Barley Moon, Tonight
Barley moon, tonight. Hurt deeply but don't know why.
The threshers and the raccoons and soon the Canada geese
have already done their work, so there's nothing to harvest
but a few cobs and kernels of cattle corn that look like
they have bad teeth. Pale yellow ochre ribbons of the moon
that flake like the acephalic pages of old holy books.
Something unknown is trying to be born of my emptiness.
My heart and my body strain to sustain sufficient gravity
to hold it in its orbit long enough to attain fruition
and hopefully, then, we can both let go of the labour
of trying not to let go of the climber that fell over the cliff
tied to our spinal cord like a burning box-kite
or the arrested development of a corpse past its prime.
For all the fury of their clarity in the cold air,
the stars seem more distant, aloof enough to be cruel,
almost savage like these fields returning to their own agendas,
purple loosestrife and mustard, and the hopeless green
of stunted plants trying to get their time in before the first snow.
I've walked these meandering dirt roads before,
but now everything's gone inside, except for a few dogs,
and there are no lights on at the farm. I don't care
where I'm going. I just walk. I just look. Exiled by the outside
of what's sleeping in the hearts of the farmers
and raccoons alike, as the nights grow colder and longer
and the grave stars seem to shine brighter
the fewer there are eyes to see how radiant they are on their own.
Burridge up ahead, a gas pump, a grocery store,
a hippie who makes brooms. Think I'll just keep on walking
until I run out of road, and after that, have to make
my own path through the woods to sit beside
a small unnamed lake with the wisdom of a sage
that's got nothing to impart to me but what I came with.
And I can nurse the subliminal agony of a poet on the Milky Way,
bemused by the passage of all things around me
as if they too were walking the same Road of Ghosts I am.
I see the beauty. I see the bat flash across the moon.
I feel the mythically inflated sublimity
of my comparative inconsequence. I lament
the rubbish of the last flowers of the season,
the trashing of the wild irises as if they were all wrapping
with no gifts inside. I wonder what death is. What purpose,
if any, life serves, if it isn't just here to serve itself.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Mans Road
Written by jimmy webb, 1982
Found on the last unicorn soundtrack and your move (french import only).
Horizon rising up to meet the purple dawn
Dust demon screaming, bring an eagle to lead me on
For in my heart I carry such a heavy load
Here I am on mans road, walking mans road, walking mans road
Im hungry, weary, but I cannot lay me down
The rain comes, dreary, but theres no shelter I have found
It will be a long time till I find my abode
Here I am on mans road, walking mans road
Moon rising, disguising lonely streets in gay displays
The stars fade, the night shade falls and makes the world afraid
It waits in silence for the sky to explode
Here I am on mans road, walking mans road, walking mans road
Walking mans road, walking mans road, walking mans road
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Looking For A Little Black Water After The Fury Of The White
Looking for a little black water after the fury of the white.
Dark energy after the light as peace
settles down gently upon me,
the sediment of the eras and rivers of my life.
And this cool night in early autumn,
a woman in a dark cloak and hood
I could almost caress if I could just breathe
a little more deeply than the abyss
I've been dogpaddling in because
there's nowhere else among all these stars
I can swim from the shallow end of myself
into the watersheds of my last drowning.
And there's an unprescribed silence,
a herb of the moon that's salving the wound
of the lunar thorn I just pulled out of my heart
delicately with my teeth. I'm trying
to tune my spinal cord to the guitar string
of the Tay River, so I can resonate in harmony
with the flow of things. Starfire walking
on the water of the mindstream without
the crutch of a miracle to help bear me up.
It's not so much a matter of power or self-discipline
as it is well within the spontaneous capacity
of everyone's emptiness to do so because,
labour exhaustively as we do just to find the path
let alone stay on it, all we've had to do
right from the start, is to let life
give us a narrative of our own we can be true to
as it makes you up going along with it
like a lonely survivor singing to himself in a lifeboat
at the last watch of the night. Arcturus
at the tip of our eyelashes, enmeshed
as it sinks in a western treeline of beached shipwrecks.
Reach out, but don't grasp. Accept and let go.
Scatter your blossoms, even when you're
down on your luck, like ripped up lottery tickets
whether they end up in the gutter
or on an impressionist table cloth somewhere
playing checkers with a patient still life.
