In keeping with this week’s ‘Moon’ theme, today’s Throwback Friday poem (originally written in January 2021) is drawn from my third book, Until Eyes Hear Sound. It appears in Chapter 8: Poetry in Slow Motion, and if you need to have a chat with me, “I am up here floating on the moon.”
Floating On The Moon
I am not always wrong And at times, I may have been right Behind my mask, I smile And at times, I grimace
Numbness has entered my bones Clumsiness guides my pen Awkwardness precedes my stride Uneasiness resonates in my voice
I am not able to walk on water And at times, I have sunk like a stone I live within my soul’s cocoon And at times, I am floating on the moon
In the hush of a calm bay, the moon lifts above the palms as if ready to whisper its small truth to the night.
Full Moon Rising
There is a hush in the air Below the full moon’s stare Silence is golden Eveningtide unfolding The bay is dead calm As the moon glares Through Rippleside’s palms
“Why look at me I’m only a tiny spirit in the universe’s eternal sea.“
“Scan beyond your sandy quay to find your celestial key.”
With two sharp‑eyed magpies and a pale daytime moon looking on, this little poem takes flight as a whimsical protest — a light‑feathered reminder that even the quiet watchers on the fence have something to say about the state of our cluttered world.
Who’sWatching Whom
I’m perched on the fence, wondering about the world’s lack of common sense, and I ask the moon, “Is there no end to this gloom?” “Do not worry, my feathered friend – this is not the end.”
“Soon there will be enough elbowroom for everyone’s nom de plume in the planet’s master bedroom, after Mother Nature has donned her cleaning costume, and swept all of the needless showrooms, backrooms, ballrooms, and boardrooms.”
“And the people should all help groom their own untidy playrooms with those unused yardbrooms.”
And here’s a song that hums along with the magpies’ quiet protest…
Featured Image Above:Daylight moon, slipping through confetti clouds — a silent witness to the world’s warring manoeuvrers, drifting apart.
Confetti Clouds
I’m slip-sliding downward from behind the morning clouds – or are they earth’s mourning shrouds, discarded by the world’s warlords then shredded into propaganda streamers, to deceive all the invisible dreamers?
I am an unbiased, timeless observer who has witnessed every violent crowd’s mismanaged, murderous manoeuvre.
Listen while reading: Sigur Rós – Vaka (Untitled 1).
A Mid-morning Affair
Out beyond the doorway Facing the great southern sky I look up sideways to the east And the mid-morning sun Discovers my squinting eyes Then I turn to the west Where the mid-morning moon Shyly locates my awakened stare
Here I stand, fair and square Between the sun’s golden flare And the moon’s untold affair
I wonder about the world’s current despair Or should I declare “Why is the world in such disrepair”
After weeks of angry skies and biting winds, the moon returned—smiling, serene, and softly settling into the horizon’s embrace. I paired this poem with ELO’s Mr. Blue Sky, a song that lifts the spirit just as the moon lifted mine. May it brighten your night as it did mine.
A Lunar Surprise
After weeks of angry skies, And cold winds that stung our eyes, It was a pleasant surprise To see your smily whiteface, Before you settled down into place Upon the horizon’s pillowcase.