And This Concludes Our 2013 Program

Dear Friends -

Full Moon has had a really exciting year. The quality and quantity of submissions continues to grow. Our most recent chapbook, just released, is beautiful! Do please look at it! Go to blurb.com and search The Full Moon Poetry Society Selected Poems of 2012. It contains the work of twenty-five poets, writing about living a life of Practice. There are a dozen amazing photos by Vikki Kinmont Kath. That book is available in four formats, in a range of prices. And one of the formats is an e-reader version!        

Below, we offer you the final poems Selected in 2013.  They, too, will be available in book form in the not too distant future. And if you've been thinking about submitting a poem to us - do it! Join us in conversation! Find Full Moon under Groups at Tricycle.com.


Deanna Hopper

2013, Fourth quarter, Selected Poems, 1 through 5

the train passes

slowly, slowly

outside the zoo fence

--Ellen Skagerberg

midnight

the old widow

eats jam from a jar

--Ellen Skagerberg

Squirrels in my yard
practice rough sex and other
forms of thuggery

--Richard Velez

Wor Wonton Tanka

It's a wor wonton

sort of day in this city

I'll warm my hands

over a bowl of hot broth

and sip astringent green tea

--Wulf Losee

full moon over coit tower just before street lamps light
--Gary Gach

2013, Fourth Quarter, Sixth Selection

As I crossed the bridge, a hairy hand came out. 

"Stop, pay troll." 

I gave him 5 euros. He put it not in his purse but in a jar. 

"It's for the poor. They are very hungry," he said. 

"This week Africa. Maybe next week your country."

 He scratched. "When you get to the other side of the bridge, you get it back." 

I looked, saw no one giving back. He saw me looking.

"Not THIS bridge," he said.

 --Birrell Walsh

2013, Fourth Quarter, Seventh Selection

Thickets

If I've ever gotten wiser,

it's when I've learned to

love the thickets, and

forgotten about the summits.

When I bushwhack my

arduous way, 

by loving the bushwhacking,

even coming to befriend

the bloody scrape of thorn

upon my skin.

And hesitate to leave those

scrapes behind,

even despite the old

familiar tingle of freedom,

making its deliberate way

into the back door of my

bloodstream, foretelling of

the magnificent clearing

just ahead.

Even then, I go for one

last circle through the brambles,

let thorns once more draw

the blood that

wards away hubris,

for good measure,

for the gods,

who appreciate thoughtfulness.

And finally emerge,

half pretending I haven't,

knowing it is nothing,

though loving,

with my whole force,

everything there revealed,

new and old and all,

and committing to it.    

--Brian Burke