Sunday, January 19, 2014

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 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

Deanna Hopper

2013, Fourth quarter, Selected Poems, 1 through 5

the train passes
slowly, slowly
outside the zoo fence

--Ellen Skagerberg

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


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