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Jonny Angel Jun 2014
She's sweet moondust,
glows splendidly,
is hypnotic.

Her moods are fleeting,
she suffers from phases
& craziness abounds,
I can feel it
& yet,
I am totally mesmerized
by her seductiveness.

When our eyes meet,
I become intoxicated,
am so in love
with her dark
****-energy.

She makes me full,
we need to kiss &
burn the night away,
soon.
Ma Cherie Feb 2017
Many moons,
have passed over my headpiece,
as you leave me behind,
in moondust & ashes each night,

You collect on the bookshelves,
I keep here,
collecting on hearts with your light,
dusting my world with your beauty,
diminutives in bits of the white,

This is not the end of the journey,
 this a mere tiny part of the flight,
and I've not seen any more shiny,
or any star nearly as bright,

Though I am unable to see you now,
or touch your skin ever again,
or truly hear you with my ear,
I still miss you so my friend,

I know I cannot be near you now,
I cannot be where you are,
as you are but a twinkling light,
a brilliant & distant, star-

If it was not but for the moon dust,
my heart wouldn't,
be able to see you anymore either.

Ma Cherie © 2017
Idk inspired....and missing someone who has passed ❤ to you all! X - Ma Cherie!
vircapio gale Jul 2012
"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of ****** she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail,
to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the ****** huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough *****, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"
-a version of the Cretan's or liar's paradox ('This sentence is false.') inspired this write and took on a life of its own and isn't meant to be an argument for anything. just an exploration of the problem of representation, a universal distrust of language and my associations. hope it didn't drive you crazy like it did me :)

-i quote Sylvia Plath's "Daddy", Stein's "Susie Asado", and Sappho's very short,

"I have no complaint"

I have no complaint
prosperity that
the golden Muses
gave me was no
delusion: dead, I
won't be forgotten
Sappho

-Erasmus wrote "Praise of Folly." the title alone comforts me

-when asked 'what is truth?' by one of his disciples, the buddha is said to have picked up a flower.

-our moon rotates at the same rate as its revolution (not sure why please inform me), so one side always faces us. the greeks thought it was a disc, literally. and when the Russians got to the 'backside' first, they got to name all the craters.

-noema:
the objective aspect of or the content within an intentional experience. NL, fr. Gk noema perception, thought understanding, mind, fr. noein to perceive, think
leah snyder Oct 2018
laying on my back
in that field,
the unending expanse so close
to my touch.
i reach up
and attempt to graze a star
with my fingertip,
but instead only emptiness
reaches me,
the cool nighttime air
swirling around my hand.
my arm lowers to my side again
and my sight flows
over the stars,
like scattered moondust
in the inky sky.
as they twinkle their way
into my soul,
into my being,
i notice
a solitary wisp of cloud
lingering before the moon,
dulling its details
but never its glow.
crickets chirp around me,
fireflies blink
and fade in and out of view,
dancing just above the grass.
the air is damp
and i am vaguely aware
of the water droplets
seeping through my blanket
and into my clothes.
i swear
i can almost see the lines
connecting each star
to form constellations.
i sigh,
stand up,
roll my blanket,
and make a promise to the night.

i will return.

-l.s.
free verse
A kid I was when on way to school I caught her pretty face
Fell for her can’t call it love the sweet girl in school dress
She stood on her door a beauty of yore waiting for the bus
My limbs went limp grew butterfly wings she was my childhood crush.

I thought she knew felt it was my due flew me a bewitching smile
Waved her hands and knowing my mind she looked at me awhile
Each day on that way as I passed by her I caught in her eyes a gleam
Read in her waves a bridging of hearts in her smile an unfathomable dream.

No ordinary path it was a dream walk for nothing I could miss out the chance
To have a glimpse of her catch those moments forever get lost in strange romance
The ******* the door she made my spirit soar she was close yet a distant star
Took me on fancy flight her smiles glowing bright the child could never touch her.

I set myself a rule not to take break from school but to pass everyday by her
It’s no wonder some things last forever some memories with time never blur
She my whim’s fair red ribbon in her hair stood there in her white skirt
A petite white dove radiating precious love she enamored the little boy’s heart.

In the lost years’ light burns a patch bright where shines her unearthly face
A girl in her teen not aging always green occupying a permanent space
I don’t have of her anything more to remember what remains is so divine
The girl in her teen could be thirteen or fourteen and I was a boy of nine.
Umi  May 2018
Felt
Umi May 2018
A journey followed by a road, reaching to the distant sky,
Feelings which cannot be conveyed in words, but actions, disappear in the sea of truths and lies, under the drifting clouds of the night,
A red thread, connecting us without having the answer to where it actually leads, meaningless questions remain floating in thin air,
Ages fade but my infinite lifespan, allows me to shine for you forever,
My heart reflects your tears, which before moistened the earth below us, making me overflow with emotions I couldn't even understand,
Space and time, are for me an obsticle, which I must overcome,
So my gaze, even though is fraught with sin, lead you to happiness.
Spread like moondust across a damaged surface, you departed into the unknown of the night, disappearing within layers of darkness,
Yet, I am not sad for even if you may not be with me from now on,
Always cheering for me to move forward, it would be a shame to give up now, even if we had our troubles, fights and sometimes disagreed.
And if we can never return to the past, let's enjoy the allure moonlight
Together we laughed and cried, yet this dream ended today,
What's left are the memories and the feelings I have felt.