I've seen whole Japanese plum trees in blossom
be brushed aside like perfect haikus
by a street sweeper at three in the morning
when no one else was watching but me and Basho.
My blood is saturated by an overdose of stars
and I can feel a light from deep within
rooting in my limbs like nightfall
as my awareness is enhanced
by how much unknown compassion
there is the silence, love in a dark time.
Blue moons on the wild grape vines,
approaching the autumn equinox in Virgo
as if they could read my mind like a purple passage
intoxicated on the wine that can be pressed out of its own decay.
The waterlilies are gone with the fireflies,
and the reupholstered cattails are beginning
to show signs of wear already. And soon
the Canada geese will be flying high overhead
bearing the souls of the dead to new latitudes of seeing
where the starmaps fall from their hands
like the feathers and leaves of being
flowing along with the mindstream
like the wiverns, wavelengths, and water sylphs
playing on the shores of the Milky Way
with as many burning bridges,
as there are flames on the phoenix
in the immolated sumac, as there are eyes
to see across these circuitous waters
to the other side of where we've always been going
alone together with everyone who's ever come aboard.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Gates of Innocence
Up round St John Street we walked one night, while moonlight brightly glowed,
My arm around you, yours round me, with two friends long ago.
So deep into love’s old sweet dream in moments now long flown,
And like a leaf upon the breeze my heart was not my own.
Oh the road to winning you was fraught, with quicksands all the way.
I sank and swam, I walked and ran, I wooed you night and day,
To simply hold your hand so soft, or gaze on eyes so blue,
In steep green fields at Clachanmore when I worked next to you.
But no moon nor love could quite foresee that I would wriggle free,
Against my heart, against my will, somewhat regretfully.
The roads we walked were soon to part, to sever us for ill,
To leave the Crescent we once walked, to ghosts that haunt me still.
Now the thoughts that circle round me here, they strengthen with the night.
As if the years have fallen to that young love’s breathless might,
Your eyes beguiled the doubting stars and left me void of sense,
Before the moments we fell through, the gates of innocence.
Now the moonlight shines less brightly on the lonely fields we cleared,
And St John Street is not as sweet as when I held you dear.
The friends we walked with on that night still walk together yet.
The full moon’s promise holds as true, as when we two last met.
chorus
The winds blow cold on those steep green fields
And strangers walk down St John Street
I’ve walked the crescent where love grew
Where innocence once sheltered me and you
A walking corpse
I walk around like a zombie.
A reflection of a corpse.
Like Im in a body thats not mine.
A body depression has invaded.
Im a reflection of a corpse.
So numb and dead inside.
Not being able to feel.
Trapped in a body.
That once used to be mine.
Now its like its someone elses.
Im a walking corpse.
So very dead inside.
As numb as numb
Number than Ice.
Depression has over road.
And overtaken me.
Its made me like a walking corpse.
I may aswell be dead.
Thats how I feel inside.
A excellent resembalence
Of a walking corpse.
Mabey I can fight it
But that I very much doubt.
I have had to fight to many demons.
One more I cant fight this yet.
Im a walking corpse.
Dead inside.
A marvolos resembalence.
Of a walking corpse
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Reverie
There exists a place within my most vivid dreams where suspicion is unheard of-
Where lack of trust had never shown its evil countenance-
I follow this meandering river beyond
This territory illuminated by daytime stars- without the sun
Shining its orange-hued light upon the path my spirit follows-
The moon, stars, the gilded pond-
Seemingly violet in hue when reflecting the light of the moon at midnight-
I am walking alongside the river of my imaginings
Serpentine and deep in some ways as the
Ubiquitous thoughts and voices only I can hear inside my mind-
This realm of meandering rays of light
I follow and nobody follows me
Safe within my solitude, I am-
Only seraphs paint the sky a pale shade of cerulean-blue
As certain as the flowers are growing alongside the path beside me-
Although today-I am not afraid-
Flowers are non- threatening as they have no souls- and
Those who have no souls can do no harm-
Alive in this land where trees grow upward to reach the sky-
I do not fear:
Yellow blossoms dance in
An early spring zephyr and the trees bow gently
Within a gentle gust of wind-
The light of the moon is dim but magical
Unlike the garish rays of the sun-
Alone inside this place of my reverie, I am-
I see my reflection in the crystal clarity of
A pond of azure-blue reflecting the starlight-
Safe inside the world of my delusiveness-
Separate from humanity, I have escaped far beyond the mountains rising behind me as
The cloud cover bars me from reality-
Here inside my own small world protected by the ramparts of nature-
I am alive and jovial- I am not afraid-
Just happy to be singing my own songs and to be speaking my own voice-
With nothing to fear- alone, and content to be alive inside this land of my dreams-
Just to be watching the sun set behind the mountains as darkness overshadows-
I am not afraid…
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wintermoon
Under stars,
under sky,
I will walk,
my path and fate.
