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Posts Tagged ‘moon’

 

 

staring at the moon

until it becomes a door

I walk through

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without a map

I row my small canoe—

a leash of moonlight

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One Blessing

 

 

 

open window—

in tiptoes the moon

to kiss me goodnight

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Day of the Dead

for Babette

 

 

Out the window, a moonless dark.

Sometimes inside, it is moonless, too.

Then we come to realize

how we rely on things

outside of ourselves to see.

 

This morning, sitting in the dark

with my eyes closed, I wondered

about the turning year,

and two words came to me.

More love. More love.

Curious now I did not think to ask how.

The words seemed both mantra and map,

both question and answer,

all-encompassing as the dark.

 

Do you remember that day

we tore out of our clothes

and slipped into the frigid lake

in northern Wisconsin?

How we laughed as we swam

deeper and deeper in.

How dark the water,

how it dripped light from our arms

as we raised them to pull

through the surface.

 

I am again swimming in the dark.

Sometimes I feel the cold

is too much for me.

It helps now to remember

that it’s possible to find laughter

in cold waters. More love. More love.

 

Just yesterday, I was thinking

of the way Jesus turned water to wine.

It is no use to ask how.

The invitation is to accept the miracle,

praise the change and drink.

 

Perhaps in these moonless times,

this is when we learn to make light

out of dark, the way two stones

make a spark. Now, perhaps,

is not the time to ask who we are,

but what we can do.

Now is the time for miracles.

More love. More love.

 

 

 

 

 

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One Emergence

 

 

 

no moon in the sky

reaching for it anyway—

a siren wails in the night

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The Serious Moonlight

The Serious Moonlight

 

 

It’s just a trick

the owl plays

to fool the ears

of evening prey—

it finds a branch

not too far off,

then calls, first loud,

and then calls soft,

an illusion.

I have no will

to dupe your heart—

to linger close

but play I’m far.

No, I just want

to be where you are

and be caught

in the ravishing moonlight.

 

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“We must move forward together to build a shared understanding. We must forge a path that allows us to move beyond our history and identify common solutions to better protect our communities.”

—Terrence Cunningham, president of the International Assn. of Chiefs of Police

 

 

With salt, of course,

though there’s the matter of how

to get the salt to stick

without the assist of gravity.

 

And paired with a slightly chilled sauvignon blank,

preferably from Marlborough, of course,

with its hints of green pepper and grass.

 

It doesn’t taste like cheese after all,

but then the experts never seem to be right.

It tastes more like, well, hard to say.

Try another bite.

 

You never thought you’d be here, did you,

sampling these bits of reflected light.

Almost as unexpected as the apology

earlier tonight from the man in the suit

so blue it looked black.

 

Maybe not a white. A red.

A cab. Dark fruit. Full body.

One that’s needed time to evolve.

Its complex woody tones compliment

the moon’s impressive density.

 

What was it he said? “While

we obviously cannot change

the past, it is clear that we

must change the future.”

 

Toast to the future

and raise your glass

and take another nibble of moon.

Notice how dark it is, really,

about the color of asphalt, worn down.

It’s only because space itself is so dark

that the moon seems comparatively light.

 

All along you thought it was white.

Where else have you been wrong?

Perhaps between sips

and forkfuls you’ll find an apology

ripening there on your own startled tongue.

At the moment, anything seems possible.

The night makes its rounds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Two Marvelings

 

 

 

just another full moon rise—

is it any wonder

I can’t stop bowing?

 

*

 

how, I said,

to the river bed

do you make

of yourself a home?

I let the flow shape me,

the river bed said—

flood, current,

shimmer, stone

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Votre âme est un paysage choisi / Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques / Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi / Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.

            —Paul Verlaine, “Claire de Lune”

 

 

I hate the way my fingers stumble

through the prelude—in my ear,

it is beautiful, the phrases open

and flowing, and I hum sincerely, as if

with song I could make my hands

more nimble. There are fields,

golden, inside the arpeggios,

and they part as if the wind has blown

a place for a path, and then

a thousand thousand birds

take flight just before night—

or at least that is what I

want to hear. But I am clumsy,

an oxen trampling in the field

who trips in every irrigation ditch.

 

I have read that by the time

the suite was published, Debussy

hated the sound of it, deplored

his earlier style. I try to imagine him

here in the living room, his thin moustache,

his thick black bangs, oh how

he would cringe, revile my lack

of sensitivity. And how I would hate

to disappoint him. Both of us

miserable, both of us abhorring

what we hear—I would stop playing,

I would, and walk over to him

as he scoffed, and I would say,

 

Look, look Claude,

how the moon is full, so large there

on the horizon. And we’d step

out onto the porch.

There would be no birds,

no wind to part the field,

and he would slip his hand

toward the moon, and say,

There, there, that is what I was trying to say.

And I would let my empty hands

play.

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The Mother Remembers

The Mother Remembers

One thing you must never do is call a girl standing in or near the water by name, for that is like delivering a written invitation to the water king to steal your loved one.
—from “The Maiden Rescued by the Moon,” a Siberian myth, in The World’s Greatest Nature Myths by Gary Ferguson

I didn’t mean to call her name so loud.
Of course I was angry. The girl
was always so slow about her chores
and there was always so much to do.
Our wooden pail was emptied of water again
and the sun had nearly disappeared
beneath the Arctic Ocean waves.
Oh I wanted to smack her with that ladle,
I did, but I handed it to her instead.
“Now go, daughter, go get the water,” I said,
“and mind you come back soon.”
She always was a dreamy thing,
staring off into the surf
as if there were another place
that she would rather be.
On that last night we were together,
I had just finished stitching her
a new wool dress, blue as the deepest swells.
I wanted to give it to her by the fire.
Why did she stay so long by the shore
before coming back with the bucket full?
It was in anger, yes, when I called her name
to bring her out of her reverie,
but there was more. The water king took no time
to snag her from the shore with his long,
cold arms. “The ladle, daughter, the ladle!”
I cried, and she reached
it as high as she could and caught it
on a bush on the moon.
How strangely beautiful she looked, dangling there
as the moon made its trek toward the heavens.
On clear nights I can see her in the sky,
the ladle still in her hand.
How alone I am with this blue dress.
I stare at it now so long sometimes
it might be hours before I move
to fill the bucket with water.

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