~ Umi
Bernice Helena  Dec 2018
Moondust
Bernice Helena Dec 2018
The moon dusts off the rust,
Begonias woebegone,
Withering wisterias forlorn.

And in the morning,
A flower of mourning.

A blossom, a *****,
Baby's breath
In a smug golden wreath

Left bright yellow carnations
Of shifting grey hues,

Hard-to-pinpoint
Variations;
There might have been some blues.
YELLOW CARNATIONS: disappointment, regret
BLUE CARNATIONS/MOONDUST: a rarity, mystery, fickle, truth
Ghazal Hamdy  Apr 2021
Moondust
Ghazal Hamdy Apr 2021
living bodies fluttering in the sky,
like stars that cease helplessly
to cross paths.
the gleaming bodies that light up
the eternal navy canvas.
thus when the scattered moon dusts
in the sky collided,
consuming eachothers,
they faded into the waves of darkness
of an eternal night.
Write a happy story,
They said.
They did not know
Pencils grow heavier
As they scratch lies across a page.

Pretty girl,
Handsome boy.
Sparks that flew
Hearts that grew
Lips that met.

Write a happy story,
They said.
They did not know
That life gets in the way
Of fledging happiness.

Pretty girl,
Handsome boy.
Words that fell
Down the nape of her neck
And into her chest.
Fingers that caressed
The line of his jaw
And the ridge of her cheek.
Whispers that rose
Yielding into the ice of the moon
And crept into the lining of their souls.

Write a happy story,
They said.
They did not know
Happiness carries the inevitability
Of pain underneath its wings.


Pretty girl,
Handsome boy.
One basket of memories never made
And of growing disappointments.
One slowly cooling heart.
Two stale throats musty and seldom used.

Write a happy story,
They said.
They did not know
That no matter how much heart’s-blood
You pour into their soul,
Sooner or later, destiny comes to play.
Even the greatest love story,
eventually finds an end.  

Pretty girl,
Handsome boy.
Fairy-tales incarnate.
But fairy-tales cannot survive in this world.
The magic mirrors cracked.
The poisoned apples fail.
The dragons triumph.
The animals voiceless.
The princes leave.
The princesses stray.

Write a happy story,
They said.
I wrote them a fairy tale,
But happiness had already flown away,
And my pencil had been
Too dull to capture it again.
Louis Brown Aug 2010
Old man they say there's magic
In your friendly face above
They say your smile can turn the tide
And inspire a human love
So I prayed you'd sprinkle moondust
On her sweet lips soft and warm
So when I get to kiss her
The kiss could last till dawn

But your old smile is only
Valleys of the moon
If lovers give you credit
I hate bursting their balloon
For her love would be all mine
If your magic was divine
Your smile is only
Valleys of the moon

Your skills are just a legend
Tied to that old cratered face
If you could cast a spell on her
I would know her warm embrace
But those asteroids that carved your smile
Were just an act of chance
You couldn't help me reach her
You know zero of romance

For your smile is only
Valleys of the moon
If lovers give you credit
I hate bursting their balloon
For her love would be all mine
If your magic was divine
Your smile is only
Valleys of the moon


[Music by Dawn Diamond]
Copyright Louis Brown

New Version:  October 23, 2011
Frieda P Dec 2013
you nuzzled your head

unto the shoulder of my soul

tears streamed into my heart

steamy moments of resolution

lingering breaths of quivering whispers

stolen moments of life's endurance

wafting through  athanasia's elusion'd moondust

dreams of uninvited icy cloudbursts

plunging wing'd poetry into posterity

remembering future's sacred pinings

like fire gasping under waterfall's torrents




i wished upon a snowflake before it took flight

   appease this illusion yet one more night
Sofia Paderes  Jun 2015
Metaphors
Sofia Paderes Jun 2015
Some say there is nothing more beautiful than the sunrise, and how the sun's lips lightly spin over the face of the earth and bathe it in soft colors, a gentle reminder that the darkness is over.

Some say there is nothing more beautiful than the ocean, because no matter how far they're swept away, the waves always find their way back home to shore, healing it over and over again.

Some say there is nothing more beautiful than galaxies, and how no star tries to outshine the other, every form simply coexisting in a dance of unnamed colors; in space even death is a sight to behold, a firework display of moondust and leftover breath from the mouth of God.

Yet I have to disagree, for I have never before seen anything as beautiful as love in its purest form--- conquering death, every sliver of fear, every earthshaking storm.

For loving you is sunrise, we have seen each other's midnight yet still we choose to forgive, knowing that when light breaks it covers even the places we thought were beyond love's relentless reach, and

Loving you is oceans of pushing and pulling, hurting and healing, but we have promised to be there through high tides and low tides, because I know your moon will always draw you home to me, and lastly,

Loving you is galaxies. I have never before felt anything so alive, so vast that even after claiming we know all the coordinates and all the corners of our maps, we still are only brushing the surface of our solar systems, and there are still so many colors, so many flames, so many meteorites we still haven't named, but that's okay because loving you

is only the beginning. Thank you for choosing my hand for yours to hold on this crazy, everlasting journey and maybe one day we'll find the right words to compare what loving you is like, even if we both know there aren't any. Oh, there aren't any.
A spoken word poem written for the wedding reception of two very good friends of mine. Congratulations, Kuya BJ and Ate Lai! You were both already beautiful as individuals but even more so now that you're finally together.

— The End —