The moon crawls over my windshield, a bored insect.
Reflection of a reflection of light
on the grim and circling stone.
The world does not share my sense of time:
In a vehicle parked off the road, going nowhere
I sense no motion at all in this luminous bug
on the curved glass. Doesn’t it know
I don’t have all night to be moved?
Two pathetic lines about the moon…(iv)
Unwashed stainberry, as kids we threw you
At each other like our future fallen selves
Two pathetic lines about the moon…(iii)
The eclipsed moon. A burned match head.
Mars its angry ember mimicking the cold arc.
Two pathetic lines about the moon…(ii)
As the wine sea ebbs
Moon like a glass etching rises
Two pathetic lines about the moon… (i)
like two fingers of cloud
the moon leaves behind
January 1, 9:24 PM (Wolf Moon) [#fullmoonsocial]
In the wolf’s eye is the guile of the sun:
I turned my back on the sinking day
To find it’s still staring at me, placid
spurned communion wafer
fighting with the clouds to see through inky sky my mind wanders to the last months how many times someone comes to mind when I do not wish it dear will-o-wisp clouds enchant me but still I strain to see the moon and it shows just its slip, straining my eyes for only a glimpse, […]
winter waltz — Are You Thrilled
Here’s the view of the moon from Pleasant Street…
You turn your blonde head away from me where I can still see the shadow on your cheek My naked eye is always looking for your tender skin under all of those garments made in the east the search for you is never tiresome as the loss we turn away from or as weary as […]
Penumbral Garments — jessamayann
Great poem by Jessa!
Please share your full moon poems by tagging them #fullmoonsocial.
The curve of its light on your thigh’s a river,
My heartbeat a cragged peak
And valley path it’s carved
Through fifteen hundred weeks
The western sky’s white but the tiny star’s white’s
Brighter. The bleached day’s bones left for parts west.
On the sky’s other side the hunter’s moon uncrouches
and coughs. It shines off every tin roof of every hundred
Year old house but does not compare to the silent
Ocean of mid-day’s leaf shadows on the back yard’s
Softly swaying grass I saw earlier, so perfect
I pulled a chair off the porch and sat in the midst
Of its going-nowhere motion until I felt the day’s
Balance point precisely: all things moving, everything still.