welcome

Welcome friends! We of the Full Moon Poetry Society use this blog to display the 60 poems - we picked five per month - of the collection we made in 2008.
Because complete blogs read bottom-to-top, the December poems appear here first, and the blog "ends" with the January poems. In the published, physical, book, that order is reversed.

intro a

There was a time when poets would gather together to write, read and comment on each other’s poetry. These gatherings would take place during a full moon and would often include a favorite beverage, something to eat and a reflective body of water. It sounded like fun to me. No one has a lot of time these days to hang out together, so I thought maybe we could have our own electronic society of poets. In the light of day I thought better of it; who would be interested? In a weak moment I mentioned my idea to Deanna. Her eyes lit up and resembled two big harvest moons. I had a companion in poetry and the Full Moon Poetry Society was born.
Brian Howlett

intro b

The book you are holding is one of five. Completed in 2009, each is identical in content, and unique in its hand-painted art. The idea of the project was that anyone who wanted to participate would look at the full moon, write a poem, and submit it. Poems were then selected monthly throughout 2008 by a spontaneously convening panel of judges. The emphasis was on inclusion, risk, trust, spontaneity, and vitality. - Deanna Hopper

intro c

Thanks to: Pacific Zen Institute, and John Tarrant, Director, who provided a space and a culture in which it could occur; all of the poets who submitted; everyone who participated in monthly poem selection; our cadre of visual artists; Brian Howlett, teacher, Fuke Lineage, whose brainchild this is; Deanna Hopper, who managed, edited, etc; Jan Black, who made the books; Robert Weeks, and, especially, Jim Marcolina, who provided indispensable technical wizardry; and all the cooks, shoppers and bottle washers who fueled the judges at our raucous, (mostly respectful,) poetry-picking parties. Nine bows.

December (c, d, e)

December (e)

FLIES

Poems are like flies
or a cloud of gnats
Buzzing in front of your face
Getting in your eyes
Blurring your vision
making you blink
Asking for attention

But when the moon rises
They turn into moths
And if you place yourself at just the right angle
You can catch one
Hold it in your hands
And count the beats of its wings.

- - Eric Moes


December (d)

HAIKU TERRORIST

I don’t write about the Ancestors
I don’t know them
They don’t know me

Oh sure, they may have written a Haiku
Or Koan that brought a Samurai to his knees
With a mental marble rolling around in his head

But what is real about that now?
How about a haiku about mortgage backed securities?

That homeless guy’s limp is my koan
My utility bill offers me a chance of meditation
Sure you can write about peach tree blossoms
or strawberries at the edge of the cliff
But you’re missing the Nirvana in that can of boiled spinach in your kitchen cupboard.

- - Eric Moes



December (c)

MINIATURE MOON POEM

I had a train set
With a little village nestled in a paper mache' hillside
As a child it was real to me
A thousand times Godzilla loomed over that hill
ready to spew his radioactive breath down upon the villagers
Sometimes I stopped him
Sometimes I didn't
God I loved that village

- - Eric Moes

December (b)

December (b)

I want this world

Bright black stone
Marching sky
Soft drift of things discarded . . .

I want this world
To break my heart.

No, not what you think,
Not the cloying grief of loss, but more

The bright sad fact of the world
Of the whole world - -
Its taste, its touch
Its perfect aching presence.

That's what I mean.
The end of mind; and
Baptism in the great dark river,

Just here! Where
The vast and breaking world
Is simply home.

- - Amos Clifford

December (a)

December (a)

On Bear Creek

One thousand days.
These are all that this life
has left for you.
You stand on the broad
shoulder of a bridge,
rest the hands that you love
on its rough wooden rail
and it is autumn.
Sycamore leaves
large as dinner plates,
large as desire
rain gold and green
in even the slightest breeze.
Below, Bear Creek is
supple, electric, strong,
singing, singing.
The ouzel bobs
and glides,
at home, at home.
You breathe, an act
of power, of timeless beauty.
With one thousand days
remaining
can even this season
show you, at last,
who and what you are?
Or is the stream of
your mind, your heart,
your life,
ever and finally
a mystery?
On Bear Creek
a turtle slips silent
from its stone and
enters the dark waters.
It is at home.
Another day
has gone.

- - Amos Clifford