For better or worse, the moon seems to exert a powerful hold on poets. Today, I was challenged to stop fighting the moon. I didn’t know I was, but I was to lean in and accept the moon. I was to know that the moon wants what’s best for me. I was to write a poem that is about, or that involves, the moon.
Dark Moon Rising
Today it is waxing crescent,
can be called the drinking moon,
because it wouldn’t spill a drop.
The full moon rising
this month and year,
should be April twenty-sixth,
it’s Spring’s Pink Super-moon,
not pink in color, but calls to a flower.
Tonight, the moon’s brightness
at twenty-four percent,
flying four point eight-two days
of its twenty-nine point five-three
days to orbit the earth
and to do its thing.
Writers love our moon
it anchors our latest story,
choosing when the moon is full
or when it’s gone
and making moon anew.
For the moon of the night
it’s not the sun’s reflection
that makes our moon so bright,
it’s the honest truth of darkness,
the darkness of the night.
Find your way in the darkness, use the moon for light.
But mind the gaps for there are dangers in the night.
Should you want to read my mind,
and I yours? Do our thoughts matter?
And what of dreams?
Are they in our minds, barely clear,
unseen reverie of thoughts, only real when we sleep?
If you could read my mind, could I then read yours?
Would we share thoughts, and each be of two minds?
I’m often with two minds while claiming one—
more conflicted than confused. Do you see through eyes
that are like windows to a witness,
seeing my thoughts,
or are they mixed with yours in me?
If I could read your mind, would a new universe
be revealed to me? One with background and rationale
to justify your thoughts. Would I understand you better?
Or is it true that you and I are what we do?
If you read my mind, do you see my thoughts
through the lens of yours? If not, are my words and actions
filtered through your mind and thoughts? Is that truth?
Are you able to separate you and understand me alone,
entirely without you, your life, your experience, your own thoughts?
“I thought that I heard you laughing
I thought that I heard you sing
I think I thought I saw you try”
“But that was just a dream
Try, cry, fly, try
That was just a dream
Just a dream
Just a dream, dream” *
Forget my mind. It’s crazy anyway.
Read my heart. Listen for my soul.
Judge me by what I do. Ultimately, that is who I am.
I am not a poet. I’m your poet. And you’re mine.
Look both ways. Believe the real, the truth. We are what we do.
Mind the gaps and the pullbacks, the maybes are filled with deceit.
Never heard of Bukowski.
Frost, Yeats, Whitman,
certainly Poe. Those guys;
and Dickenson, Browning,
later Plath and Angelou.
Mary Oliver, too. New and youngs
like Canuck Chica, Kaur.
Gone two decades plus six, old Hank,
who’d turn a hundred this year,
took hold of my poetry reading.
Also liking some Billy Collins
and Clive James. Tony Hoagland’s
pleasant prose and light but raunchy
poems been worth my time.
Poetry, a pleasure,
in the writing and for the reading,
yet brainy head scratchers
laced with metaphoric depth have
pride of place on a lover’s shelf.
Raw life, pain, and beauty without
Old Buc’s art “is its own excuse.”
Look both ways,
to the darkness of shadows
and to the colors of light.
Mind the gaps of the matrix.
it’s nine o’clock at night again. some are dressing to go out, not me—too tired.
too tired for anything but sleep, yet, here I sit
writing this poem about being too tired to do anything,
including write this fucking ridiculous poem
or prose or whatever the hell it is.
it’s absurd to fight off sleep like this, like a child fighting the inevitable,
but if I give in now, I will wake at two or three in the morning,
in the middle of the night, flummoxed.
I’ll sit here and drink water (after I pee); wishing I was sleeping.
maybe there’s an unused nightmare out there waiting for me,
to give inspiration or whatever nightmares do for us.
why? tell me why. I want to know why it is that I will try for a few more minutes
to pretend that I can…what? what can I do?
is there a world full of people out there who cannot
or will not do what I can do?
bless their hearts as the conceited among us write away
nodding at the overstuffed closet.
who needs competition from hidden talent?
right here and right now, exhausted with limited cognitive ability to crank
one out by jerking off my brain and spewing words to the page and saying,
fuck yah, man! a poet. I write this sputum. so what?
it turns out that how I feel and what I say, I am—
and you are too—holy shit, that is exactly how I feel!
am I pissed off about nothing? just fucked up and angry
for the very reason of no reason. we need help. are we crazy?
it sucks for me and I’m sorry it sucks for you, but it’s so fucking true.
it’s us. not me alone. not you alone. misery love, love, loves company.
that’s how it works to be human. nothing can save us except writing.
Look both ways. It’s the middle of the night and every form of refuge has its prison.
Mind the gaps and the sidewalk cracks for the want to—the reason of no reason.
I write at least one new poem each day. On most days I spend time working on draft poems, ideas, essays, or whatever the wind blows up meh kilt.
The halfway point of 2019 is July second. Therefore, I have written at lest one poem each day for half the year. Crossing this halfway point is like crossing the 13.1-mile mark for a marathon (done 15 times). It’s not the same, but a milestone, nonetheless.
I may start using some online prompts and writing challenges that look interesting. While I won’t run out of ideas, rubbing some change into my work may serve to stimulate me in the coming months.
Here are the titles of June’s poems, some of which I posted.
Glad I Could Help
Right Here, Right Now
Faults and Gaps
Tolerance of People
No More Emily Days
Ain’t No Nevermind
What Does He Want?
To Be Chosen
A Little Off
I Like to Save
It Snowed in Binghamton
Carefree (Sammi’s challenge prompt)
Jeremiah’s Mighty Fine Wine
As we prepare for our Independence Day celebrations this week,
perhaps it is appropriate to look both ways at 2019.
What is passed and what’s up next.
1776 was 243 years ago. Here’s to 243 more.
Mind the gaps.
Today’s poetry prompt is to write a poem inspired by a reference book.
Today, I learned what I am.
I’m a Stan, no longer a mere fan,
I’m a Stan—the man.
help me each day, also
clever and unusual, obscure (and obscene),
preposterous; the strange,
curious, and lovely lexicon.
In a word: troublesome!
Secretly, I hide in a closet
(or bathroom) where I read
books — about words,
of their history, called etymology;
how to say them, and maybe see
an idiom for future reference.
The meaning of words, the lexemes.
Every word has its morphology,
its synonymy family and
antagonistic antonymy gangs.
Some are humorous, others so literal,
I like snarky things and even
the devil has his own dictionary.
Semantics are arguable,
but without words there is
nothing to say, to communicate
we’d have to find another way.
Do words grow in semantic fields?
My blessing upon the wordies,
the lexophiles, logophiles,
lingua-(and lingo) philes, also
called word buffs.
A poet without a word is like
a seashell without an ocean,
a cow without a patty,
a day without a sun.