Wathing the moon,
the ghostly light,
enchanted by its beauty.
I will walk forever on,
knowing that past is past,
and future is future.
Life is only lived in the present.
I will walk,
in winter, spring, summer and autumm,
watching the moon,
enchanted by its beauty.
I walk down the path of spring,
knowing my fate awaits,
I'm walking the path of life.
I walk the path of summer,
looking at the sun,
warmed by the sun,
I'm alive and growing,
nature is part of me.
I walk the path of autumm,
seeing the prey of death,
beautiful coulours of the fiery soul,
striving to live once again.
Once future, now the base of knowledge,
THE future.
I walk down the path of winter,
looking at the wintersky,
bewitched by the wintermoon,
so clean,
so beautiful,
and yet so cold.
I will live in the present,
walking towards the future,
while this life of mine is build upon the past.
The past is me,
I'm the past, the present and the future.
Man's road
It's a long road,
Oh so sad road,
You think you know,
But you really don't.
How lonely this road can be,
Walking man's road.
You walk down this road,
Is so lonely and cold now,
I knew so may but they left me here,
So now I walk alone
I am a soldier,
Walking down this road alone,
Walking the man's road.
I am a soldier wounded soldier,
I no longer fight,
I walked beside so many,
Now far ahead I can no longer see.
Walking man's road.
I am not counted as a free soul,
My soul is trapped here now and forever more,
A soldier wounded so I must give up the fight,
Now I hear the wind call my name,
I Won't give up now, My family counts on me,
I stand straight and walk tall,
I am free, as the wind that freely blows,
I know now that I must let the wind carry me home.
Walking man's road..
poem by Misty Evans
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lonely Road
Tis dark and lonely,
Walking here alone.
This cold stony road
I have made my own.
Tis where the brave few
Dare to venture thru.
They walk here in search-
Search of life anew.
The coldness chills inside;
I grit my teeth and hold on.
Though sad and long, I make this road my own
Tis lonely out here,
To lean on, there's far and few.
So many times, i cry,
Screaming, 'Where are you? '
I want to turn around,
Quit and walk away.
The pressure is too much-
Too much for me to stay.
But then i see, o'er the hill
A faint glimering light.
Hope springs eternal
In the darkest of nights.
You come close and
I feel you take my hand,
Pull me up, help me fight.
You help me stand.
'My child, ' you whisper,
'I walked this road, still do.
Only now i walk it
Just to help you.'
I feel his might all around
As with faith renewed i push on.
Raise my hands high
As i cry,
'This lonely road i make my own.'
Let everyone leave me, l
Let them walk away.
I'm getting out of here, I wasn't meant to stay.
This lonely road is the only way home.
Walk it I must, even if I'm alone.
So hear it now, as I toil by, this lonely road, I make my own!
It's pain and hardship
I will do my best to bear,
I will keep pushing on
When there's no one nowhere.
Cause this lonely road
I made my own.
poem by Joses Tirtabudi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Flesh Your Spirit Out In Starmud
I flesh your spirit out in starmud. No creator.
No created. Between the leaf and the sky
I mix the colour of your eyes on the palette
of a rainbow that let's the darkness
sit at the same fire it does. Because the spirit is free.
I hang crescent moons from your earlobes.
I release the sacred deltas of small night creeks
into your veins, and talk to deserts on the moon
about the manes of sidereal lions for your hair.
I search the darkening hills at night for a black rose
with eyelids as cool as mushrooms, and lips,
that are more the wings of auguries, birds and bows
disappearing into the distance to imagine you
than they are the words and arrows
of a flightless heart dipped in stars that don't ignite.
