Heather Moon

Heather Moon Feb 2014

Dad

So my father,
he goes into the store to buy his $10 a pack for cancer
while he still attempts to hide his addictions from my sister and I.
Now I don't think it would bother me oh so much
but his frugal attempts to sweep the dust under the rug is like using a mop instead of a broom...
We see the crumbs leading to your door from the cookie jar.
Yes, we all have flaws, but you,
you
weave shamefully through the under layers of darkness, devoid of any resemblance to a heavenly nature, you fall like a night creature weaseling through crooked creaky cement alleyways, your gremlin spirit set ablaze.

LIFE, I revel and roll within the taste of each second, I run the grain of life across my tongue until saliva fills the creases and far reached corners of my mouth. I tap my finger to my lips like a true virtuoso, a connoisseur of life. Life.

My father's addictions completely derail me,
not even so the notion itself, I mean yes, but his blatantly obvious ways of avoiding confrontation not only from us, but also from himself.
Like Pinocchio's nose, my fathers back gets hunched more and more, his breath quickens when we draw close.
Father you are not prey, in fact if there be a predator, it is you unto yourself. I can no longer help but to roll my eyes when you tell me for the fourth time in the day that you must take out the trash so as to have a smoke.
I am fed up, excuse me sir, the trash will still be there no matter how many times you take out the "trash" .
The only "thing" that won't be left after you're repeated offenses of the benign chore will be you're dignity because you are so naive and ignorant in the way you dodge truth. How can you live respectfully when you don't respect yourself? Nor do you value what you are spitting out to your own daughters.
I am addicted to life,
I breathe it in with passion,
I embrace the truth within me
and have an eagerness to expand my wisdom.
How come father you do something that you know is a betrayal to yourself? How come you hide away in that old bar, the one with the flashing(flickering) light on the outside, dingy worn out red leather(plastic)booths on the inside, the bar located in some musty little hole in you're brain and a blind spot on you're heart.
You sit in the back in a lonesome booth slumped like some chump, stuck in a stump, you ooze and wheeze not even grasping for air, no fight left within, you are like mucus, a toad melting into the ground. Sinister and swindling in the greed of you're gut. Your ***** mopey yellow eyes and the shameful acceptance as you indulge in the baths of life's luxuries whilst you poison your body, trash what you hold dear and continue to block out that little annoying voice.
The voice with the cracks in it,
worn out from you're games, the voice that nags and pleads. The one that catches you before you order another round, take another smoke break, the one that pulls you, tantalizes you with it's simple sweet natural charm in hopes of distracting you from your self harming ways.
The voice that chimes in the second you raise your fist to punch me. The voice that is screaming at you when you lock eyes with mine and can see my fear.
Yeah that voice, the little punk one that returns even after the crime of your actions has been committed.
After the music stops and it's just you and the world.
but even then
I don't think you will hear it.
You're living on the edge of the pavement father.
No you wont hear that voice, not when you're twisted and contorted into the sideways way of things. You killed that voice long ago, when you wound yourself deeper and deeper like a clock in time,
when you twirled yourself into that little empty pub, with a quiet pool table, with no hope, a sanctum of greed.
Yes, you're guilty, yes it was you.
It was you who killed the voice inside of yourself.
You killed it when you traded
your dignity and your truth
for yet another
$10 dollar pack of
emptiness,
lies,
and forfiet.

