Posts Tagged ‘moon’

the rabbit and the moon

the rabbit and the moon
Lunar_libration_with_phase_Oct_2007_450px
the rabbit rose early that eve, nibbling at the sliver moon.
I am the moon, rabbit said.  maybe moon won’t see.
 
the moon rolls into shadows.  playing with the day.
playing with the night.  he smiles, the way moons do.
 
rabbit nibbled at both the dark and the crescent, bright.
I am the moon, she thought.  maybe moon won’t hear.
 
moon pours himself into the sea.  closer now.
moon feels shy so he sings.  song becomes water,
 
raining stars into the ebbing sky.
 
rabbit hears.  she knows, moon was listening.
rabbit sees the moon in the sea, looking back.
 
rabbit feels the grass beneath her feet.  then
the grass becomes waves, becomes a song, then
the moon.  then her cloak, then her belly full.
 
now that you’ve climbed into sky, rain becomes
my voice.  I am the rabbit, sings the moon.
 
and here, beneath the empty sky, and then
the dream began.  closer now.

 
 
neil reid © september 2013

 
image: Lunar libration with phase Oct 2007, via Wikipedia in the public domain

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poem for We Write Poems, prompt (#50) First lines!
Write a poem that begins with the line,I’m willing to eat…” (then whatever next).

big yellow bus

I’m willing to eat a big yellow bus.  In heavy traffic or light, maybe
like godzilla would, Japanese tourists and all.  Vitamins you know.
Especially the digital cameras, they’re really good.

I’m willing to eat tulips in winter before they’re even sure of themselves,
just a good idea waiting to burst forth on the plate.  A little maple honey
really sets off the colors under the tongue.

I’m willing to eat clear blue sky, bright sun white buffalo with roosters
on the side, clouds squeezing rain, sponge cake whirlwinds with
lightning bolts, perhaps even a little snow.  Sugar of course.

I’m willing to eat self-doubt, frenetic historic tales whispered into
rambunctious sleep, the captain’s first mate, a curry dish, steaming
bowls of salted misconceptions.  Buttered words for dessert.

I’m willing to eat a country mile, where the river elbows close.
Maybe it never happened the way I thought but a windy feast
is as good as a fox in the chicken coop.  Licking lips.

I’m willing to eat the moon.  Would you like a slice?

neil reid © april 2011

Help me please! Maybe it’s already too late. An exercise that’s all process, no result, or is that the result? Nothing serious because I have been. So, a chocolate sunday of words. Stir them up, or me, and here’s what you get. Nothing serious, just because…

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What mother doesn’t say

What mother doesn’t say

Conform to a contour of sky, allow to cool, pronounce a name,
given thus – a fool in paradise. A purposeful fit found by inches,
by words. Some might say, doubtful grace.

Holding sentiment kin to heart. So slight then the word frayed
by ambling hooves as can render sight by such applied discord,
cast like granite – trembling.

Doors were never locked when the grass was first short.
Then I remember quiet private words above my head (not
a child’s choice). There are strangers in town.
Nothing same after that.

I.

Here, take this poem, bury it in the dirt. Tell no one.
Forget where, yourself.

There it can welcome wet threads and grow long whiskers
and someday feed the world again. One word by one word.
Just the way it all began. You might call it, rain.

II.

What matters, a mineral tongue given free vein, is that
eventually everything, every motion, every sigh, buttons
in hand, undraped torso set loose on the wildness, and
all, all she does becomes fascination’s plum.

I’ll steal anything to see her that way. Even this!
(Did you think it was mine to own?)

How oft has even the moon been so stolen, pocketed?
And each morning, there it is, fading to dawn.

neil reid © october 2010

Bury this poem in the dirt. Good wisdom here I suspect. Not meaning disregard, but just good farming sense. And “drafty” by either count.

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Self-indulgent? Perhaps. Probably. What choice sometimes?

Half-shells, number one

Words are sticks are stones
they have weight they are not birds.

Each uttered is a birth delivered
a solstice falling into long earth.

Brush strokes on canvas more
thousands now. But we don’t count.

All threads, like the call unanswered
last night. Another now eyes closed.

I can’t say happiness. Meanings
could break a spine too adorned.

Quick. Pull the covers before dawn
before sun can see my face.

Morning calls from folded wings.
Scattered seeds the sound they make.

Prayers before first day flight?
Maybe that’s how.

Kissing cousin, invisible moon.

Would your hand brush my bare arm
in casual conversation? Told you
last night, you could make my day.

Just so easily like a breeze.

neil reid © july 2010

neil reid © july 2010

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written for the We Write Poems community

read the prompt, then read other’s responses too

prompt by Nicole Nicholson, Singer, Sing Me a Song

Not my common choice musically, nor is music much my better suit, yet still, this is what landed. I say “draft” in abject humility. The poetry of this song’s lyrics are far the better of me. I’ll take some soothing if you at least go and listen to the genuine article because of this posting here. (Find Ellla’s slow ballad version of this song if you can. Dianne Reeves also does it well.)

