"mooning" poems
I saw the sun steep
into the seascape ―
lonely as a drowning
wave
on still-waters
the dimming of the day
rescinding evanescent daylight .
fading with the slack tide
lost at sea ―
a gloaming moment
let fall from
the remains of the day,
like some other passing
sea bird's molted feather
drifts away untamed
I sit silent as the driftwood
lingering at the watermark,
watching a random gust
erase the footprints
of another recurring day,
bearing abandoned memories
and vacant heartbeats,
atrophied in the drifting sands
and I see you walking
towards the abating
midnight sunset ―
but I know
you're just a mirage;
like the dimming afterglow
of so many waning moons
elapsed
ever-changing tides grow low
and promises made lightly
do ebb away
Scanning the distant horizon ―
a blindfold heart
mooning all at sea;
parsing a deserted shoreline,
wondering if love
is too late ,..
to stem the tide ―
harlon rivers
30 May 2018
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
An indifferent ache swirls in the silence
throbbing like a dancing candle flame;
no one understands the heart of silence
moving the darkness with its ancient dance
Its voice is only felt but never heard
the way it whispers the reality it bears;
disrobing the nakedness of a fragile heart
exposing inherent truth deep in disguise
retouching the chaos passing of love laid bare
Unspoken emotions that nobody hears
float around a muted tongue benumbed by fear
doubt is a bitter taste that knows not love
searching for a labyrinth to begin to wend a better way
trying to feel the unfelt warmth of love in an endless cold
waiting on a frozen emptiness that never thaws
No one understands the haunting fear,
... surly it couldn't happen again ― and surly it will,
a heart stifled silent, silence doth loudly peal
poignant dreaded words:
***"It's not you ― it's me ,.......
I love you but I'm not in love with you"***
and like winter dreaming for the sun to reappear,
to come back again and dry the memory of fallen tears,
a hushed heart falls off the earth lost in ether shadows lay
mooning in the lonely silence within moonlit dapple
When you pull love too close ― it will push you away
some silence heals ― a dissonant silence cuts to the bone
Only the lonely feel a silent voice sigh
Only one hears a silenced heart die ...
harlon rivers ... March 2018
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC
Deeming that I were better dead,
"How shall I **** myself?" I said.
Thus mooning by the river Seine
I sought extinction without pain,
When on a bridge I saw a flash
Of lingerie and heard a splash . . .
So as I am a swimmer stout
I plunged and pulled the poor wretch out.
The female that I saved? Ah yes,
To yield the Morgue of one corpse the less,
Apart from all heroic action,
Gave me a moral satisfaction.
was she an old and withered hag,
Too tired of life to long to lag?
Ah no, she was so young and fair
I fell in love with her right there.
And when she took me to her attic
Her gratitude was most emphatic.
A sweet and simple girl she proved,
Distraught because the man she loved
In battle his life-blood had shed . . .
So I, too, told her of my dead,
The girl who in a garret grey
Had coughed and coughed her life away.
Thus as we sought our griefs to smother,
With kisses we consoled each other . . .
And there's the ending of my story;
It wasn't grim, it wasn't gory.
For comforted were hearts forlorn,
And from black sorrow joy was born:
So may our dead dears be forgiving,
And bless the rapture of the living.
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Birds in cages are immortalized in poetry,
in wordy melancholy and round top cages beside
windows tauntingly open to the mountains, the
earthy smell of wheat and the breezy ocean air.
Hundreds of perturbed human eyes press close against brass,
mooning with open mouths and dry lips
cooing baby-talk bird-calls in hope of a
crying return, like a blessing,
or a soft forgiveness.
Outside,
Lovebirds are doves and songbirds.
They commune with owls and storks
and perch on branches, all the better to coo
and cry to the loving, glowing moon.
Anger, jealousy, and fright are all stones. They are heavy
and they have no place in the bellies of skybirds.
Caged birds have jealousy and clipped wings,
brass bars bent into tiny atmospheres, but canaries
carry bile in their beaks, beady black eyes watching
changing seasons with singing spite.
I am and have always been a swallow,
all creamy white belly and a thousand
creeping kinds of brown.
I wish to stay up, up for a thousand hours
in the realm of thought. In your thoughts,
I wish to be the voice whispering stories to you
from inside your precious head, curved
lovingly above me like an unending sky.