Heather Moon Feb 2014

To a Water Bug

It was back in those days, the elementary school days,
when we were all friends, characters to one anothers plays of nonsense.
When we reigned over puddles with galoshes or brightly coloured gumboots.
When we wore capes and knew all the sing along songs.
And yes, I do recall, fondly so, that big park.
We were all there, whether in soul or in spirit,we explored the butterfly gardens, our parents and teachers were there too,
a school trip of sorts?
Just a vivid but fotgotten dream?
Who may answer these questions but ourselves by eventually succumbing to the universes natural way and forgetting the questions and finding and accepting the universes other answers.
The flowers of the light May day were in full bloom and that glass greenhouse, the one that intrigued me so, stood just like a castle.
After lunch, when the children were running throuhg green grass or wiping sticky hands from oranges upon the damper grass of the shade and while our parents and teachers sat on their coats dilly dallying, I stopped.
Stopped from my playing like a bunny caught in someones eyes. Was it a hand that grabbed mine or mine that reached out? Lead to a rivers edge, a little stream or pond. Ducking under willow and stepping over bushes and creeping through imagined dens of foxes or coyotes. My companion, my little friend, the face on the memory is blank, perhaps we had even more company.
We held hands.
We held hands like friends in our childhood innocence, before the concept of cooties, before the playground held terror. We sat hunched up by the pond poking sticks and reeds into the stream. Poking at the river flies and mud. Lost in a mystic realm of childhood unknowingness.
And then it caught me. A glimpse that magnified. The little water spider, gliding on the surface as though the surface were glass.
Oh water bug, from my bright eyes and blurred warm memeory you stood out to me. Majestically skating in the reflection of my face. As though you were that man mentioned in grandfathers stories from the book he said he beleived in, that man himself, walking on water. Such grace and beauty in you're perfectly casual stride, a quality I later noticed and looked for in people. Oh water bug, slipping your little bug fingers through glassy streams like a figure skater on an ice pond.
Do you remember me little bug? I was the one, the one with the little hands reaching out. I tried to hold your magic in my hands.
I was the one that in awe
reached out
But like a snap dragon,
in a blink, you were gone.

Heather Moon Feb 2014

Broke

Oh mama we're broke,
Yes we're as broke as the August drenches during a drought. We're as broke as the old jar on the mantle, the empty one with the dust and flies that used to hold our spare pennies.
We're broke like the rust on pa's chevy or the must on the ripped leather seats
or broke
like the missing tooth in Ronnie's crooked smile.
We're broke like the clothes that no patches could repair, Lindie's dress scraggled at the hem like a piece of crinkled paper.
We're broke like the cupboard with the peeling paint,
limp lifeless and bare.
We're broke like the old mutt of a dog that has surrendered to the unmopped floor.
We're broke like the work on my brothers back or like the young un's toys, soiled with the earth.
We're broke like the old tin that once held coffee,
we're broke like the spoat but the tap ran dry.
Oh me, oh my , we're broke.
We're broker than condiments, broker than the pots of watered down soups, broker than pa's tobacco pipe, broker than my overalls, held together by twang, or broker than the dried out grain of our raspy field. We're broker than the pitchfork, the ones thats missing two teeth.We're broker than the wintertime potato stew kind of broke, the one that brings a frosty bite.We're broker than the fight or the struggle, we're at the bottom of this cascading chain. At the core of our selves. We're broker than this dry ridden soil underneath my nails. Broker than a frown, now only a smile, we're broker than the layer of dust at the bottom of the barrell. We're broker than resentment.
Oh man were broke Mama!
So won't you please come home?

Heather Moon Feb 2014

Awe

Oh Sea Goddess
you're beauteous form
reflecting in the inhabitents or mystic creation.
Dolphins and mermaids.
You're hair like the wind of a diving gull.
Temptress and betrayer, smooth or chopped.
Sun like a melon, you're favourite company.
When you send whales through the air, sea foam wisps. Washing gently to the shore and softly kissing stranded driftwood and drying seaweed.
Playful like a boy, who still takes the moment of reading in the sunlit air and breathing in the pleasures of you're holy mystic presence.
Salty sweet scent, gentle symphony.
Oh Sea Goddess, how I live for and love for thee.

