They sit beneath the moon
in their newborn love
and spoon-fed dreams.

There’s magic in innocence
that is both a promise, and
a suitcase of unopened wounds.

His toothpaste left uncapped,
and her hairbrush abandoned
on his pillow are smiles
that have not yet become
the war of the roses.

There is no map for the future,
only forever spoken from lips
not yet bruised by reality.

I feel ancient with my weight of years,
sacrifices, grief, humor, loss, and love
broken in like uncomfortable shoes.

I hear them call through a screen window
to come sit with them…
With a sigh I step out the door,
and walk out into moonlight
that one night will shine through a curtain
on two innocents who discover the
lock on the suitcase is broken.

This powdered moonlight will give you everything you need to see

This powdered moonlight will lamp swipe all your memory

This powdered moonlight will mix with water for mind moisture...

Bring breezes over ferment torture

This powdered moonlight is thinning...

Will blacken your teeth and enter your sleep

Sinking, this powdered frame sight, sails away into old times...

Our grin.... grey with black screen-cuts in our cosmic consciousness

This powdered skin will gather and retrieve a suffering, a wriggling, a meaning; a timeless changing from way deep within...

You observe a shadowy figure
Crouched on weathered planks
Staring into the depths
Of the ocean's vast embrace

The stars shine overhead
And a sliver of the moon
Reflects on crested waves

You watch the figure stand
Then take a haunting step
And vanish from the light

A view so picturesque
That most may never know
What remains
Beneath the surface

Perched on top a sandcastle,
A ghost who rules the night.
In armour pale as soft moonshine,
And brandished sword of might.

From his high keep, he clambers down —
The shore his dark domain.
He stalks the tide’s retreating edge,
For spoils soon to be slain.

The scent of brine and drifting ****
Rides on the midnight air;
Now darting forth to strike his prey,
Swift-footed, keen, aware.

With sharpened blade, he rends the flesh —
His kingdom’s tribute claimed.
And casts aside the rest to rot,
Now that his hunger’s tamed.

Then strikes his armour with his sword —
It rings along the shore,
A haunting drum designed to fright
Subjects still seeking war.

Assured now that his realm is safe,
Sword sheathed with grim command,
He scuttles back to his fortress,
Across the warming sand.

The eastern sky grows light with fire;
The moon begins to fade.
The surf now hums a softer hymn,
The stars slip into shade.

He yields his crown to morning’s glow,
And burrows in his keep,
Where muffled tides and cooling walls
Enfold their king in sleep.

The moon calls to me tonight—
I cannot resist her charms.
I slip beyond the confines of my room
To let the evening soak into my soul.

A full moon spills her silver light,
Darkness braided with her glow.
Rocky earth crunches beneath my feet,
Each step alive with sound and scent.

The high desert hums its song:
Stars glimmer, coyotes cry.
A noisy stillness fills the air,
As daylight’s brightness fills the sky.

My heaven is green grass,
And scent of sagebrush and hay.
I belong in this moonlit nirvana,
Where constellations burn like fire.

“What is not to be had in haste, may yet echo on the grieving wind.”
— Su ****

The pallor of the desolate plain —
a wound torn by void.
Those great swathes of barren earth,
laid bare —
are my chest,
yellowed and cracked with thirst.

She holds her head high,
nonchalant —
dragging behind her a hem
as lucid and dark as eyes
that have seen through dreams.

The snowy lace, pure as accumulated frost,
stirs up dust —
like the tender light at the horizon’s edge,
trembling into dawn.

I thought it was the sweet, silken whisper
of a love just waking,
mist-drenched and dizzying…
I wandered deep into it,
entranced,
never to return.

Her steps —
mysterious as the sea’s dense murmurs
when dusk is full.

Each footfall
layered with gentle unrest,
floated
toward the dimples of innocent laughter,
ever deeper,
until freedom itself
seemed just a breath away…

And my fevered imagination
scrambled and stumbled blindly,
thrashing with futile longing.

But oh — the great ironclad of love!
Launching its voyage!
And with cannons that shattered the sky
proclaimed:

Heaven, red with blood, is boiling!
Let the burning Utopia blaze in delight!

But her steps —
her steps are also
so firm,
so forward…
As if from the unreachable gleam ahead
some force of fate
pulls her onward,
irresistible,
unmatched.

And I —
I am helpless.

Forward…
A paltry mayfly,
daring to stop
the eternal rise of the sun
with one trembling day of life.

My proud, resounding cries
were silenced,
crushed into a choking hush,
into shattered bone…

She paid them no mind.

With unbearable grace
she brushed aside the clamor —
brushed away the storms —
and moved forward.

Her heels,
cold as the blade of an axe,
hacked into my flesh.

And the rustling of her skirt
drifted farther, farther still —
until only the groans
of withered grass remained.

The moon, pale and ravenous,
devoured every ember of warmth,
and night,
black and intimate,
caressed my spine like death’s quiet hand…

I was calm —
calmer than I have ever been,
like the pulse
of the already-dead.

In vain I turned again and again
to lick the bitterness
from every grain of this earth —
each one once soaked
in the sweet sweat of youth.

And her scent, receding,
took with it
my last ray
of sunlight.

We can get
accustomed
to being too
familiar
with the
familiar
paths in life
under the
mesmerizing
mood
of
moonlight
starlight
or
streetlight
and
wind-up
taking
unwitting
detours off
these
familiar
paths in the
light of day
and lose
our way.