I'm a blind man in a room, painting eyes,
trying to grow flowers out of last year's fragrances,
interpret every syllable and sacred pixel
of your red ochre glyphs of lipstick
I used to bury myself in when I lived in caves with bears
and rubbed the stuff all over my face
like blood and corn flowers under the hearthstone.
Now I'm a dragon rising from my urn of ashes
like a volcano of serpent-fire out of the chrysalis
of my crystal skull, looking for signs, hints, clues,
any whisper of linear B as to who you are
in the shadows of the sundials of the mountains
you go walking with at night with your dogs.
And the stars you must see in the clear-eyed desert
when the temperature drops and all you've got
to keep you warm from the inside out is not
you in my arms, but this small dropp of blood
in our chests, this cosmic thermometer of a heart
on the night ward of a perilous greenhouse.
And I went to a cactus with thorns like a voodoo doll
with oracular powers to ask about the shape
of the body I should root you in like an hourglass in sand
and she said to me, a rootless peach tree on the moon.
And ever since, I've touched your skin
with eyes at the end of my fingertips
like a new world gnostic gospel for the blind
that can see you in the flesh, naked, sublime
like a desert island it would be worth drowning for
just to be washed up on the curvature of your dunes
like a starfish when the mind comes back to its senses
like the first sign of life on the moon in a long time.
You emerge like wild irises of hydrogen out of
this cloud of unknowing, this cocoon of nebularity
like one star among many in an almost perfect vacuum.
I can see you. I can almost taste you. I can feel
your last lover trying to squeeze into the chrysalis
of the infinite straitjacket of your last exorcism
as if he'd finally run out of dawns as alibis
for why he didn't want to leave just yet. Who
hasn't stood in the doorway of Orion
sinking down in the west? For some
the threshold's the longest part of the journey
and they make a nadir of everything at zenith
by letting their horizons down like a crosswalk
waiting for a change of colour blind traffic lights
that don't know, for all that Stop. Go. Maybe so.,
anymore about passage than the road does
or a starmap that always certain of where it's going
but never has a reason why it should
jump the gun like a star and get ahead of its light
like a car on a long dark dusty country road at night,
one headlight out, trying not to hit a doe
in the glare of the sun at midnight
on its way out of town, whether that's up, down,
or omnidirectionally radiant as the Pleiades in tears.
Drift and mingle, merge, enhance,
dance, glance, shadow and glow,
still more ghost around you than I am a mirror,
I know what it means to be summoned to a seance
and not know what to wear. What lifemask to put on
like a Mason jar full of fireflies trying to decide
what constellation has the fewest short circuits in it
and is the least likely to lead anyone astray
when the lights go on and off like a fickle tranformer
or a Cepheid variable that was just born that way.
And here, now, your ears and your hands, your arms
and bones of your own that don't owe a thing
to anyone else's bird cage after the bird has flown.
And now I think I've got the eyes just right
but it's the heart calling its rivers back to it
like the sea I can't quite find the likeness of
even when I appeal to the most ancient galaxies
in the Hubble mirror for a similitude of love
that might serve as the understudy of a metaphor
in an expanding universe that keeps exceeding
the boundary stones of the stars at zenith
and even the chipped cup of the moon full
and a skull that used to juggle mirrors
like shattered insights into reality for those
so spiritually inclined at harvest time to listen
to the blue moonrise peering through the cedars
like an effulgent pearl of wisdom shedding her skin
like a mystic in rapture on the dark side she keeps to herself.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Sun, The Moon And Stars
Ah-ooh, ah-ah-ooh, ah-ah-ooh, ah-ah-oh-ooh {2x}
It's late and i'm running out of clever things 2 say
The kind that will bring a girl like u 2 tears
There's only one more glass of this ros
Let's throw it on the fire with our past
And dance the night away until...
The sun, the moon and stars
Don't seem as far as they did yesterday
The sun, the moon and stars
In love we r - 4ever, always
It's late and i think it's about time 4 u and me 2 get closer...
2 get closer than we ever did before (ooh)
Whenever there's a tide u can let it ride inside your interior
Lay back, relax upon my shore (ooh)
Ooh-ooh baby, i wanna make love 2 u right here
One inside the other one - no fear, we're here until...
