The moon, tosses her red cape, rises for attention, silver-gowned goddess
can be kindly or fierce. She is hunter and protector. Some dream under her spell,
but geese journey south with honking chatter, their giant V sparkles in her light,
and owl with silent wing-whoosh soars, a silhouetted form, a traveler in the night.
For dVerse, where Sarah has given us a list of moon names as a prompt. How can I resist a moon prompt? I’m using Kerfe Roig’s beautiful image again, which popped into my head as soon as I read the prompt.
arhythmic heartbeats, now too fast, now too slow–“
Thank you to the lovely, lively editors at Roi Fainéant for publishing my poem,“The Wobbling Moon,” in this most recent issue. I’m eager to read the entire issue.
Without moving, we travel far time and space collapse as we traipse—everywhere— from chair and couch
and as the virus rages, we turn the pages, hungering for new plots and changes, a denouement, and all comes clear order restored, till the world veers
again, and we can only go forward into what remains to be seen. other plagues brought serfdom down and gathered nations in a league—
attempts made, bells rung, but mostly heroes go unsung and lies coming tripping off a tongue gaining currency as far-flung they’re spread bad news and dread
sell more stories, but check the optics and we’ll see. Perhaps your story holds a key, turn the lock, and make our ratings soar till wiped away by war.
But the lies circle round, and some believe the tales the sad sacks or the haters weave– they choose to believe– but we? We grieve we grieve we grieve
(well, those of us who see it.)
Sunrise over the water. West Deptford, NJWind whipped. Early morning on the Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield.
Yet, every dawn is a new beginning and hope wings to the clouds, the moon will shine when I am gone, and waves like a teasing lover will still kiss the shore, to dart away, as far-flung ancient light dances across the sky, always, and forevermore.
Morning Moon
We still haven’t gone anywhere because of Omicron. Though we bought a few theater series, and there’s a play soon. . .so perhaps, since everyone is required to show proof of vaccination and to remain masked.
And in other news, an authoritarian minority is taking over our government. 2+2=5
We did have a much-needed, lovely family Zoom on Friday night.
Waiting for the family Zoom session.
We streamed, A Hero, Asghar Farhadi’s new film. I’ve liked his previous movies, A Separation and A Salesman, so I was eager to see this one, which is available on Amazon Prime now. Like his other movies, situations are not black and white, and no one is totally good or bad. Rahim is in prison for debt, and while on a two-day leave, he tries to make arrangements with his creditor so he can make a payment and be released, but one lie leads to another, and nothing goes as expected. . . It did give us a lot to talk about, and it also gave us glimpses of Iranian life and culture (and prison system). Another excellent film.
We’re watching the final season of the wonderful show The Expanse, also on Amazon Prime. It’s a very complex show—sort of a grittier, less idealistic version of Star Trek, except it’s about human empires and colonization in space, not aliens. Imagine Rome or the British Empire with rebelling colonies, but in space it’s Earth, Mars, and “the Belters,” as well as various other factions and pirates. It’s not a cartoonish sci-fi show. Characters and situations are not black and white here either. As Capt. Holden says of his world-weary crew, we’ve all done things we regret. (Yet we still root for them and their ship, the Rocinante.)
I’m hosting Quadrille Monday at dVerse, so I’ll be back later today! Cold weather comfort food below. Enjoy!
Ask the moon what her whispers mean— dreamtime longing, the after-ache of shadows
that slide or slink, glide, or make us think of what was–the ghosts of yearning
seek the light. I watch, and if I can’t recall each pink-petaled spring or purple rain,
I see them all—the symphony that glows and lingers, or hides in rustling wind-whipped sighs
and suspiration of the sea. Here I hear, and time fast-stops, while the fiddler plays
the song of life, death, and all that is, and what is not
but was or maybe what will be. Listen hard and long . . . now do you see?
The Oracle kept giving me a few words over and over again, like moon, light, after, ache, whispers, etc. and I could imagine her getting exasperated and saying use these already!
Moon setting in sunrise glow over the Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield.
Cloud-shrouded, yet still you are there, melodies slide through air in moonsong
loud and clear. Without a regret, we live; never forget we’re moonstruck
and love-mad, bewitched by the light of centuries, the sight of moonglow
river reflected, directed at you—so, connected, a moonsoul
dancing in wind’s susurration without hesitation in moonjoy.
For dVerse. Grace has asked us to write a Compound Word Verse: “a poetry form invented by Margaret R. Smith that consists of five 3-line stanzas, for a total of 15 lines. The last line of each stanza ends in a compound word and these compound words share a common stem word which is taken from the title.” How could I not write about the moon when I took this photo this morning? This is a first draft. 😀
Ask if the moon sleeps as the sky turns rosy, and with languid tongue, licks black to blue– does she recall the after-ache of crashing birth, and dream the songs of a thousand stars?
Now, watch the cool cat breath rise with arched back over the river, curling into the morning air—
is this what you seek? Recall the beauty of this day— clothed in peach, pink, and blue– the chirp of sparrows, the rush of heron’s wing.
When I opened our back door this morning, there was the moon right in front of me. Then when I walked to the river, it was just so beautiful with the sun rising over the water. The world is full of terrible things and horrible people, but there is also such beauty in it. The Oracle knows and reminds me.
The moon rose through shadows, to sing a farewell song over forests and rocks turning softly pink in the dawn. And I watched— what else could I do? Ask if I am moon-mad to hear the whispers in the wind. Red-tipped trees sigh in the breath of ancient cycles, as time passes like the soft brush of heron’s wing. The geese in flight call, savor this, and the river murmurs through light and darkness– listen.
The Oracle obviously comes with me on my early morning walks. The last few days have been beautiful.
Peder Severin Krøyer [Public domain] “Summer Evening at Skagen beach, the artist and his wife”
If I listen, lonely in the long blanket of night— the moon sings, murmuring secrets, gathered deep in tree roots to flow through green tendrils, and flowering pink– recalled by birds, and bee-danced along paths, to the wind-rustled sea. There, in after-breaths, the world walks on soft blue, in harmony sky and water, for a moment, sublime.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 