I am wings and feathers and I am full of things
that I desire much much more than air.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
Sad, mooning morning
Lost beasts and time
Disgust for machine lust overwhelming
It's not that I don't love you
That you don't love me enough
To sinfully and wantonly **** me
After all it's my birthday
Cause I'm old and you've lost interest
in being the man I loved
That's why our children tricked you
into writing and sending your confession
Stand up and take a bow
we learned your lessons well
who to trust, how to trust, and when
Turned us kids into your spies,
your lies, your alibis
to get us to create the software to do it
So you could **** your mystic **** genie
please know our kindness as hatred
All access passes to dumb *********
This memeallscene is a gallery crawl,
a gallow's walk of perps,
who should have known better
Just a thanks for clogging
the artists' ether with kiddy ****
much love for Kate Torn
we used your magick
to put us back together
Your address is on the ticket,
the reddress that you bought her.
Tap lightly, tap lively not,
the tuoche of Jack Frost is upon you.
All the best and much kindness.
Perfection is a trick of the mind.
This poem will change and tighten
the ties that bind us together
From the women and men of Bandahache.
for the women who sign away the right
to tell their stories
I hear you Anita Hill
But we've been stalked and stifled long enough
Yes, that's what prayer can do
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 2:12 PM UTC
FLAME-Heart, take back your love. Swift, sure
And poignant as the dagger to the mark,
Your will is burning ever; it is pure.
Mine is vague water welling through the dark,
Holding all substances--except the spark.
Picture the pleasure of the meadow stream
When some clear striding naked-footed girl
Cuts swift and straightly as a gleam
Across its ***** ambling and aswirl
With mooning eddies and soft lips acurl;
Such was our meeting--fatefully so brief.
I have no purpose and no power to clutch.
Gleam onward, maiden, to your goal of grief;
And I more sadly flow, remembering much,
Yet doomed to take the form of all I touch.
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If you should sail for Trebizond, or die,
Or cry another name in your first sleep,
Or see me board a train, and fail to sigh,
Appropriately, I'd clutch my breast and weep.
And you, if I should wander through the door,
Or sin, or seek a nunnery, or save
My lips and give my cheek, would tread the floor
And aptly mention poison and the grave.
Therefore the mooning world is gratified,
Quoting how prettily we sigh and swear;
And you and I, correctly side by side,
Shall live as lovers when our bones are bare
And though we lie forever enemies,
Shall rank with Abelard and Heloise.
1.6k
Two hearts encased,
chased by a full moon overlooking the black and lucid night.
Like a bright contrasting white light spotlight on things to be.
Mine to yours and yours to me.
Two hearts into one,
the one moon spills a mana spell akin to an infinite, everlasting spoken rune over the ages.
Our stories into one,
Our hearts bond,
timeless...unsung,
It’s skips progressive stages,
beyond words on pages,
in this quiet moment past the reach of the Sun.
The fullest moon,
the furthest reach,
high in the sky contrasting the black lack of light,
night’s version of high noon.
Emboldened to fold into and hold onto you so often,
bending,
blending,
transcending so tight even our souls share light.
Eyes shut, sealed from light,
we feel and grasp and clasp and clinch at every body-inch,
sparking darkest days into brightest nights...
then, all over again, I see you, I pull you close,
and so it begins again this morning or this day or this night.
PART 2
The **** salty taste of your waist encases a place in my brain forever.
You depart...we’re apart...
Miss you fiercely,
love you deeply,
to hold you near,
feel my fears leave me,
if only I could just see thee.
My next morning starts anew with more thoughts of you and how completely I see thee as part of the whole sum of who I suddenly aspire to be.
With every rolling tumble and sweet embrace,
with every chanced glance to give chase,
with every coy kissing peck on my neck,
with every wept tear of joy
with every breath or soulful laugh you employ,
I beseech you,
Mate to my soul,
woman to this man,
girl to this boy,
my heart,
my love,
my trust are yours to have,
to hold,
to embold...
laid bare to infirm or destroy.
