Heather Moon

Heather Moon Jul 2014

Dance

"We have come to be danced
not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hands and feet dance

We have come to be danced
not the jiffy *****, shake your ***** for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance

We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, two dance like you
one two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance

WE have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance

We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
the Olly Olly Oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance

We have come to be danced
where the kingdom’s collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME"

Do not know the author, don't normally post others work but this spoke to me.

Heather Moon May 2014

rain

Rain and all its forms
Blurred Mountains seeping into the borders
surrounding
A little village
Grey on the horizen
Ocean way way below the village
Down the mule trails
Scraping in coils
Pebble linings
Down to the mediteranean sea
In this village
Cobble streets
Coloured roof tops
Crumbling houses
Empty clotheslines
Except a few wet clothes hanging
Forgotten faded red shirt
Hanging from one season
To the next
Water drips and dances bouncing from stone to stone
Wooden shoes clack quickly
As they rush over the street
A lady
Wearing hand woven clothes
warm fresh flat bread
Wrapped in cloth
And in a basket.
A young boy follows her
His sweater held over his head
Eyes obscurred
He walks as though in a maze
Then they are gone
Empty streets
A round woman, hair ******* with a faded white rag cloth
Empties out steaming hot water
From a copper ***
Soapy steam
In the rain
Alley way
Side door
Not much activity
A girl sits looking out observing
Watching the rain
Smelling the warmth
Rising from the bakery down below
She remebers the hustling market, the colors when in the sun
The shuffling people
In sunglasses
New people
Sun season
Different apearences than the ones she knows
The ones shes used to
The skin foreign to her.

She likes her room
With the elephants in the rug
Little marchers
Within the mandela sequince
She likes the bakers down below
Aunts and uncles
Unsure of who's family
By blood
And who's family
In spirit.
She likes the old man
Who sits with his cane
In the little sitting chair
In front of the bakery
He who treats her to a cookie every now and then
Or slips her a piece of sweet bread
He, who wears an old black cap
And puts on his coat
And hobbles down the little street
She waits for him sometimes
She sits perched outside and looks down the street
From right to left
Until she hears the familiar clatter
The sound of his wooden cane on cobblestones
Each who carry their own divine essence
Or sound to which they bring
A memory of her father comes to mind
How differently he sounds when he walks
Gentle and slow
Heavy and kind
Compared to her mother
soft and light
Swift like a feather
in the wind
Sweet like a berry.
The girl sometimes likes rainy season more
Although she misses the hustle and bustle of market day
In the sun
When the lively noises fill her ears
The wild smells
When the bakery arises before the crack of dawn
And the smell of fresh bread awakes her
Smells of new special treats
Made larger and larger
Just to apeal and to please
The large crowds.
The sounds of bakers
Yelling orders back and forth
Clanging pots
A madness of creation.
Grand cakes
Thousands of tarts
Each one delicatly made with care.

When the people make extravagant delicacies
When goats are roasted
And fresh tomatoes
Made into scrumptious sauces
With fresh basil.
Olives pickled and handed out on toothpicks
By yelling merchants
The best olives in the region shouts one
Across the street, the bestsest shouts another.
Most
spectacular
Imaginative
Freshest
Most this
Or that
Yummiest
Tastiest
Wildest
Amzingest
Greatest.
In her mind the images play
Like moving dolls

In full vibrancy.

For a second she forgets
Her placement
She has returnes back to the heat
And the memories
Of men in white undershirts
Smoking outside
Playing cards and waiting for the sun to dry
the rest of their clothes
The bantering ladies
From window to window.
She gets lost,
until the sound of a door loudly shutting in the streets awakes her
Jumping up
Looking out the window
Still silence
Nothing in sight.

Drizzles of rain
The sound it makes
When it slides down the roofs
She misses the heat
Of the bustling summer day
But in secret
she likes the rain
The silence and comfort it brings.
She likes the rain and the lonliness.
The solitude.
the sounds of her parents sleeping
Yawning.
a distant kettle whistling,
A neighbors.
The desolatation.
Patters of rain.
She likes to have both seasons
One season to live
And the
other to dream.

