Man in the Moon

The Moon, full, and pumpkin bright,

glares through my window blinds tonight,

searching past my window pane,

some hidden truth to ascertain,

of keeping nightbourne hours well—

a secret kept and cannot tell—

and pay no homage to the gibbous god

of rest; from tilling of the sod,

from to and frow at tidal whim,

rendering a slave of him.


Jealous of these night-owl words,

he pokes the blinds with golden swords,

seeks entry to my poet’s world—

my freedom from the daylight lords—

whereon the page, his piercing falls,

caressing words. The night-owl calls.

Moon-feathered light, the winged-words fly,

to distant stars in the glistening sky;

my page bereft of captive thought.

Unchained ideas, no longer caught.


The granite sky, he drinks like ale,

and drains the night, then morning pale

refills the goblet with sparkling wine,

as sunlight limbos through the blinds—

drawn tight from dusk until dawn intrudes—

dulling, once more, Me and Moon.

The words, full-weight, fall back to earth,

to slumber on their parchment berth,

where pen and patter of moon-kissed verse

may yet recapture the golden words.

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