By R. Craig David-Copyrighted 2017
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC
*your raven hair falls
so lingeringly
surrounding the roses
blooming on your cheeks
the barren air kisses
your small tan face
good morning
your mouth whispers of words
in a language that
took me forever and a day to fathom
but it took me a mere second
to drown in the golden of your orbs
the glimmer on the caspian sea
leaving me suffocated
gasping for air
until you pulled me
up and into
a spiraling labyrinthe
of endless summer nights
our love forever
carved into towering cherry trees
you saved
my mooning soul
and made me
a slave to your beauty
a long overdue antidote
madly overdosing me to
a point of no return.*
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
As golden gleams of summer fade away
Then on the backs of falling leaves alight
Pallidity becomes the autumn day
And languor shrouds the cold and listless night
As fog benights the lonesome starless sky
I perch here on the window pane reclined
The songs of stridulating crickets pry
Into my solitary mind and find
It hard at work and trying to devise
Elaborate schemes to get out of this place
To where there're lizards, hummingbirds and mice
I feel the urge to hide, to hunt, to chase
Until dawn breaks the shackles of this blight
I'll be here mooning till the morning light
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
They sing their dearest songs—
He, she, all of them—yea,
Treble and tenor and bass,
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face….
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!
They clear the creeping moss—
Elders and juniors—aye,
Making the pathways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat….
Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across!
They are blithely breakfasting all—
Men and maidens—yea,
Under the summer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee….
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.
They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them—aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.
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sitting in the sun,
with double-shot latte,
cooling in my hand.
i watch, a gangling youth, barely yet, a man.
fold his heart,
into a paperboat
and set it sail,
on the sea of love.
destined for a young
maiden's land.....
he sails forth,
on the winds of hope
and mooning, soulful looks.
she oblivious,
to his approach.
engrossed, in the book
at hand....
will they meet...
their hearts entwine,
will fates allow...
this sea of love is large...
will they love...
this, i will not, ever know.
...they, are not students of mine..
just two,
of several thousand,
...that sit in the sun and dream...
but that moment,
when he...launched
his ship of hope
and lust...of the wanting,
youthful kind...
....o, my lord... that look....
love caught...in the,
totality, of it's prime.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
moon
waste no seconds
with my heart
above my head
your invitations open
moonlight's no solstice sun reflection,
but solstice moon rather
mooning moon
what gifts you bring for me
to make me stop!
simplicity in the message
solstice moon
you my heart
and my heart
love
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 9:38 AM UTC
Let's see, my oldest son was about seven years old. The boys had to ride a buss to
school, which my oldest did not do well. He has this way about him, that tends to have
women authoritative figures letting him off the hook, when he's been naughty. I always
thought it was his eyes and devilish smile. They both still get him into and out of
trouble. But those are stories for another time.
This particular year, he was having a must difficult time behaving on the buss. He had
discovered that he could be a real clown and the girls loved it. Go figure. The buss
driver gave him multiple warnings and "Buss Tickets" for misbehaving. But, somehow,
he was always forgiven by the schools principal (a woman) and never got detention.
Even when we insisted on it.
All except this one time. On the last day of school, he decided to end the year with a
bang. He came home from school that day and acted as though nothing had
happened. Later that evening, I received a phone call. It was the buss driver. She was
laughing before she was even able to tell me why she called. Although I was 100% sure
it was about my oldest.
Apparently, he was a little angel the whole ride home. That alone made her suspicious.
She pulled up to his stop. Out he got. Then he mooned her. The way the buss driver
told it, it wasn't a quarter moon, nor a half moon. But a FULL MOON. He had hitched
up his pants and ran before she could get her wits about her. She said she laughed all
the way home.
Well, I started to apologize through my laughter. I assured her that we would most
definitely take this in hand. But she stopped me and stated "Oh, I'll handle this". She
shared with me her plan. I had the hardest time all summer, not telling him, that I
knew what he had done.
Next year, the very first day of school, my oldest went to catch the buss. Oh, I had a
hard time waiting to see what would happen. That afternoon, when he came home, he
was upset. "Look what she did Mom! I can't believe it!" he whined. There in his hand,
was a bright red "BUSS TICKET" The reason on it was marked in bold felt
pen..."Mooning". Now, you would think that he would be upset about the mooning.
