"moonlike" poems - Hello Poetry

What would happen if the moon leaked? Would there be a luminous canal that flowed with moon milk? Would we be able to bathe in a shimmering pool of silver?

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Aug 16, 2019

Aug 16, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC

henry-bladon

A Moonlike Moonleak

What would happen if the moon leaked? Would there be a luminous canal that flowed with moon milk? Would we be able to bathe in a shimmering pool of silver?

5

Sun kissed skin Molten gold eyes Bright as a star Dusted with starry powder Smile as bright as a nebula In the night sky She blows a kiss, the star is saying good-bye. Skin like the blazing sun overhead Fierce as a shining orb of sunlight A kiss hotter than any other thing She will be next to you But beware, for her love is hitherto You'll never see a sun girl like her again. She is bathed in a lovely moonlight Silver, as those moonlike eyes She can capture you with a single look But her time is limited - you may have to rebook Stunning silver dress, it's a beacon for moonlight Will you make her feel right? Hold her tight, she tends to drift She is a gift Brought by the moon.

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Mar 7, 2015

Mar 7, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC

starlust

Glowing like the Sun, the Moon, the Star

Sun kissed skin Molten gold eyes Bright as a star Dusted with starry powder Smile as bright as a nebula In the night sky She blows a kiss, the star is saying good-bye. Skin like the blazing sun overhead Fierce as a shining orb of sunlight A kiss hotter than any other thing She will be next to you But beware, for her love is hitherto You'll never see a sun girl like her again. She is bathed in a lovely moonlight Silver, as those moonlike eyes She can capture you with a single look But her time is limited - you may have to rebook Stunning silver dress, it's a beacon for moonlight Will you make her feel right? Hold her tight, she tends to drift She is a gift Brought by the moon.

22

Harsh, desert scenery Haven, from lush misery Forced by Impi, so greedily This, our new sanctuary Glitter, in desert sand The cause, of moonlike land No more men, with bow in hand No more happy feet, stamping sand Scenery, violated by man and machine A hole, were last buck was seen Spiritual pickings, now so lean White man’s god, o so mean Before white man’s god, we now bow We ask the spirits, “How can you allow” Is this, the final raw? Are we, disappearing now? After a visit to Jwaneng, a diamond mining settlement of De Beers in Botswana, I was impelled to write this poem to revolt against the injustices being committed against the Bushmen in Botswana. The Bushman are forcibly being removed from there desert land to make place for diamond mining activities.

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Dec 12, 2009

Dec 12, 2009 at 7:18 PM UTC

jeanlbouwer-1

THE BUSHMAN’S PLIGHT

Harsh, desert scenery Haven, from lush misery Forced by Impi, so greedily This, our new sanctuary Glitter, in desert sand The cause, of moonlike land No more men, with bow in hand No more happy feet, stamping sand Scenery, violated by man and machine A hole, were last buck was seen Spiritual pickings, now so lean White man’s god, o so mean Before white man’s god, we now bow We ask the spirits, “How can you allow” Is this, the final raw? Are we, disappearing now? After a visit to Jwaneng, a diamond mining settlement of De Beers in Botswana, I was impelled to write this poem to revolt against the injustices being committed against the Bushmen in Botswana. The Bushman are forcibly being removed from there desert land to make place for diamond mining activities.

17

That pen was not just another pen like, Was close to his heart soothing moonlike. He bought that pen after paying huge cost, That was one reason he liked that most. For sbowing status for showing the fame, What he had achieved position and name. Pen was a symbol for flaunting repute, That he was on top this no one dispute. It reminds him also reminds the all, He reached at the top after many so fall. But one day in office that pride was lost. It was that pen that he liked the most. He doubted in office workers and staff, At times in office abruptly he laugh. He had suspicion on ally and friend. Driver & sweeper too themselves to fend. One day in office clerk found that pen. Was hidden in file and lying since then. He wished to say sorry and admit the guilt. His ego but came in his way as a hilt. Ajay Amitabh Suman: All Rights Reserved

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Dec 25, 2021

Dec 25, 2021 at 9:13 PM UTC

ajayamitabh7

Do not Suppress, what wish to express

That pen was not just another pen like, Was close to his heart soothing moonlike. He bought that pen after paying huge cost, That was one reason he liked that most. For sbowing status for showing the fame, What he had achieved position and name. Pen was a symbol for flaunting repute, That he was on top this no one dispute. It reminds him also reminds the all, He reached at the top after many so fall. But one day in office that pride was lost. It was that pen that he liked the most. He doubted in office workers and staff, At times in office abruptly he laugh. He had suspicion on ally and friend. Driver & sweeper too themselves to fend. One day in office clerk found that pen. Was hidden in file and lying since then. He wished to say sorry and admit the guilt. His ego but came in his way as a hilt. Ajay Amitabh Suman: All Rights Reserved

42

I do not know the name of your colors, they all mate with each other and come out curiously, like priests heaving Bibles in that basketball façade your whites and pinks fit their sort of face. Yet it stirs some type of discomfort, also unidentifiable and costly – these hours, we are not. You cannot be when I cannot breathe another shade of blueberries, so fat and birthing their seeds. Resigned to their train-track coloring but dreamy, moonlike, thinking about nothing and being everything as tall as a steeple then as short as Communion glasses. Say these must be the violets, in the golden stems and grape heads found by a grass pit: just like your eyes! as if artificially placed inside, before you could only see in black and white. I do not know the name of your colors except by the weight of things, paper & plastic, bows & bird wings, these heavens I discover on your seams.

