does the moon get tired?
***~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~***
<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky
We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!
tell me moon, do you ever tire?
the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.
He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed
so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!
Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!
*Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y*
head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)
we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....
with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted
*yes, I tire
and though here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?*
*yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I, so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?*
*yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them*
*how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary
how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*
<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?
silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard
we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 10:12 AM UTC
****** isn’t a love song.
It isn’t the warmth of your lover’s lips,
or their hands skimming across your naked skin.
People are not ******
Drugs are not a metaphor for your personal Adonis.
It isn’t beautiful.
It isn’t romantic.
It sure as hell ain’t heaven (but it really ******* feels like it).
Sometimes you imagine them.
Their body pressed against yours. Heated kisses and veins like cracks through marble—
Soft enough to carve with your aching fingertips.
People. Are not. ******
You want someone whose presence can be melted down and injected.
People falter, break, lie, abuse, cheat, steal
and
leave.
Oh, God knows you have (every God you never even knew you prayed to).
You feel too much and then too little.
Not everything is as simple as fixing a rig but everything is as complicated as searching through your skin, trying again and again and AGAIN to find a perfect place to let that melted bliss baptize you for the
first;
fiftieth
hundredth
time.
Love is not a drug.
Addiction is not a religion.
Someone’s absence is not withdrawal.
Death is not poetry.
****** isn’t a ******* love song.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 12:18 PM UTC
A girl stood before me at the supermarket
a few random items littered her basket
pink socks poked out from her sneakers
they were covered with little creatures
an inch of flesh stood between
those ankle high socks and her jeans.
Nice socks I exclaimed!
she turned around inflamed
looked at me and said
I have a boyfriend
her face now red.
Are they his I asked?
her face broke into a laugh
*sorry I got so defensive
guys make me apprehensive
I don't really have a boyfriend
sometimes I just like to pretend.*
*I know how you feel I replied
in embarrassment I've often lied
and whenever I'm struck by beauty
of someone new I meet
I can't look directly at them
I look towards their feet.*
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
There was a blue butterfly,
At my sill I saw it land,
And felt an emotion then,
That I try to understand.
The next day I returned,
And my blue friend did appear,
Not with awe inspiring flight,
But with crippling despair.
A ripped wing made flight hard,
Still it tried to fly in vain,
I watched with sorrow here,
On this side of the window pane.
I thought of all the butterflies,
And wondered why they fly,
The ground is so much safer,
Yet I always see them try.
Some torn from the air by wind,
Others stunted during growth,
But like them we all must live,
Flying high as if by oath.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
We don't have a love like the rest
I compare it to Anastasia and Christian
You are so cold and dark inside
You can't provide love in my life
You can't save me from the demons in my mind
But I love the way you feel inside.
It's hard pretending I do not care
I wouldn't have it any other way
The way your thrusting inside me
Pulling my hair, and I scream.
Down on my knees looking up at you
This is what we have to offer
A secret life of *** and I can't be your lover
But the way you grab me, pulls me away
You can take all you want
Just stay, my fifty shades.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
Young and so carefree, Do you remember me?
Or know me by a different name or date?
Unless we died with our phases of the sun, or moon, i don't remember.
Dreaming away all the vicious thoughts of monsters eating men.
Or of serpents and spiders making cobwebs in what was your brain.
Not to be confused with a worm smoking a hookah upon a mushroom.
Treason among everything you've ever loved, soon to just be memories.
Grazing the teeth broken up by bullet holes
Exiting through the back of my head to stain the ceiling.
Trying to piece together...what your angle is.
Or perhaps the angle of blood splatter.
Another ghost crawling through the house tonight
Never speaking, only screaming for a heartbeat.
Open up the door and peer inside to see,
Trees of the strangest colors, teacups with golden gleams.
Hand me another cup let me drink the drug once more.
Even if I've done you wrong,
Remember how you love me so much? cough cough
Create a lie and explain your actions,
Hold your tongue in fear that it will slip and tell all your secrets.
All the horrors you've done, the sickness you have.
Nothing but cold ice in which you chill everyone else.
Commit treason and tell me the truth
Even if i know you're still lying.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:23 AM UTC