Ella’s song

        Somewhere there’s music
        how faint the tune

near and far, pardoned a random sensibility
first flight after all those years, common ill history
not so genuine yet landed upon a window’s sill
some thumb in otherwise sweet pie,
silvered wings extend better prose

climb into sky, risen better grace
to look to glory to satisfy irregular traces
of water, land, hardly seen, our trails our trials
upon a mother’s face, and I remember thinking
if you want me now, god, bring me home,
no matter the manner, you’ll find of face
uncluttered only gratitude

fears fallen, no wings to hold

and you my love are at the end of this thread

        There is no moon above
        when love is far away too

cold cool day when I drove away
roundish, darkish, a carriage on wheels
I’ve come to adore even as rain suggested
home was behind not before or,
odd yet to welcome road’s circumspect
unknown, yet mirrored now, and what knot
done cannot be so undone, redeemed,
thus a dark mountain pass afore any ill cloud
speaks no

and you my love are at the end of this thread
around my finger more than keepsake embrace

        It’s where you are
        somewhere there’s heaven

foolish old bear imagined wandering
wanting sweet honey from rocks, even if
ill strayed thoughts some might likely say
fool’s dim gold, certainly, so why endure
years days minutes moments far and far?

mostly only words on a plate, but the bowl
lays willing warm, a receptacle-found like
a poem is, as a person will, fortune’s prayer
no carrot leads more sure or real

        The darkest night would shine
        Until you will how still my heart

good coin spent, words not even on paper bent
nothing ruffled crumpled folded into a pocket
yet no less, a voice on a phone, technical trickery
yet no less, unless some think we’re only shy
by one dog’s breath, nothing more, not me

words are symbols, their limit yet also clue
symbols of what? what’s beneath above beside
within the better smiling truth of a kiss and
I’ll hold that faith close and close, while above

        How high the moon

neil reid © may 2010

How High the Moon, a jazz classic standard,
lyrics by Nancy Hamilton, music by Morgan Lewis
First featured in the 1940 Broadway revue Two for the Show
(and coincident, in the time of the London blitz, a clear night
meant “bomber’s moon”). Ella Fitzgerald first performed
the song at Carnegie Hall on September 29, 1947.

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Winter pebbles

read write prompt #105, borrowed words
by Deb Scott

Says Deb, This week brings a different kind of Read Write (Word) Prompt. These words are from the first stanza of one of my favorite poet’s work. I’ll tell you who it is, and give you a link to the poem these words are derived from next week, in the Get Your Poem On post. (I know. I’m a tease. It’s from writing sexy poems this week, so don’t blame me. OK?)

To write to this prompt, pick as many (or few) of these words as you want and write a poem using them. (Here’s the some I selected to use.)
(Read the prompt and see the list of words here.)
(Read other participants response to this prompt.)

Winter pebbles

Moon might not see me

rise this morn. Clouds

are a shell in between.

Stars blush a tempest cloak.

Trees undress the lowland fog.

Take this broth and bright.

Curled upon my lap

a homeless wind, abiding

curves no night will keep.

It wasn’t a poem then.

It isn’t one now.

It was just a road

that moved inside of me.

Away from you.

Meteors that will not land

till pierced, reflect in you.

Precious moon.

Neil Reid © December 2009


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Sister lost

Sister lost

You called my name before

my voice broke from dawn, entered day.

Your nile dark braid of hair, a sister’s

rope to pull me from the river flood.

Tall yet near. Your hand a cradled nest.

That photograph.

My eyes found yours. I’m sure they did.

No milky sky could confuse. No olive

moon had your scent.

I’ve grown into years, decades now.

All that you gave, all that we lost, are

rendered in one old box.

Even so dire as white and black, that old

photograph paints your Mediterranean skin.

I carry it now. A pocket keeps.

Sister, do you hear me now?

I am the one with olive groves

upon my cheeks.

Neil Reid © November 2009


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Darkly humorous

Darkly humorous

 

Where is dark?

 

Is it under this book?  No, just my desk.

Around the corner, under those old clothes?

Just a carpet, green shag.  Shucks!

 

Oh yes, the refrigerator!  Surely here.

Darn, that pesky bulb.  Every time!

 

Is it in the closet perhaps?  Not when

I open the door!  Someone’s looking 

over my shoulder here.

 

Is it under a rock?  Just worms!

I looked twice.  Pretended to walk away.

Hurried back.  No luck!

 

I calculate the tides, influence of the moon.

Stealth!  That’s it!  Outside at night?

Stars abound!  Dim, but no dark.

 

Aah!  What about between the stars?

Isn’t that black?  Really, just what mortar is.

And a hole is not whole!

 

No cheating!  Please.

What if, clever me, I close my eyes?

Yes, but understand your prize!

 

Standing at the gate to everything

and nothing much.  Yet bathed all the same!

Your might is only over one.  Incredulous.

 

Complete.      Indivisible.

Get the joke?

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009


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Moonrise

Moonrise

 

 

Moon rises fair and fleece.

Dark crow upon the fence outside.

Night thought, like snow concealed.

 

Lies dance like fireflies.

Have you noticed that?

 

Between sight and thought,

pane of glass, invisible, soft.

 

Yet touch that shallow moon

and all outside comes within,

dressing you.

 

Warmth of finger leaves its mark.

Passing breeze takes even that,

leaving behind sidelong glance.

 

And the message

 

     He’s gone with me.

 

Left here, stranded candlelight.

And starbright looking in.

 

 

Neil Reid © 2005


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