Noooo, not my son. His exact words were...."I can't believe someone that old would
remember what I did."
sigh That boy has never changed
On a side note: He and his Dad had a long talk about that Ticket.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 5:37 PM UTC
another night’s ocean liner passage, now
sunrise bookmarked, by prayer hailed,
when wet cheeks express emotional
humanity and a tissue better be handy
too many times this is how the day
greets me, and I, it, wetted and vetted
to have made it as far as one more,
having lived you in me, me in you,
an exchange of tonguing word
kisses,
that break me into pieces of
consolations
it’s embarrassing an elder man
weeps for no reason other than
words have swept him overboard,
crazy love this fascinating addiction
to a new morning’s addition composition
incision on a plain soul indistinguishable
amidst the mist of millions of others
who rise up beside, aside, reside within
and his breached heart, even strangers,
complete the neuronal connection
that demands his years of years upon
awaking to the grinning fawning dawn
mooning him with pure white light that
wrecks him open, rents his disposition,
an inquisition of words intrusively intruding
causing wept tears fully formed energizing
emerging, songs of words that you give
him as a question to be loved, for finding
the answers multiple is a penultimate thrill,
confirming this wetness that he lives to
be loved, give love, and breaks h a p p i l y
into pieces of/if contented peace
and thus summed, the day’s obligations
seem less daunting, and with some
luck and bulk coffee ingestion, there
will be solutions to anything
and then
he types,
**and this one,
done!**
<>
6:49am
march 2 Sun Day
two zero two 5
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 2:31 PM UTC
You were sitting on the grass
outside your tent
at the base camp
along the road from Tangiers
smoking a cigarette
when Mamie came along
and stood with her arms folded
and her red hair damp
and her face flushed
like a spanked behind
Have you seen the latrines?
She asked
No not yet
you replied
she took a deep intake
of breath and then said
I expected at least
a white bowl
but there are just two bricks
over a hole in the ground
and no paper
to wipe yourself afterwards
you exhaled smoke
and said
You’re meant to
take your own with you
Your own latrine?
She said angrily
No your own bog roll
you said
she sighed
and looked down
towards the beach
reaching to
the Mediterranean Sea
I haven’t unpacked
my bags yet
she said
and you gazed at her
standing there
in her pink shorts
and white open necked blouse
and tried not
to imagine her
crouched on two bricks
over a hole
in the ground
her legs bent
her ******* by her ankles
and her backside
mooning over the hole
Well
she said moodily
At least now you know
what to expect
and went off
towards the beach
her hips swaying
side to side
her taut buttocks
captured in her pink shorts
and the midday sun
touching your head
in a kind of blessing
with its heat
and you inhaled
smoke again
remembering the rain
coming through
Franco’s Spain.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
a soft is just as sharp as hard is tawny
fragile fingers o'er the premise
of the swelling maze of branches
up on the wind; o'er my sill
the delicious fresh breath
of the lamb of god
who put under the skirt of cobalt
(who now is wearing little
shafts of golden;
little grunts of oblong light
prattling through tufts of
whitish thoughts)
all the air in lungs
teetering past my lips
to feed the choir of blades
'gainst the mooning pallor
May 8, 2011
May 8, 2011 at 11:33 AM UTC
the utter desecration
the corpses are everywhere that we are
if we are anywhere at all
vibrancy!
(the memory of it)
has finally gone
except in the puerile mooning dreamer
as she wallows "in heat"
and wanders mid stars
the violent discussion
forced upon almost everything
we talk about
as we become again mere slaves
they say "god is not dead"
(those who are killing god)
we are so very beautiful
but that is no excuse for stupidity
tomorrow is frozen and still
in the horror of today
see see the corpses
and the death
and the war
Mar 29, 2011
Mar 29, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
I thought to write of you,
But you are inexpressible.
I thought to write to you,
But I am a habitual liar
And I cannot be sure
My words would go without
A little extra sculpting
On their way to the keyboard.
So I have written an apology.
I will always be a little too
Undiluted. Strong coffee, maybe
Is a flattering comparison
But really it can be
So much like skunk spray.
Point is, I go too far
Often. (Constantly.)
When I am listing your virtues
And mooning on your beauty
This is a pardonable sin
But then... Pendulums must return.
And so for the nights I have cried
For no reason, or worse:
For stupid reasons,
I apologize.
Doubtless you will be hushing me
We all have our faults
And though not faultless I am
Beautiful in your eyes.
But still I must apologize.
I do not know if I can tame myself,
Or if I could,
How much melancholy
Would drag happiness with it.
I am afraid to try and see.
Balance is what I need to be
Calm, but passion breeds
The strongest beauty -
And if I am not unhappy,
Can I still be mad with joy?
