The Full Moon Poetry Society

1st December Selection

2012-01-12T15:13:00.000-08:00

The World Is In B&W:

“Cold or Not, God Is Present.*”

When I first slow danced with you

Saving all my love for you

We could not seem to get

Our dips and grinds in synch

At first at the time of that lunar eclipse

I thought it was the nervousness of anticipation

But now, but now years later

During another night

With the moon doing its disappearing act

Long after you’ve disappeared

Into the night’s dark embrace

It dawns on me

How presentient that slow dance really was

--Richard Velez

* Carl Jung wrote: “Called or not, God is Present.”

2012-01-12T15:11:00.000-08:00

Moonlit snow carpet

Alert senses all attuned,

Sudden geese shadows

--Kirk Rhoads

Riff on Tu Fu’s On Seeing a Landscape Painted by My Commissioner Cousin for Li Ku

Glorious destinations in the travel magazines,

all saturated color and young jet-set glitterati,

I see these in the doctor’s waiting room.

The cursus honorum stutters to an end:

no there there, or only golf or Florida, perhaps,

a home before the home.

[the cursus honorum was the set career path for a Roman citizen who chose to enter public life]

--Patrick Mizelle

4th and 5th December Selections

2012-01-12T15:09:00.000-08:00

The pharmacy tech—so good looking—

has filled my prescription.

I linger near, reading the labels

on aspirin and vitamin bottles.

Should I ask him--I wonder--

where, where on these shelves

are the cures for lost youth?

--Patrick Mizelle

teatime in Tokyo:
the sweetest apple slices,
from Fukushima.

--Glen Snyder

1st November Selection

2012-01-12T15:05:00.000-08:00

Look, it’s the brightest fairy ring I’ve ever seen!

Is that Jupiter, shining through that lens?

What is Jupiter doing there?

Carrying a big old sign saying “Eat at Joe’s?”

Old merciful fatso,

Jupiter is expansive, generous, kind—

any work done under this influence

can be expected to go well, very well, with extra blessings

as unexpected as the me of civilization

Inanna brought back to Sumer from her Uncle God, Enke

Unpacking so much more than had been given

Once the White Quay had been reached.

We gaze up at you

in these uncertain times of change

and laugh with joy

and a sudden hope

--Ruth Temple

2nd November Selection

2012-01-12T15:04:00.000-08:00

The View

I jump from the burning tower

From the ninety-sixth floor

I hear seagulls and sirens

Traffic and silence

I see the panorama of

Sunlight on the harbor

I smell jet fuel

And autumn on the way

The crisp apple air

Kisses and caresses me

The taste of that breakfast donut

Eaten at my desk lingers

Relic of a former life

I think blessings on you

Mannahatta and

O how clear the sky

I spread my arms wide

Live and love and die

--Patrick Mizelle

3rd and 4th November Selections

2012-01-12T15:00:00.000-08:00

there is no secret hidden in the world

that bird is just a bird

that orange an orange

more beautiful than any mystery

it comes it goes it interacts

it is it is enough just so

--Patrick Mizelle

The World Is In B&W:

I'm glad; believe me

for foolishness,

it kind of goes hand in hand

with the seeking of wisdom doesn't it

--Richard Velez

Fifth November Selection

2012-01-12T14:59:00.000-08:00

In the Committee Room

Knife-like straight, patrician grace,
Your gravitas the warrior’s seal,
The sun of distant battlefields
Engraved upon your marble face.

A volley of shutters and flashing lights,
You commandeer the camera’s gaze,
The senators begin with praise,
This bravest heart in freedom’s fight.

They flatter as they question you,
Your voice, intrepid, reassures,
The senators to you defer,
The glittering myth comes marching through.

Our nation is a shining sword,
We’ll civilize the savage land,
Destiny itself commands
Our sacred purpose be restored.

Far from the Committee Room
The shining sword’s a butcher’s blade,
The cord of discipline has frayed,
The guiltless fill the common tomb.

The guiltless who were in the way,
The blind, psychotic juggernaut,
The sacred purpose, all forgot.
And all for what? Well, who can say?

--Dan D’Agostino

October 2011

2011-10-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

Greetings!

October 2011 has brought us many wonderful poems. There are two from Glen Snyder, one of them a haunting meditation on a specifically Buddhist image. Constant contributor Patrick Mizelle submitted five short poems on uniquely Japanese qualities. As with candy, we decided to cheat a little and count two of these as one Selection, so we could have more. New submitter Ruth Temple delights us with a sly literary joke. Our Canadian correspondent Dan D'Agostino returns with his carefully honed work.

Next month, November, will be very exciting for us. Of course, we will be selecting our November poems. But that's not all! Our distinguished friend and contributor, Poet Peter Levitt, has made us a present of three autographed copies of his beloved book One Hundred Butterflies. In November, we will consider all the poems we chose in 2011; a Second Prize Winner will recieve one of these marvelous books; a Grand Prize winner will receive two, one to keep and one for holiday giving!

First Selection, October 2011

2011-10-22T11:24:00.000-07:00

the coin clatters in the heart of the bowl.
held within folds of clothing
there are passing motor scooters, cars, pedestrians
breezing by on this warm humid evening
by the streetcurb
his stillness bathed in the colors of fluorescent signs
and the last remnants of sunlight
the night markets of Taipei just opening
and the temple, whatever temple,
nowhere to be seen
the young moonfaced patchrobed monk
actually moves
we look deeply into each others’ eyes
each with our hands raised in gassho.

