Tuesday, January 6, 2009

July (b, c, d, e)

July (e)

Another Revolt Against The Moon

Maybe I don't want to write full moon poetry
Maybe I'm not in the mood
Maybe I'm not feeling it right now . . .
Everyone 'gets it' except me. . .
Jesus Christ!

What makes that glowing rock in the sky
So Goddamned special?
Why is it the arbiter of depth?
I curse you!
I deny your power
Your tides are a fiction!

Why can't I write an ode to the rotting cottage cheese in
my fridge?

"Oh, wonderful stinking slurry of putrescent cheese rind
Harboring billions of farting and dying bacteria
I've put you in a can, in the fridge, to consume you . . .
To spoon you up, slather you with jelly, and gulp you
down. . . "
What do you think of that?
Do you shake your fists wildly at me?
Stomp around the house like a child with no toys?
Do you call me your god. . .
Your muse. . .

Sometimes I just don't feel inspired
Sometimes I don't know what I am feeling
Alone in this room,
Engaged in a battle of wits with this fungus filled
Finally, there is music in the air!
And it's not coming from the cheese.

Eric Moes

July (d)


trip into dark mountains

over which the moon looms

but not for long as

the sun rises and strips

of willows are fresh with green flashes


July (c)

full moon over the high sierra washes out Jupiter
fairy festival sparkles on the rippling lake
a good friend's wife is sitting just a little too close
the water moon stretches between reflections near and
touch, and retreat

- - anon

July (b)

Full Moon

They say
The moon was ripped out of the Earth
In collision with a planet long gone

Still molten
She began her gravitational embrace
close in
Fourteen times bigger in the sky

The Earth spun faster back then
And tidal bulges flung the young moon
Like a lasso in space
Slowing her rotation
And opening the embrace

Still she circles out
Two inches more each year
And the Earth imperceptibly
spins slower

One day
In the great distant future
They will be locked in a gaze
Earth showing one face to the moon
As the moon now does to the earth

Walking past the redwoods
On the bank of the Gualala
The full moon would not let me go

I felt the longing of her violent birth
As she followed me
From tree to tree

- - Vince Whitcomb

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