"moonshadow" poems
I’m crushingly sentimental, you might not know, I don’t let it show, but it’s true. I’m walking in the moonshine and moonshine is how I feel - I’m intoxicated - by you.
Some nights when I can’t settle - I walk - and find myself outside your dorm. Your light’s on tonight, everything’s right, when you're a few feet away safe and warm.
I’ll wait a while, in the windy cold, the crunchy snow, deep in the sharp blue moonshadow. When people pass by, I look down at my phone - oh, don’t look at me, there’s nothing to see or do.
A walking girl, a stalking girl? Lingering, at 2am, drunk with desire, yearning somewhere inside for the ephemeral closeness of you.
Jun 3, 2022
Jun 3, 2022 at 2:40 PM UTC
The winding drive along the sea
I took so many times
to steal away from anarchy
to pacify my mind
The city sirens come undone
before the ocean spray
then down the hill to U.S. 1
and thus begins the day
The Pier receding to the South
Will Rogers to the North
Topanga is the turn we seek
as we are going forth
The starkness of the hills and pines
the rivulet below
as Westward the Pacific shines
beneath the morning glow
The twists and turns I still recall
though roads are better now
no unpaved sections left at all
nor farmland for a cow
No Austin Mini Union Jack
the landmarks too have changed
and I so lost since coming back
I almost feel deranged
The Health Food Store with hitching post
the horses canter past
the countryside I love the most
and visit now at last
But on Mulholland Highway there
surprises lie in wait
there’s razor wire on the fence
and horses at the gate
As giant dishes aiming deep
into a mountain wall
so Orwell’s promise do we keep
applying it to all
But I remember still the day
the hillside turned to fire
the way to turn had burned away
the sky was black with ire
And in a wide spot in the road
in reverence did we stand
a fox, a hare, my dog and I
all watched the burning land
Can nothing make us feel as small
as fire pure and cruel?
to know it as a cunning foe -
to know we’re naught but fuel
But through the smoke a fire truck
led us down on Kanan Dume
toward the cleaner seaward air
away from certain doom
And all at once the trial was o'er
for we had reached the sea
as once Carrillo had before
and now my dog and me
We pass the house of river stone
Moonshadow’s Restaurant
and even Tidepool Gallery
for years my favorite haunt
And back to Santa Monica
on PCH we drive
admiring still the beauty
yet more thankful we’re alive
The winding drive along the sea
I took so many times
to steal away from anarchy
to pacify my mind
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
Axel, who never had a rocking horse, once rode a bright blue tricycle. He called it his ‘Athenian Rhapsody’. He loved to play the tuba in bed, and when he was feeling particularly happy, would sit on the loo in the outside shed, pants around his ankles oompa-pa’ing till the cows came home.
That was quite a while ago; the tuba and the tricycle have gone, yet he can still hear the triangle sound the bell made on his tricycle, and still remembers the scraping of the old keys on the ancient tuba.
Axel listens to old sounds very well (all the time): he loves Bach, Mendelssohn and Donovan. He loves to eat crumpets with honey and drink a large white mug of milky tea; it reminds him of summer fishing trips to Lake Eucumbine, mushrooms and gnats in the full-sun morning air, (he loves to talk fishing when he’s playing chess with Carl the orderly, often quoting from his favourite magazine, ‘Modern Fly Fishing’).
Axel was once an expert at fly fishing; tying the ‘super moonshadow’ to perfection (he named the fly after what he thought was a Donovan song, written by Cat Stevens).
When the hospital staff remember to buy him a new box, Axel loves to drink Lady Grey tea made from tea bags, he prefers tea bags, he feels that somehow they bring clearer definition to tea making.
Axel thinks a lot about definition, noting how the edges of his bed are very clearly defined by the clean-blue hospital blankets that drop suddenly to the ocean of the grey linoleum floor. He likes the smell of cleanblue, it’s somehow a new sea to sail and sometimes the feel of his favourite jumper when he was a boy: a definite edge of beginning and end. He knows that soon he’ll cross the floor-grey ocean, sailing under a white sheet. But this is not a thing Axel dwells on for very long, he prefers to think of such things as his next chess move and flirting with Miriam the night nurse.
