The Poetry Marathon

Even though I’m talking to you, Moon…do I believe you are listening?

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I am between relying on a planet and a moon right now…Neptune is a runner up,

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though pretty hard to pin down. Like you, so watery and sort of ADD when it comes to clarifying my path.

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I don’t go for celestial bodies that keep me in the dark. This darkdeepvastswimmyplace energy has followed me my entire life. I curse it. Sorry to be rude!

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I’ve been known to be swimmy too.

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I know I ask you, Moon, for answers, then change the question. How can I expect you to answer?

Hour #11 Changes

The glooming arrives earlier

now, dropping like a curtain

along the path of the rising moon.

This is when we most expect silence

but the city isn’t quiet, nor

are the woods. And tonight, weirdly,

the full moon begins to wail. My heart

drops at the sound, as I know I’m complicit.

I’ve remained silent to a crime being

perpetuated for eons. There is no

separating blame. The wound is too old.

It’s time to tell the moon our stories.

There are many complicated

theories about space—

most being hard to understand.

String theory speaks of

vibrating loops—electrons

& quarks. I wonder if that theory

has anything to do with the moon?

Well, I am no scientist, just

a poet. So here goes…I pull

the chain of string from the edge

of the potato sack. It unravels

into two strings, which I tie

together to make one. I tie that

string to the ball of string I’ve been

winding. The ball of string

is white & looks like a moon,

Especially when I throw it

into space & it defies gravity.

It is orbiting right now. The

only problem with my method

is how do I catch the ball when

say, I need string to truss the turkey

or to tie up the fall pea plants?

It is so high up there, so near the moon.

Recently, I’ve been helping the moon learn to speak. She has always been silent, much like I was growing up. Perhaps she was afraid she’d embarrass herself with her words. Or with how she sounded. I told her that most likely, people would be soothed by the sound of her voice. And then yesterday, she surprised me by saying, “I’m full.” “Well, yes you are,” I said, taking in the sound, which was a beautiful tinkling whisper that traveled like a stone skipping on water. “Why are you working so hard to get me to speak? Other moons don’t speak, take Jupiter—none of her eighty-three moons speak. A silent bunch they are.” Then she snickered, “Can you imagine,” she said in that tinkling whisper, “such a cacophony in space.” I said, “Or a chorus, if they have perfect pitch.” She smiled her big moon smile. Then we laughed together.

While in the south

when we were young

before computers

we asked around.

We learned of blue laws

while in the south

We were so young,

we wanted moonshine.

We met new friends,

living in a trailer.

While in the south

we found moonshine.

We drank together,

becoming quickly smashed.

Drink lots of water

while in the South.

The moon has nothing to say….

I say, “Oh, there you are. You are so beautiful!

I especially like those clouds draping your

hips. Is that rouching? Very fashionable.”

The moon has nothing to say…

I say, “Oh, you are so thin. Just a sliver.

Don’t lose any more weight, okay. You look

great just the way you are.”

The moon has nothing to say…

“Who is that with you? What? Mars? I heard

something about him. Huh, what was it? Well,

just take it slowly, okay?”

The moon has nothing to say…

“I thought I saw your name come up

on my phone screen, did you call?” I ask.

Blue, Blue, are you okay? Please pickup.”

The moon still has nothing to say…

“Where are you, Blue. What happened?

Great prices Mondays

before six–if the bartender

hasn’t gone lunar, that is.

Blue Moon Cocktail—$5.

gin forward, Creme de Violette,

smoky vermouth,

no taste syrup, a twist

of gunpowder–

hints of lunar soil,

goes

down

like

a cup

of cold moon brew—

O moon, streaming moody,

I peer up at your blank face

lit by the reflecting sun,

showing off craters and dust

but no water, nor the color red—

no shouting red-headed, red faced

red eyes, red nightshade berries,

nor red skies at night.

The moon phase begins its round

of growing, perhaps a budding moon—

eggs hatching with creativity.  Earthbound,

we don’t begin knowing these changes—

we grow with the hare moon or milk moon,

new urges manifesting. Then estrangement

comes, still there is fruition—take May

for instance, when moon’s ripe for laying,

then over it goes in September, delayed

dormant sprouts, asleep, no budding forth,

energy maneuvering underground. Then seed

planting arrives again, stirred by warmth.

I promise I will give you the moon on a stick

if you quit saying Jesus Christ, Fuck’s sake!

if your dirty clothes land in the hamper,

if you turn off cell phone at meals,

if you quit sleeping all day,

if you comb your hair,

if you get a job!

I promise to give myself the moon on a stick

if I quit my constant eating day in and out,

if I stop obsessing at 1 in the morning,

if I halt mooning around the house,

if I annul my habit of put downs,

if I give up consuming meat,

if I declutter the house.