The sun, the moon and stars
Don't seem as far as they did yesterday
The sun, the moon and stars
In love we r - 4ever, always
Blow out this candle sunlight
And come lay down next 2 me
And paint another rainbow - ooh-wee (ooh-wee)
Eclipse this light with extasy
[...]
Come on, come on
Let's lay down
I'm walking out of what to say
That kind of lucky rhyme
Make a chippy wanna say:
whisper in the belly
2 me rocking ros?
Do u like i do
Come on and dance the night away
Let's lay before they get to close the door
U and me, we got 2 get down on the floor
Come on, let the tide ride in and off the shore
I wanna love u once again - and then some more
Lay your head back i got my hand behind your head
Like u do the limbo supple on the bouncy bed
Let's bouncing on the summer spring
And when u start 2 fall
U come like a cold winter due in montreal
(come on baby)
(the sun, the moon and stars) - hey-hey, hey-hey
(the tide ride) - hey-hey, hoo-hoo
(the tide ride - hou)
The sun, the moon and stars
Don't seem as far as they did yesterday
The sun, the moon and stars
In love we r - 4ever, always
The sun, the moon and stars
Don't seem as far as they did yesterday
The sun, the moon and stars
In love we r - 4ever, always
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Obliterations Of Beauty And We Weep
Obliterations of beauty and we weep
for what cannot long abide in us
because we, not the rose, are the ones
who are passing so irrevocably away
into an abyss that doesn't
take the measure of anything.
The lake knows the time
by the wingspan of its waterbirds.
I note the location of the stars
in the rotation of the Big Dipper.
And there are crickets
that will yield the time as well.
Time, too, like human solitude
is embodied in the things of this world.
Time perishes when we do,
is born with us, matures,
and embraces our ends as its own nature.
Time sets its pace to the passage of us.
We are the muse, the motivator, the demi-urge
of its passion for shedding
the leaves and flowers and moon like skin.
And we're the ones who grow infinite
at the speed of light so that everything stops
immeasurably from there on everafter.
All things returning to the one, and the one,
returning to transcendence. Which is why
I come here this late at night when the stars
are as far from people as they can be
and yet they're still as intimate to me
as my eyes are. A mutually creative continuum.
The star makes the eye I need to see it by.
I am the fragrance of the wildflowers
and the adamantine insights of the rocks.
The singing master of the nightbirds.
The oracle in the leprous skull of the raccoon.
And my heart is one long, continuous moonrise
when I think of how the dead still animate me.
How they cling to my heart like ants to a peony
to let me know when it's time to bloom.
The dead trees house the mosquitoes and the herons.
The fallen pine cones, the seed koans of Zen masters
under their brittle eyelids waiting for the fire
to crack them deciduously open into evergreens.
I don't lament the passivity of the dead in my life
because I put them to good use in their capacity
as enlightened mentors who urge me
to live splendidly whatever I encounter in the world
for all our sakes. I can be the blossom and the fruit
on the dead branch, as easily as a red-winged blackbird
sings from the green and leafless alike.
Not a bush wolf raises its voice up to the moon
that I don't feel its distant longing in my own throat
like a sacred syllable half way to blossoming among the dead
who always hear it like an auspicious beginning
to the summons of their leave-taking in the fall,
to the deeper greeting in the meaning of farewell.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Looking Backward And Lying Down
in this kind of love i look backward
to find you
so filled with desire and i lie down to
fulfill a promise
tonight
the stars watch on this agony
and the moon is filled with envy
on this new kind of love
between us
beyond them
in the books inside its pages written
long ago
by those who died and we were told
they must not be remembered
vampires, and wolves, and biting bats
moaning the nights through
and howling
for the denial
tonight between us we shall speak no word
the world takes a step forward
and reverses its orbit
we lead in this reversal
we tell them there is more to this
more, more, and as usual
insatiable.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gentle The Stars And The Town Asleep
Gentle the stars and the town asleep.
No stranger at the gate. No door ajar.
The windows deep in their own affairs.
Flowers thicken the hot night air
with pheromones of sex and death
that follow you all the way down the street
like homeless kittens and lonely junkies.