—
Axel has just beaten Carl in a game of chess. He’s said goodnight to Miriam, a long quiet goodnight, a good long, good night. He won’t wake again, he senses this – and is peaceful.
When his last breath comes he hears; a faint scraping sound and a single precious note from a triangle bell on a bright blue tricycle.
They’re good sounds.
They are old sounds.
They bring him…
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 8:10 AM UTC
Emily wants to be a Prince when she grows up.
Emily knows that wind comes from trees waving their branches
when they dance to sunsongs, stirring the air up,
and when Emily looks at the beach she knows
that seals are just narwhals without horns
and narwhals are just unicorns that forgot to get on the Ark
when God drowned the world in His tears
(so He gave them tails instead of hooves
and let them swim in all His misery forever).
Emily parts her hair on the side
so she can be a Prince when she grows up.
She parts her hair on the side and wears leggings
and a little green hat and runs bare-chested
through the forest catching fairies
and on clear nights Emily can see her moonshadow
and they dance together, four and forty feet tall.
Prince Emily has a cardboard castle.
It used to be a house but Emily took some crayons
and drew herself crown moulding and flower boxes
because she wants to be a Prince when she grows up
and she took that box and brought it
under the electric fence
and past the cow field to the
(rapidly disappearing
on account of those
mysterious trucks
that drive by at night)
forest and to her
very favourite
spot
by the stream.
Maybe she’s there right now,
looking at the water and wishing it would ever
even in the summer grow warm enough to swim.
Maybe she’s there right now,
with her chest bare and her hair blonde
and her eyes huge and blue
and her face messy with berry juice
because there’s no-one to tell her
to wipe her chin
and no-one to tell her
to grow her hair long
like the other girls.
So Prince Emily parts her hair on the side
and talks to Peter Pan and Robin Hood
and her own shadow
and sometimes
God.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 10:56 PM UTC
And I blame the likes of JM Dematteis and Jon J Muth
for writing and Illustrating The Complete MoonShadow
so perfectly well
and Charles Baudelaire for leaving behind
his flowers for all the world
to smell the evil within their roots
and for Blake for his reeds and his tiger
and his heaven and hell
and for freezing eternity so we might all catch a glimpse
and for Bukowski and Hunter
for turning ugly truths into something beautiful
we could all enjoy hating
and for Shakespeare and Gaiman
and the dreams they weave
into the fabrics of our soul
and for the devil and temptation
and for god and shame
and for the laughter of children
and the tears of the grieving
who will never hear their children laugh again
and for those that paint
something beautiful out of all the pain
that they feel and see in the world
and the melancholy who sit high up
in dead tree branches to hang the moon
and the stars in the dark of the night
so the rest of us dont have to be lost and alone
in the lonely hours between sleep and dreams
and for each painful breath
that reminds me where love once lived
in my chest and each joyful sigh
that reminds that I'm still alive
and that somewhere between the shadows of doubt
and the glimpse of brief moments of hope
I still might find a seed shaped
like a heart beating to plant in my hand
and sew over my chest
and I can meet death
with love still living inside the cold ground
where my body will rest
Jul 2, 2017
Jul 2, 2017 at 8:42 PM UTC
The moon is so bright tonight
The black velvet sheet of the night
is riddled with stars
Patiently waiting, for lightyears to come
For us to see the stars light fade
Until we can not wish upon them
And the sky is sure to turn to shade
Jul 1, 2019
Jul 1, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC
I want a sunset to the end of my day
I want to dance with a moonshadow
I want a river to enter my lake
I want an earth that quakes
I need a life hummingbird blue
I need a spiritual blessing
I need the warmth of a stranger
I need just the mystery of you
I see the questions as unimportant
I see that there is nothing
I see that there can be everything
I see all that in the stranger of you
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
“The Accidental Caretaker”
The accidental caretaker
has found his way back home
He's traveled far and traveled wide
to find his birds have flown
The western wind will tell the tale
of journeys he has known
and all along the rugged road
his destination known
The accidental caretaker
will leave here once again
He's always heard the siren's song
somewhere 'round the bend
down along the waterfront
he'll find his journey's end
the moonshadow will lead him on
to find his long lost friend
The accidental caretaker
has put away his shoes
his time is done for spotlights filled
with other people's blues
He's found a place to hang his hat
and listen for the news
of how and why and where and when
he'll pay his final dues
The accidental caretaker
has found his way back home
He's traveled far and traveled wide
to find the words he'd known
The waves will crash, the sun will set
on journeys he has known
and all along the rugged road
his destination known
his destination known
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
Lady Moon
You wax & wane
You play your game
With tide & mood
Emotions high
In cloudless skies
My pending thoughts
Become unglued
(C) Pixievic 2016
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 7:43 AM UTC
It's near
I can taste Metal
Moldy food overwhelming my nose
The Fox creeps around
Bringing night and ruby gone
Overpowering
Lying in a street
shot dead
Moonshadow Alone
It's here
After so many years
Finally the pain will be gone
The Lamb comes softly
Bringing peace and beauty sigh
Wonderful
Lying in a chair
sleeping dead
Moonshadow Alone
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:28 PM UTC
dead what's it ?