Heather Moon May 2014

hum hum...

I'm loving this rain.
Listening to it hit the tin roof of this wooden jungle home,
dreaming of the little grey island back home,
The familiar sleepy feeling found in all rain,
feeling it cast over houses,
dreaming of a scene where I am thinking
whether to put another log in the fire and snuggle back into bed beside a man,
a man I love
with three days of stubble on his face
And to just lie thinking about things.
Or whether to start a *** of coffee
or just keep sleeping until the sounds of silence,
of finished showers,
awake us.
I lie dreaming
of family,
of chickens and kindling, of sweet angel children
soflty sleeping with baby hands in little fists
and resting under little quilts.
I dream of witch hazel, good soap,
and claw foot baths,
of lush mossy rocks and strong red cedar, of rich abundent apple trees,
they too sleeping in the rain,
black gumboots and puddle green fields,
of forest walks, warm eggs and organic chai tea,
I dream
of the ocean in the rain,
or the city in the rain,
all the different umbrellas.
Everywhere cast under Mama Earths spells of comfort,
of big yawn sleepiness
that follows a morning like this.
Oh my,
oh me,
if I didn't have chores
I could lie forever like this.

Yawn!

Heather Moon May 2014

Teenager

"Hey you,"
"I'm listening," she says,
but I'm not sure
she is me
my voice
so many times of uncertainty
trying to give and give
but only being taken from
trying to take
but no receiving
why the silence
why cant I just answer the questions
why can't i laugh with the others
lost by my maturity or immaturity
rather run away with children
or talk with the adults
of meaning
talk with the adults who have walked a ways on this earth
and have figured at least something out
instead of stuck in some turmoio of one tracked minds
way of continuessly spinning but never evolving
hey she tells me
You are better
you know more
but then something else clouds it all
i take an extra sip
skip a little to catch up to the moving crowd
try to laugh a little harder
Just act
casually, comfortably,
cool
hey the voice tells me, its not that your too mature and boring or too immature and incapable
you are your own classification
or rather no classification
simply you, me, us.
And,
the thing is,
its that theirs plenty of fish
and a vast ocean to swim
through reefs and corals
and sometimes the muddy sand at the bottom
but it is your heart she says
it is our heart
we must follow it
as much as a part of us would like to take one more sip
and flip our hair
and be the center of the group instead of
Always Stumbling a little to catch up
and instead of walking a little farher and farther behind
under the orange light
While the laughter of them journeys on
and your footsteps get louder and louder until it echoes in silence
as much as we'd like she says
its not what we'd truly like
hold the heart and skip don't stumble
Skip to catch up but dont just stop once you hit the centre
keep skipping
skipping
Away into the sun♡

Heather Moon May 2014

Panther

Morning of poetry
Fear;
how it echoes in dimensional chambers.
When I was young,
I recall a dark eyed girl, clutching a strawberry doll,
Hidden behind our parents legs.
silver stillness, eyes of fierceness,
watching me like she might run in an instant,
or like a black jungle cat,
leap out instead.
Silence like ice, stilling the breath,
the air between us cold and heavy.
She was the one to tell the monster
to go away,
I was always the one to let it rest
under my bed.
Let life be,
demons and all.

Heather Moon May 2014

Amigos

Love, trust the heart completely. So like hippies we drove a van into the sunset, sweet grass, aviator haze, straw hat chins to the sky, singing from our hearts, barefoot desert land, oncoming moon on the western horizen, crisp of an orange glow left on the desert mountains in the east, moon and stars, dream catcher dangling, quietly breathing, sleep calling me like a child, sorrow and love sinking in, warm cool air, sighs of release, goodbye. Life, simplified, always pursue the heart, surrender and release, deal with you{re stuff, cry, release, yoga, it becomes easier the more pain we release, tension is built up pain. Western medicine isn{t very neccasary, trust, visit death, lose attachment, the soul will never die. Lose fear, fear is opression, surrender to the luminous love light of the one. freedom.

another journal entry, another adventure, secretly miss home.

