[#fullmoonsocial] Waiting for the moon to rise over the power lines behind the fields by the old school for the deaf and the blind
Home of the cardinals.
The train sound twins as it passes through
Echoing off unresponsive brick and glass
Over the darkening grass. It’s like there are two
Trains, the past casting an echo of the future
And then it’s gone, both of them
And still no moon.
The moon has not yet quite risen here in Virginia. Gaze, glance, glare at that moon and write something. Then tag it #fullmoonsocial so we can all join in. Whether you see it in a quiet rural place or a blurry suburban parking lot, it’s up there. Which means there’s the stuff of poetry out there for you to grab.
I’ll reblog what I see throughout the night…
Epitaph for a snake I have seen in my backyard from time to time who has the trick of going missing in an instant when I try to follow it making me wonder where it goes and what else is there
Can you slide nicely by and observe, next time
you are there in the place of missing things,
My mother’s memories of me
When I was in her grasp and understanding?
Every time you disappear along the stone wall
You take something with you of the present
Stuck between your sliding scales but
Your going gives us the gravity to grieve
Denying friction while it powers every move.
Meanwhile in the backyard where you were
Every unbending blade of grass
brings up a new point against you
Your own path disappearing
Where your trail turns on its tail.
There in the place of missing things
Tonight I will send for you
To bring something missing back for me
Inconveniently as bread.
After our walk
we wanted no one else
to enjoy the moon like that
so we buried it.
Li Po found it floating face down
in the river and revived it.
It’s like when you think you see
a corpse in the water
but it’s back-floating
looking up at its real self.
Elephants tiptoe time’s twisting invitation.
They know a full footprint there means to forget.
As you drew them into being and forgot them.
As the shadow of a word is its own weird requirement.
The stuff of days is what’s available
In the air, the chimney swifts of thought
Where inside night’s mortared column each
clings to the smallest difference of surface.
I scramble across air’s planes to get
Particles closer to you
Like emptiness I’m thick with longing
And thin in grip
Six late-August evenings (6)
Amsterdam Avenue. A memory of a memory
Hiding beneath the cooling street. Like litter
Chasing cars and settling without regret
Along the surface and away, further away
With every step towards the next autumn.
Whose wake are we in now,
Thinking we’ll catch up to them, finally
And make it right?