inside the clasped lid
of never to part darkness
inching each breath
presses
pressing
with each breath
towards that titanic chasm
(into which leaps
every humdrum
scintillating eruption
of drab being)
I cannot imagine
anything more absurd than
perhaps ******* or sitting
outside on the pale veranda
of a minute café
tucked into the
silent crease of
a dying city
the light stroking
carelessly the **** soil
boils
with extremely sleepy
afternoon
every where–
and occasionally
a child
can be heard
murdering silence
with its long shriek
of rapid youth–
i wonder and play.
my hands neatly in the comely foil.
i bend and kern
each brilliantly lashed
marvel of coalesced laughter–
a tiny poem is sitting
slant wise their
across thighs
with deliberate health
of constant ***
there is a mountain hurled
studiously *****
aggressively swept
by moonshadow
and nightdust: (amongst the reeds
a tired frog
is lilting
across the ether
its ancient song ) I wonder,
can you hear it to
ever think
upon the frail note
of its enormous throat
that to live is to die
constantly as–
a truck turns south
into the friscalating
dusklight its shadow
is minute;
and how can it
the insane probability
that we naked forevers
might suddenly be
in each distilled
anthem of terrible life,
the brute
the heap
of chaff
off from the stock
reaped by unthinkable hands
(but i think and i wonder
and my hands play amongst the
cool beds of immortal rivers
endless coils of blinding self
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Beside the stream
of eternity, the long cliffs
march into the unknown;
Every rock and pebble sings
Thunderous and wild.
Within the forest of time
On branches of moss and ivy
Sits the old ancient owl;
Waiting for the small quiver
Of a mouse in hazy moonshadow.
Beyond the gardens of stars
An emptiness quakes and yearns
For flowers to be born
For mountains to break and bleed
And sing and cry.
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 12:37 AM UTC
And I blame the likes of JM Dematteis and Jon J Muth for writing and Illustrating The Complete MoonShadow so perfectly well and Charles Baudelaire for leaving behind his flowers for all the world to smell the evil within their roots and for Blake for his reeds and his tiger and his heaven and hell and for freezing eternity so we might all catch a glimpse and for Bukowski and Hunter for turning ugly truths into something beautiful we could all enjoy hating and for Shakespeare and Gaiman and the dreams they weave into the fabrics of our soul and for the devil and temptation and for god and shame and for the laughter of children and the tears of the grieving who will never hear their children laugh again and for those that paint something beautiful out of all the pain that they feel and see in the world and the melancholy who sit high up in dead tree branches to hang the moon and the stars in the dark of the night so the rest of us dont have to be lost and alone in the lonely hours between sleep and dreams and for each painful breath that reminds me where love once lived in my chest and each joyful sigh that reminds that I'm still alive and that somewhere between the shadows of doubt and the glimpse of brief moments of hope I still might find a seed shaped like a heart beating to plant in my hand and sew over my chest and I can meet death with love still living inside the cold ground where my body will rest
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 11:34 PM UTC
Moon shadow dancing
Just keeping me up at night
Chasing blues away
Feb 7, 2022
Feb 7, 2022 at 4:59 PM UTC