Heather Moon Feb 2014

Gashed

Red rain,

Like suburban sunsets
war has taken hold of Fate,
closed hands in.
Drenched
quenched
killed
red rain pouring down from
lightening grey skies
empty outskirts
of people
walking through
deserted streets
hushling and shuffling inside

a bomb hit the town
the day the red rain came down

people sitting in homes
hiding away in fear
yet some scream
they have no sanctum here
Street children
Are all gone
And little the little ruddy
whose leftover
Is left all alone
with silent cries
afraid men in boots will hear
his empty gafing
into chilled air
he hides in an alley
his knee cut right open
and to the bone

he hides behind a dumpster
in the shelter of the rain
while men in iron clad gear
scuffle past cold metal frameworks
of what used to be a fence
and back out the alley and returning to the streets
where shops sit devastated
or nothing left from where
a building stood
ruins of the castles
that labour built up
now gone to waste
breaking down the empire
a mighty kingdom
Of human sacrifice
hard work
to grind the stone
and put it in it's place
and now gone
by bombs and
cold blooded
******

A woman,
I saw her scream
she held a child in her arms
behind her there were flames
raging like a beast
and open fire arms
guns like whips
shooting quick
she ran for her life
but still they shot her down,
I think,
or the fire got her

I wish I could reach out and help
but I only knew
that in the end
they would have shot two
If I stepped up to my plate,
had I thought for a moment,
death is better fought in a raging battle
then to meekly grow old
and shrivel like a raisin.
No longer shall I stare
gravely at my hands.
if such a situation
should again arise
I'll put my soul in trust
and pray for heavened skies

And still, to this day,
the brittle lies
of my countries ways
tell me these people
are the enemies
but I can't help but to think
that isn't so
I stood solemn while I watched my insides punch at me
scream at my betrayal
tall I stood
with my chest to the air
I tried to stomp back the truth
thinking I could escape the air
by raising my head tall
but if I stopped
my effort
limp it hung.
I could not grasp
what I had done
I did what they told me,
wasn't that correct?
tall I stood
like a statue
The ones they would make for us back home
and I could not help but feel
That any statue
With my face,
no matter the size
could not bring me back what I lost
When I looked into that
womans eyes

the so called enemies
they share the same filth
The same soul and cells that make up matter
with a being of beauty on the inside,
all striving for something greater,
accepting and living life with flaws
going home at the end of a hard worked day
and greeting their love with a warm exhausted smile
and sitting in a lamplit room
on a rocking chair
covered in a knitten blanket
or by a bedside table
poking through words with reading glasses
sipping at their tea
with parched lips
stumbling now and then
to silently thank for
what they have.
Reading to their children,
fulfilling the little ones
curious and eager desires.

It pains to see the universe within them
when their faces
met mine
and I could see the Ocean
and the moon
and all that is divine,
then I saw it melt away
by the twist of grubby hands
from men who had no clue
what world they were living
when once a work hat was put on
walked away
from all
that they knew

and so red rain
Begins to fall
on the shoulders of
us all
It opens the mud
of the ground
and leaks
into the heart

The great and mighty sky
with clouds of coal
And ashen grey
boil together
lost in a swirl
then they too break out
unleashed
released
from all that they held

the red rain
pours down
creating puddles
and dripping like a spoat
carressing
the mother
who too
needs a soak
to wash away
what we left on her earth
and what we did to her people

The red rain
It satisfies our sorrow
it cleanses us of our pain
and helps to wash away,
in the wakes of our betrayal,
what we left lying

but even rain
does not take from me
the sounds of people crying

  the red rain it hits
everyones shoulders
everyones shoulders
everyone
             every
  single
person
including mine.

Dreaming upon memories of war stories,
perhaps it's this city rain
looking through old family
photos again, a bit choppy.