Heather Moon Feb 2014

Pizza, Pizza Daddio

There's something majestic, yet also extremely gloomy, about a streetlight at night in the rain. Something, some unplaced dimension within the echoing cars and within the particles of water, as they spray...into oblivion*

Mother, do you recall that rainy day?
The day my gumboots soaked through,
I beleive we were waiting for a bus. It was one of those city rains, when all you could dream of was home or the warmth and comfort. When all you wanted was a bath and hot-chocolate or another item of food, steaming with love. Mother, I remember holding to you're body for warmth as we sat under that old wooden bus shelter.
I clung to you're body and melted into you're lingering scent, you're falling breath and you're human form.
You held me, you hid you're shivers so as to warm mine.
We watched the cars spray etheral mist into the orange lights of the city.
We watched lovers rush by under umbrellas, we watched rain curve down the cement like a snake on it's own journey.
We listened,
oh did we ever listen, we ate up the noise, the stories within the rain, we cuddled until we felt the warmth from our bellies rise out of us like smoke or a dragons breath, tainting the air.

I, you're daughter. You, my mother.

You're long hair curling down your breast. Me, like a little berry scrunched up as close to you as I could get. Like our bodies would drip into each other as one, our breath the same. Only my gulps of air came much sooner and you silently resisted my subtle games. When the huddling was done you reached out to me with you're strong hands and you led me along the night of echoes. I can't remeber much else, asides from sitting with you in the empty pizza shop as we both savoured and satisfied our cravings for comfort. Cold-handed laughter as we danced over the most delectable pizza.
Then we caught the bus home, you sat on the red leather, grabbing the creamy yellow bar, I jumped onto the ratty blue seat beside you and leaned once again into you're body, melting into sweet harmonies.
Eating in the sounds of humans and the sound of the bus, splashing through water
and journeying on through the deep
and endless city night.

Heather Moon Feb 2014

Arrows

From the jagged peaks of my warrior mouth
a voice comes, it's screaming out
Abolish those old woes and leave behind
the stones you never turned,
hold onto what made you strong,
feel fire within you burn.

Theres and ancient warrior within me, a goddess of strength, her flames taint me, her truth woven deeply within. She is with me when I am alone in the forest, the deep serene misty green, or the ocean, the calm sea foamy oblivion.
Etheral wispy spirits.
This warrior, she prevents my fear.
I can feel her wrath inside of me.
I feel her when I run, like buffalo, through plains of unstained soil.
I feel her roots branch from my toes trailing up and through to my soul,
she holds me, she kisses me, and she moves me, moves me like water streaming from the mountains top.

Heather Moon Feb 2014

Inky Caps

The bones on bead shells hang on cemeteries,
left behind from the washing tide pushing to the open ocean. I too, left in the bay,
walking railroads and lost in the forest and the trinkling springs
of yesterday's rain.
I've been cleansed, I've been strong.
A mountain man soaring the world on an ancient feather's wind.
Halk feather soaring through infinite vastness.

I've felt deeper things.
Farther than the oceans surface, beyond the green of the cedar.
The smoke, cleansing.

And now,
the silence of the rivers.
Raged and battled, done and fought,
until next Spring.

It is dawning upon me
whether to keep walking this track,
or perhaps this road is empty,
holding nothing.
Old trucks, trees growing from red sawdust of old logging sites,
they too abandoned and left behind
like cabins on desolate mountain tops.
Beaming, vibrant,
for a season or two,
then surrendered to moss and lichen,
going down with rock and stone,
a jar of apple sauce still in place.
Damp, musty rusted iron,
dust on splitting wood.
The grey sky.

Numb on my neck hangs the bones and shell,
stolen from the cemetery.
Am I moving this thing forward or am I falling behind with it?
Forgotten in the breeze and the rush of cattle,
footsteps, as caravans and horses, men, women, echoes, laughter, shadows,
ran from these banks.
Have I become the grit on the gravestone,
my bones ashen and weary as I live this life,
elsewhere moon clouds and sunshine,
drums beat.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
For me,
it is the silence,

like a gentle tide
washed my flesh
from the grate
and now I hang in the wind,
like a pale sheet,
flapping slowly
to and fro.