Walking my solitude off alone,
the cold stone of the moon overhead,
the first night bird I've heard tonight
singing high in the leaves of an elm
strung like a guitar with power lines
and in my heart, a child of longing,
the half-finished spectre of a poem to you.
The streetlamps bud like day lilies
but nothing blooms in the tungsten light
though insects gather in impotent frenzies,
my poem to you makes love through its eyes
to the leaf and the star and the stone
seeking out images of you to adorn
this figment of desire in a shrine of thorns.
A woman dreams in a house far away.
The road grows darker and longer
out among the fields where the stars
wax brighter than the themes of a poet
igniting like fireflies down by the river
he sits by nursing his imagination
on the night shift of the inconceivable.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Young Moon
Written by dewey bunnell and gerry beckley, 1994
Found on hourglass and highway.
Fascination with the light in your hair
A celebration, nothing else can compare
An invitation to share my life with you
Stepping forward, reaching out for your hand
Hear the music of the sea on the sand
Like a vision rising out of the blue
Looking like a
Young moon in the heavens
Mother to the stars
Young moon guide us tonight
Elevation to a place high above
The combination, you and me and our love
Determination to spend my life with you
Looking at you face to face with my world
A quiet beauty not like just any girl
Moving slowly from the dark into view
Looking like a
Young moon in the heavens
Mother to the stars
Young moon guide us tonight
We are here in this moment
Shining twice as bright
We are here for you to see
Bright lights, long shadows
Tonight, we can handle
All of the doubts we may hold inside
It is a new day, things are different now
Weve got each other
Well keep looking for that young moon
We are here in this moment
Shining twice as bright
We are here for all to see
Young moon in the heavens
Mother to the stars
Young moon guide us tonight
We are here in this moment
Shining twice as bright ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sun Moon & Stars
Ah-ooh, ah-ah-ooh, ah-ah-ooh, ah-ah-oh-ooh {2x}
Its late and Im running out of clever things 2 say
The kind that will bring a girl like u 2 tears
Theres only one more glass of this ros
Lets throw it on the fire with our past
And dance the night away until...
The sun, the moon and stars
Dont seem as far as they did yesterday
The sun, the moon and stars
In love we r - 4ever, always
Its late and I think its about time 4 u and me 2 get closer...
2 get closer than we ever did before (ooh)
Whenever theres a tide u can let it ride inside your interior
Lay back, relax upon my shore (ooh)
Ooh-ooh baby, I wanna make love 2 u right here
One inside the other one - no fear, were here until...
The sun, the moon and stars
Dont seem as far as they did yesterday
The sun, the moon and stars
In love we r - 4ever, always
Blow out this candle sunlight
And come lay down next 2 me
And paint another rainbow - ooh-wee (ooh-wee)
Eclipse this light with extasy
[...]
Come on, come on
Lets lay down
Im walking out of what to say
That kind of lucky rhyme
Make a chippy wanna say:
whisper in the belly
2 me rocking ros?
Do u like I do
Come on and dance the night away
Lets lay before they get to close the door
U and me, we got 2 get down on the floor
Come on, let the tide ride in and off the shore
I wanna love u once again - and then some more
Lay your head back I got my hand behind your head
Like u do the limbo supple on the bouncy bed
Lets bouncing on the summer spring
And when u start 2 fall
U come like a cold winter due in montreal
(come on baby)
(the sun, the moon and stars) - hey-hey, hey-hey
(the tide ride) - hey-hey, hoo-hoo
(the tide ride - hou)
The sun, the moon and stars
Dont seem as far as they did yesterday
The sun, the moon and stars
In love we r - 4ever, always
The sun, the moon and stars
Dont seem as far as they did yesterday
The sun, the moon and stars
In love we r - 4ever, always
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Kite
Come up and be a kite
Beelzebub is aching in my belly-o.
My feet are heavy and Im rooted in my wellios.
And I want to get away and go
From all these mirror windows.
I look at eye level, it isnt good enough.
And then I find it out when I take a good look up.
Theres a hole in the sky with a big eyeball
Calling me:
Come up and be a kite,
On a diamond flight!
A diamond kite, a diamond kite.
Ooh, what a diamond!
A diamond kite
On a diamond flight.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the moon, over the moon!