--Glen Snyder

Second October Selection

2011-10-22T11:22:00.000-07:00

Atacama
(south of Iquique)

stepping through the ruins
of saltpeter mines:

broken glass
sun-bleached leather shoes
tin cans scattered
over hardened desert floor.

darkened wood crosses
with the names of children
erased
by a century’s worth of
dust devils.

the wood ties of the railbed
long ago removed,
the roofing
of the crumbling adobe
mining camps
also scavenged.

a mountain-sized
horizon of slag pile
monument
hauled up upon itself
by brute force and sweat

the sun drops
behind the
coastal cordillera
and suddenly I am
in bitter cold and
golden light.

the full moon
is due east now.
in darkness
the moon’s halo
is only swirling dust.

--Glen Snyder

Third October Selection

2011-10-22T11:20:00.000-07:00

This is just to say

I have used

all the Moon words

that were in

the paint-box

and which

you were probably

saving

to make poems with

Forgive me

They were luminous

lusciously liminal

and so Full.

--Ruth Temple

to fully appreciate this sly literary joke, read This Is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams

Fourth October Selection, Two Short Poems

2011-10-22T11:14:00.000-07:00

Wa*

the dinner party guests

with a little laugh and shock

are suddenly aware

it’s long past twelve o’clock

*group harmony

--Patrick Mizelle

Iki*

tomorrow morning

half the other girls

will have their hair up

in a french twist too

*chic, stylish

--Patrick Mizelle

Fifth October Selection

2011-10-22T11:08:00.000-07:00

The Sea Turtles’ Return

Expelled by the rhythmic sea they return en masse

And laboring, scrape shallow holes in the earth.

They lay their eggs and leave and three weeks pass

Till the sea birds’ ravenous cries announce the birth.

Synchronized in sudden, silent riot,

Breaking forth they infiltrate the night,

And beckoned by the ocean's turbulent quiet

Are fed to the pounding surf's relentless appetite.

--Dan D’Agostino

September 2011, Selections 1 & 2

2011-10-01T16:34:00.000-07:00

this morning

autumn

spread between the knees

of a mountain.

--Paula Viale

harvest moon
when deer roam
bleed me deep red
with canted antler
a back strap in my freezer

--Judith Armbruster

Third September Selection

2011-10-01T16:12:00.000-07:00

full moon over borders

the politician of the moment
overstocked and left behind everywhere
alongside
mushrooms of illinois
and forgotten poets
all shuffled
in with
manga and lost love.

the gee-dubya bio
lurks between
recipes from
puerto rico
and a cover portrait,
dog-eared,
of the daughter of trujillo.

there are
wookies, seashells,
talking heads, border collies,
self-help,
princess diana and
the grateful dead.

and there is
the entire foreign language section
its shelves completely bare now
but for a discarded,
tan, woman's
pantyhose stocking
second aisle, third shelf up
gathered up
like a half-open rose
and placed,
apparently with great care,
on the fake oak
shelving.

--Glen Snyder

Fourth September Selection

2011-10-01T16:08:00.000-07:00

I've missed my connection; idling guiltily.

On the radio: gun imagery.

Outside my car window: hot asphalt and cool shade.

Corner Crepe Myrtles scream pink in late summer

by Victorian gingerbread. Pine and palm,

those strange California companions,

mingle urbanely, as they must,

for someone has planted them here,

with the deep dense native Oak

as the afternoon burns and hardens.

No other life than this

and how strange and few our choices really are--

this is exactly it: the sticky car seat,

a burring power edger noise,

this mistake and all my mistakes sitting here with me,

wasting time no one has, together.

A life so fragile a finger flick could destroy it,

caught, like an insect in amber.

--Deanna Hopper

Fifth September Selection

2011-10-01T15:45:00.000-07:00

September 1st

Walking up
to your home.
The wet grass
stains my pants.
Smoke rises from
your chimney
and I am already
worn out.
Resting against
a valley oak.
Fall is passing.
The thought
of our friendship
keeps me going.
It's 6 a.m.
Drinking grappa
for breakfast.
Our conversation
bright as crystal.

--TuFu, retranslated by Brian Howlett

August 2011, First Selection

2011-08-25T16:40:00.000-07:00

The Stage

Sitting in the middle of quiet timber
the moon- a perfect white peach
spying on us through late summer leaves.
You drank from the bottle
and I from a glass
guzzling the cheap red wine
to ease the twisting knots in our stomachs.

We read poems by Plath,
reciting each line loudly as if we were on stage
with only the stars as our audience.

The fire was never big enough for you
and as you frantically continued to throw in more wood,
snapping large branches over your knee,
I saw all our inhibitions melting away in that pit.
Months of desire and tension fueling a fire nine feet tall.

The words flew out of your mouth
like the orange embers escaping into the sky.

You told me you loved me.

And like a strong chemical reaction to too much wine
and a lifetime of never having heard those words from a man
I felt my body levitate
and saw my blood pumping strongly throughout my veins.

Looking broken down and defeated
you sat down next to me
pulling my chair close to you
and I rested my head on your shoulder.

At that moment I felt as if the curtains would close
and a loud applause would erupt between the trees.
But we weren’t on stage
and it wasn’t an act.
Silence and fumes consumed us,
sending us into a deep, drunken sleep.

When daylight broke
and the piles of wood had turned to soft ash
and the empty wine bottles littered a bed of pine needles
a wave of reality swept over me.

I smoked my last cigarette
while watching a soft pink fog rise up from the lake.
He loves me.
And soon he’ll be leaving.

--Ashley Warren

August 2011, Second Selection

2011-08-25T16:36:00.000-07:00

Skepticism

August moon. . . so what?

She's everybody's lover--

Summer, leaving, moon.

--Lilyan de la Vega