,
the entrance way.
I light my twin torches
**** Read a prompt suggested by Bjorn (https://brudberg.wordpress.com) to take the meaning of your name and weave a poem around it. My name, Kathleen, may be from ancient Greek of the goddess, Hecate. Some of the things associated with Hecate are crossroads, the moon, dogs, two torches, tombs and the underworld.
Let’s take, for instance,
on one spring night.
Let’s say an April moon,
full and pink in her loveliness,
a moon so perfect it would be hard to forget.
And we will tuck that perfect memory
of that perfectly, pink full moon
and that one perfect spring night
into our knapsack
of perfect moments.
that one moon
(I think it was in April)
when we walked to the star strewn cove
to hear the plaintive songs
of the love sick loons
as they serenaded each other
under a pink April moon,
on a warm spring night.
It was perfect.
And we will remember.
Colors recede into the waters fall,
casting the depths into shadow.
Singed fingers of sunlight
echo across the last faint reflections
settling into the corners of the day.
Twilight fills in and pushes past the horizon
until at last, the gleam of a silvered corona
is seen in the western sky,
floating in deepest celestial blue-
the quiet of the slender crescent
as she gently cradles the old moon in her arms.
*** a revision of a previously posted poem.