I feel a rush along my body, like a bullet.
Im 2-d after a push-and-pull feeling.
And I want to get back to safe home:
I love the homeland dome.*
I got no limbs, Im like a feather on the wind.
Well, Im not sure if I want to be up here, at all.
And Id like to be back on the ground,
But I dont know how to get down--down--down!
Come up and be a kite,
On a diamond flight!
A diamond kite, a diamond kite.
Ooh, what a diamond!
A diamond kite
On a diamond flight.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the lights, under the moon.
Over the moon, over the moon!
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Poem-1 Shine O Moon! Shine.
Shine O Moon! Shine brightly now
for my beloved
is coming to kindle
the fire of love.
Shine O Moon! Shine brightly now.
Unending seemed to be the nights
succumbing to death were diminishing lights
his appearance illuminates now
my temple of love.
Shine O Moon! Shine brightly now.
O moon, play hide and seek
I have him, my love to share
behind the clouds hide you moon
he takes refuge beneath my lustrous hair.
Shine O Moon! Shine brightly if you care
Sing a melody in company of the stars
and sleep with the moonshine
my lap is for him to sleep
as he is only mine.
AS HE IS ONLY MINE.
Shine O Moon! Shine brightly shine.
(2010)
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Moon poems
1
sometimes I wish
dear moon
sometimes I wish
the earth had five moons
and all so positioned
we can see
one every night and then in twos and in threes
never four (just so for mystery’s sake)
and then all five
all in perfect alignment once a year
just three nights so
and then we’ll all here on earth
go ga ga ga
or moo moo moo looooney
those nights and go crazy
and climb up trees and enact our ape ancestry …
and don’t you be jealous
I asked for four others;
I just want more of you –
just never seem to get enough of you
2
I see you moon
this cool autumn morning
you sing over the river and trees
and you are supported
by your belly-dance troupe of stars
3
ah poor moon
you're just hanging around
and through no fault of your own
you attract all these weirdos
these lunatics
and the vampires and the blood-sucking bats
and the sleep-walkers and murderers
and the flesh-eaters
(the moon made me do it!)
and the lunatics
and the werewolves
and even stock-pickers
and wild women who want to kill Orpheus
O poor moon
you're just about your own radiant business
and all these freaks put it at your doorstep
4
darling moon
dear moon
do not be offended
we have stripped you
down to rock and a plain face
and we show pictures of you
in black, gray and white;
and though a writer of verse,
in this verse,
I strip you of your romance and aura;
be not angry
for after all,
you will understand,
we are children who come after
Galileo
and Neil Armstrong
5
You know
lovely moon
Li Po
was drunk
and he paddled out to you
seeing your reflection
and he jumped in to the lake
embracing you in the waters
and so he drowned;
but,
you know
loving moon,
I will not come to you thus;
instead you know my time
and you will drown
in the lake shadows of my quiet
6
I will not sing you a song of praise
O gentle moon
there are too many modern people around
too many enlightened minds tonight
they reckon they don't need your light;
there are too many elect
and too many going to Heaven
and if I sang in praise of you
they will throw their Blessed Books at me
and they will say
'You moon-worshiper, you go to hell! '
(they fancy words like idolator)
O so most divine moon
O godly moon
O most sacred moon
I shall not sing in praise of you;
there are too many bloodthirsty wolves around
7
cold moon
I am sad;
is it you,
distant moon,
who makes me so
tonight?
8
you are there moon;
I thought you were not
and I went to sleep
and I sighed: 'She will not come, not tonight;
she has some other lover';
and I went to sleep
and then much later now I wake up
and you've come, out there
and your light full within my room
and your fingers on every cell of my being
9
you witness my dying
as you see my life, my hopes and desires
and all my embarrassments
and my achievements too,
dear moon;
O quiet presence,
O radiant presence all one's life;
and what do you look at these days
in my life
darling moon
what do you see?
you who have seen the child grow old
and you hang out beaming by the window
patiently
to see one more death
to add to the countless you witness
since the day you came
10
M for moon
M for Man
M for Money;
and at last Man has seen the moonlight
and now they know
Man can make Money out of the Moon
11
Moon, I hear you are moving away
Why moon, are you moving away?