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Nov 16, 2012

Nov 16, 2012 at 4:34 PM UTC

sarina

opal girl

I do not know the name of your colors, they all mate with each other and come out curiously, like priests heaving Bibles in that basketball façade your whites and pinks fit their sort of face. Yet it stirs some type of discomfort, also unidentifiable and costly – these hours, we are not. You cannot be when I cannot breathe another shade of blueberries, so fat and birthing their seeds. Resigned to their train-track coloring but dreamy, moonlike, thinking about nothing and being everything as tall as a steeple then as short as Communion glasses. Say these must be the violets, in the golden stems and grape heads found by a grass pit: just like your eyes! as if artificially placed inside, before you could only see in black and white. I do not know the name of your colors except by the weight of things, paper & plastic, bows & bird wings, these heavens I discover on your seams.

24

F A R lie your lies and your obstinate insistence the world is not as i see it as others see it only as you see it the pearls aren’t moonlike anymore they’ve dropped scattered on the floor white and pale like the death --- Vijayalakshmi Harish 30/01/06 Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

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Aug 14, 2012

Aug 14, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC

vijayalakshmi-harish

Exit

F A R lie your lies and your obstinate insistence the world is not as i see it as others see it only as you see it the pearls aren’t moonlike anymore they’ve dropped scattered on the floor white and pale like the death --- Vijayalakshmi Harish 30/01/06 Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

13

To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness. Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight. Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness. A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead? A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples: the lost gold of vanished stars. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars

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Apr 30, 2020

Apr 30, 2020 at 11:59 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Georg Trakl translation "To the boy Elis"

To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness. Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight. Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness. A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead? A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples: the lost gold of vanished stars. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars

23

I want to halo my hands around your face in a way that's gentle but just barely I want to be touching your face but just the tips of your soft peach hairs I want your eyes and mine entwined I also want to be entwined in you and around you and with you and next to you seeing you is like seeing everything for the first time again seeing you is as close to seeing a star existing as a real human you are also moonlike and glowing all the time I could sit in your glow forever or at least until 5:54 a.m. I'll be your sea if you be my moon

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Dec 7, 2015

Dec 7, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC

LET

face halo

I want to halo my hands around your face in a way that's gentle but just barely I want to be touching your face but just the tips of your soft peach hairs I want your eyes and mine entwined I also want to be entwined in you and around you and with you and next to you seeing you is like seeing everything for the first time again seeing you is as close to seeing a star existing as a real human you are also moonlike and glowing all the time I could sit in your glow forever or at least until 5:54 a.m. I'll be your sea if you be my moon

15

To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness. Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight. Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness. A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead? A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples: the lost gold of vanished stars. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars

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Apr 23, 2020

Apr 23, 2020 at 6:15 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Georg Trakl "To the boy Elis" translation

To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness. Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight. Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness. A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead? A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples: the lost gold of vanished stars. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Keywords/Tags: Georg Trakl, translation, German, Elis, blackbird, black forest, birds, brow, blood, grapes, monk, body, dew, stars

23

Our eyes met across the hallway Yours filled with a polite curiosity My identity questionable With a touch of nagging familiarity I walked away Merging into the crowds of uniform Avoiding those moonlike eyes Having a pull that draws me in For a stranger Your face seems old Like it was carved into my insides A promise of unforgetability Who are you? My mind searches its dark recesses For answers which long since Have been brutally wiped away clean You find me easily My scarred face hard to miss Brows furrowed in confusion You stare at my skin Fingers reaching out To touch the untouchable A word forming on your lips Evolving into a question Nicole…? Fingers clench the pregnant air My body stepping back in fear Too close. Way too close. I’m cornered now Your presence now stronger Studying my face with shock My trembling cautioning your movements Tears place themselves Delicately in the corners of your sight Emotions running wildly inside your being As you look into the eyes of a ghost.

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May 13, 2015

May 13, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC

nicole-ruth-ellis

Ghost

Our eyes met across the hallway Yours filled with a polite curiosity My identity questionable With a touch of nagging familiarity I walked away Merging into the crowds of uniform Avoiding those moonlike eyes Having a pull that draws me in For a stranger Your face seems old Like it was carved into my insides A promise of unforgetability Who are you? My mind searches its dark recesses For answers which long since Have been brutally wiped away clean You find me easily My scarred face hard to miss Brows furrowed in confusion You stare at my skin Fingers reaching out To touch the untouchable A word forming on your lips Evolving into a question Nicole…? Fingers clench the pregnant air My body stepping back in fear Too close. Way too close. I’m cornered now Your presence now stronger Studying my face with shock My trembling cautioning your movements Tears place themselves Delicately in the corners of your sight Emotions running wildly inside your being As you look into the eyes of a ghost.

36

Her darkest thoughts kept tucked away, but radiance is all she wears on that sweet pale face. Phasing in and out of wholeness;she is still the same. The light she exudes is not her own. The light she shines upon me is reflective of the damage done. Not by her but to her. She is only seen as full after shes given her absolute all. She is my lunar lass and i love her dearly.

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Feb 20, 2019

Feb 20, 2019 at 3:35 AM UTC

Cheekybullocks

Moonlike Maiden

Her darkest thoughts kept tucked away, but radiance is all she wears on that sweet pale face. Phasing in and out of wholeness;she is still the same. The light she exudes is not her own. The light she shines upon me is reflective of the damage done. Not by her but to her. She is only seen as full after shes given her absolute all. She is my lunar lass and i love her dearly.

8