October 13, 2011

that moon is a cliche’/
howling wolves rave./
that lunar muse that pulls away at;
tide, et al  to write all,
& to draw in a cave.

a young man must walk./
Late night./ streetlight to streetlight/
blurry bleak alleys/ not just black/ just dark.
It watches..wit nesses/
pushfollows him home.

An old man must watch./
Late night./ from his door down his driveway/
blurily peeks always/
up to his moonscape/
cloudblanket backs his bloom
queen anne’s lace against the face of his
luminous Orchid.

 

.

 

.

 

capturing   “Luna Aurelia”/ courtesy of meaxalon

http://meaxylon.wordpress.com/2011/07/19/moon-of-gold/

.

.

.

.     .     FROM  DARK

.

I’ll start. It’s so dark  you’ll know

Your thefts of thoughts

There  left to grow

Then grabbed!

Black  blossoms

Profuse

Still proceeding from its seeds  plus

Silence, from its silence.

.

.

Upon  a  pond

Where big calm mists meet surfaces

Water bug clouds  dance down aways

And I stand to see through tree trances

This moon is broken enough to lend to substance

For  near and far bearings,  distances,

And  at first. existences.

.

I swear here’s where the strings swell in

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2 Responses to “”

  1. Sherry said

    I don’t stop by often enough to tell you hope much I love your poetry. Thank you for touching me so very often.

  2. dantrewear said

    Scary; I am in the first poem, time and time again. A good write, bro’… peace, –D

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