Don’t you like your neighbor
earth so blue and green
and earthlings so adorable?
Did you not come so near
to get to know your neighbor well?
why then are you moving, moon?
maybe you’ve come to know us well
I hear you’re moving slowly,
so slowly your neighbor doesn’t notice;
how considerate of you
Anyway, I’ll be gone before you
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Stars and the Moon
Stars and the Moon
Why do you come so soon?
I lay there unable to shut my eyes
This something I despise
Stars and the Moon
Behind my eyelids there is a dream that awaits
My head spins, but i am not elate
Stars and the Moon
It's a horrible dream
The one about that night just bursting at the seam
My eyes are heavy now
As if I'm forced to obey, at it's feet, I bow
Stars and the Moon
I can feel my body tense
Instantaneously pulled into a trance quite immense
Stars and the Moon
I hear the screams of that night
That abhorrent deed, I tried to put up a fight
Stars and the Moon
I hate when you come
day and sun is my time to feel numb
poem by Naomi Deluca
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The Lament Of The Last Train Whistle
The lament of the last train whistle
has disappeared into the distance
mournfully looking for its lost child.
October night in the woods
around an old fire pit of prophetic skulls
blowing ghosts of smoke in my face
that bring me to tears, a neolithic calendar
of all the old and new moons that have passed.
So many, so much, that used to matter
doesn't anymore. Dream figures
that shed their skins like the longer wavelengths
of watersnakes in an infra-red mindscape
of serpent fire dying like the sun
that can tell the hour by the taste of its ashes.
I throw more well-dried thresholds on the fire
like branches that used to be green with the tears
of sweeter departures and arrivals over the years.
All the light's jumped from orbitals
of the tree rings that sag like bags
under the eyes knotted like islands
in the heartwood of their xylem and phloem.
Here where the river parts like long hair
on the skull of a stone, I sit like a demon
in a sacred place, clarified, alert, and alone
as any nocturnal animal in the woods.
The chalkdust of my bones trying
to connect the stars to their constellations
snagged in the trees like the rags of spiderwebs
on the blackboard of a starmap as wide as the sky
and deep as the subconscious of the Burgess Shale.
It's not a betrayal to let go of your faith
when you had none in the first place
and you don't need a parachute on the edge of space
to plunge from paradise, or a weather balloon
of a bad Christian poet to shepherd Dante
like a moon out of hell. Be yourself,
especially when nobody's watching
except that same drone in the sky
that occasionally flashes a flake of silver off
its stone cold third eye to flint your awareness
that it's still there in the cosmic background
like a witness to your dreams and schemes
for a luxuriously appointed life of enlightenment.
Be yourself. The direct copulative imperative
that has supplanted the light as the first word
out of the mouth of creation. Be yourself.
And then let there be light by the side of a good fire
to let you see who that is as acutely
as you can see in the dark who that is not.
The migration of the Canada geese might seem
a broken rosary of new moons calling out
the names of God to you, and one unknown,
or silhouetted against the moon they might
suggest the afterbirth attached to a cut umbilical cord
and your heart might feel reborn somewhere
in the autumn of your life, a child of the fire,
a flower in the full bloom of its solitude
dancing with its own mercurial apparition
on the waters of life in the mindstream
always out of season enough to lag behind
so it can tell the time by the widening gaps in its passage
as it's waiting for the night to catch up to its own shining
like a thief of fire unchained from the rock
that broke the glass window of its transfixed seeing
with a meteor in the hands of an enlightened delinquent.
Or you might read the falling leaves as occult lifelines
on a Tarot deck of overlapping lifespans
like the scales of a dragon playing solitaire
beside the small inferno of a signal fire to the stars,
to let them know you're coming faster
than the time it takes for a thought to make it
all the way to death and back to birth again
as if you were pinging your emotions
like stray wavelengths from the oceans of your awareness
off the horns of the moon the way
you used to skip rocks out over the sea as a boy
to see how long they would keep on going
like a waterclock of stone before they sank
like the flying fish of the hard, cold facts of life back into
the numinous depths of your collective unknowing
where the stars aren't fixed to anything that isn't
flowing along with them like the wind on the mindstream
or a small fire catching its breath in the silence and the solitude
of so much radiance, before it's on its way again for good.
poem by Patrick White
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