hijacked by the moon
my heart stops trying to know better
and lets the light drive
Posts Tagged ‘moon’
One Surrender
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged moon, poem, poetry, surrender on June 13, 2018| Leave a Comment »
One Confusion
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged moon, poem, poetry on May 28, 2018| Leave a Comment »
full moon
in the rear view mirror—
I curse my hands
as they drive
the other direction
One on the Eve of the New Year
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged moon, new year, poem, poetry, surrender on January 1, 2018| 2 Comments »
One Blessing
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged moon, night, poem, poetry on November 6, 2017| 2 Comments »
One Emergence
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged emergency, hope, moon, poem, poetry on March 21, 2017| Leave a Comment »
The Serious Moonlight
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged moon, poem, poetry on December 3, 2016| Leave a Comment »
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.
How to Eat the Moon
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apology, chief of police, moon, poem, poetry on October 20, 2016| 2 Comments »
“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.
Two Marvelings
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged allowing, gratitude, love, moon, poem, poetry, river on April 21, 2016| 2 Comments »
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
Almost Sad in their Fantastic Costumes
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged debussy, failure, moon, piano, poem, poetry, suite bergamasque on February 23, 2016| 1 Comment »
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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