I do not know, and I'm sorry,
But I cannot say I wish to see.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
I chase her,but I need her to catch me
finish this dastardly deed
Hopelessness you work in the Art of killing faith
Naked my soul should be so I can bathe
looking to hope so she can set me free
the sun rising,mooning dancing,my heart allowed to be
One with creation,living my very best
not one with exhaustion driving me to my endless test
Where is my freedom, find and fight to hold on to peace
where my mind is open for any demon to lease
Find my armor,need my shield,wield my sword
losing even one drop of blood I cannot afford
Am I the player of this endless game
Just tired of the fighting,but I must,to breathe the breath of the sane
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC
Swooning and mooning, pastimes for friends
reaching, and teaching, hands to extend
touching and pleasing
maybe some teasing
****** healing, from begin unto end
Some minds in synchronicity
doing to you, what you do to me
slipping and sliding
imaginative gliding
no use in hiding, explicit-ally
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:52 AM UTC
Which is my church with its green leaves, brown grass
and pine’s bark, all foresting in one motion.
I shall forest rituals of sacrifice,
but without Catholicizing faces drawn
from dark Crusading and my exiling.
Annaling to mark the sun’s solstice for Eastering
and holying days, the dew
coalescing upon the darkening and browning grass
at midnight and cooling air
arching constellations
and the mooning of the night: the cue
to lying for rest
by the small pool in this placing or
to strike, savaging at prey.
Owling as it does, darting as it does,
from a bed of branches, crying,
soundlessly shooting at a forest mouse, leaves
rustling for this night’s Nativity,
this one lifts its butterflying wings
like the soul’s silhouette
taken by an angeling force to heaven.
After owling, angeling, butterflying,
one must create Jesus as a verb.
Having witnessing these things,
limits are paining, as are knowings and doings.
The mouse must have been distracting
this owl from its offspring, thus it was Christing:
sacrificing itself for its children, thus fathering.
Seeing angels fluttering under the moonlight,
Hairshirting is my Church after living here,
after travelling through East of Eden in daylight.
Simplifying the Word---so heartwrenching---near
dawn or dusk, being as a penumbra’s cusp
I am Giotto’s halo in human form, keeper
of the haze, smoke, storm, and most of all, cup
from my own despairing.
Always there more to God than pain.
Churching myself is my work, thus by expressing
this foresting, owling, angeling, butterflying,
I narrate my life’s kingdom.
Only beautiful words for my Beatrice, Florence,
and re-Edening.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC
Drawn to your canvas shoes and charcoal skin.
The temperate colors you were painted in.
2:45 and I'm mooning over your pure hue wondering,
Why you haven't squeezed out of that tubular life I found you in.
Watercolor tears emulsified by inert years,
Wash away the impressionism you pressed over your fears.
3:45 and I'm looking for a place in the sun to dry my freshly painted sin.
I guess it's safe to say, these tubular lives, we're bound by them.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
the sun sets and night takes over,
all I do is remember holding her;
that twinkle, little smirking smile.
the one that beguiled me, made
me say wow inwardly; it comes
midnight, stars bright in the sky.
outwardly I sigh, her eyes haunt;
but, more so, taunt me, tease me;
love the way she appeased me.
that feeling she evoked, held me
captive; until that time, you know
the one you get when you realize
someone has stopped loving you.
where your soul turns blue, longing
to absorb her, true in my arms; where
once upon a time our love grew.
I never seen it coming; it hit hard,
like a targeted bullseye, right in
the middle of my heart.
it hurt, especially when it comes
around midnight; tears fall as I
ache to love her as I use to.
some nights I just can't stop thinking about you...
blue over losing the love of you...
Jun 14, 2012
Jun 14, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
The full, ****** moon
didn't feel that super.
It's powers of persuasion,
the pull of its personality
had ebbed to an all time low.
Oh, how it ached to make
its return journey,
to head back to the light,
to resist the draw
of this lesser sphere
and to answer
the greater solar call.
Each crator craved
to add that greater gravity
to its own
and together give rise
to the highest tides,
to monster surfs
that would daunt
the most arrogant of Canutes.
No amount of talk of waning
would deny this moon
it's rightful place,
turning it's far, dark side
to face the warmth of the sun,
and orbiting on,
into a crescent
of nocturnal renewal.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC