in the tree
a moon is humming lullabies
to the stars
rocked in light birds sleep
fox sniffs the wind
in the tree
a moon is humming lullabies
to the stars
rocked in light birds sleep
fox sniffs the wind
Behind
the cloud veil hangs
a solstice moon, taunting
the darkness, herding stars in night’s
pastures.
after the rain the moon
like sand settling
silver
in animal pelts
half-shadows
half grainy movement.
I sift the grains
the crosshatched trees
for the magical hare
in the pooled darkness
of these shifting seas
but the night closes
after the rain
full of moon-wash
silvering
my elusive wilderness.
A first solstice tanka for Frank Tassone’s haikai prompt. I’m sure there will be more.
world holds its breath
plunging deeper into dark
sky water the moon
full-bellied as new year rolls
growing richer bringing spring
I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot recently. It would have been her birthday a few days ago. The Oracle knows. She presented me with the line: ‘I never need my mother’ in its entirety.
Love runs over,
a spring of sweet water.
I never need my mother,
not now that she has become the moon
and fills the sky with beauty.
She watches
and shows me how life sings
in the sleeping night garden.
A tritina for a wonderful day!
On the right side of the moon the darkness falls,
the left, a goddess smile of echoed light
born on wings of owl and fluted song.
Starlight glitters, night leaves, while the song
of brown birds charms, whatever else befalls
this world of feathers soft and silver light.
Morning fills the sky with golden light,
sunrise whispers silver streams of song,
winding twisted tresses where it falls.
Feathered moon falls, light and gentle as a whispered song.
For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt.
Once, they said, the moon was round and glowed like a pale sun, casting soft grey shadows on the grass. Once, the moon was fat-bellied like a pregnant woman, and shone with the same splendour. Once the tides rolled waves up the strand to the dunes, then drew them back to leave a mirror, bright as pewter. That was then, long ago, in the times before.
Now, there is no grass, there are no tides, no seas.
Now the moon hangs by a thread, stubborn and obtuse, from the same star. She neither rises nor sets, grows neither fat nor thin. She no longer commands the tides and the cycles of the earth. The moon is a crescent, a bitten apple, broken and defiled by our constant warring.
But though the stars have drawn away and left the once blue planet to her solitary wanderings, the moon remains, obstinately clinging to an invisible thread. She hangs like a ragged target, pocked and splintered by shot, a living reproach.
When the children stand at the edge of the great gulf that was once an ocean and point at the battered sign in the sky, they know, though no one has ever told them, who was Moon, and why. And they feel deep down in their hearts a restless anger that they have been deprived of all the earth’s beauty. They bend down to fill their hands with blackened grit, and search for signs of life.
One day, one of them will find a seed, a fragment, and plant it in a ray of broken moonlight, and the revolution will begin.
Who couldn’t write poetry to those two words? A trio of haiku for Ronovan’s weekly prompt.
Deep water rolls green
and cold among moonlight pearls—
darkness crowds the sky.
Deep the river runs,
carries broken things seaward,
into the darkness.
Darkness falls again,
winter cold and deep, sinking
like the waning moon.
Twitter poems from yesterday’s prompts.
All tears are black
for sorrow is dark
and wells from the places
where no light falls.
Black pearls
are as rare as moonstones
and sundew
and starfish
that light the deeps of the ocean
with drops of pearl moonlight.
Gulls soar to the moon and back,
dusted with silver
and the grey of dead stars.
Their eyes full of worlds
we will never know,
their call, the voices of the dead.
Sun breaks on gleaming waters,
star-speckled,
moon-struck,
a hoard of light.
If my hands could hold it,
I would give it all to you.
At the epicentre of all worlds
is a heart that beats and throbs
in time to the wings of love,
the song of the turtle dove.
Today’s magnet poems came one from each of the Poet, Nature and Original word sets.
Cry in the wind,
black tears for lost love.
Moon in shadow sleeps,
her music stilled—
not a thousand years enough
to smooth away the ache.
Earth is berry-bright
in a harmony of greens—
the dark cycle’s over.
Listen to the fullness grow,
at dusk fall,
when light rain murmurs
its sweet, gentle song.
Ask me never
my secrets.
We two share
one heart—
your joy is mine.
Assembling the Jigsaw of a Febrile Imagination
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