The light of the moon is a reflection of the sun. Though we perceive phases, she is never in truth illuminated, partial or full, she is always completely whole. The sun goes on burning, while she compliments him. We respect them for the light they lend, but why do we not laud the darkness? Why don’t we dance for the shadows? Here on our self-centered planet, we think we own the world, when truly we are at the mercy of our vision. Without cones or rods, how could we perceive light? The planets don’t rely on our sight. Mercury is still mercury without our feeble map of the stars. Navigate the self, and one discovers therin a fine ash as black as obsidian.
I sat at the foot of mount Vesuvius and heard a conversation between the sun and moon:
Sun: you are my mirror.
Moon: what do you see?
Just then the earth shot up in flames of jealousy, whose aftermath resulted in a sea of hard black stones, which shone like silver, but you’d never know, if it weren’t for the darkness.
See the future, through a suture of time, stitching minutes through wounds.
We bleed out hours cochlea swell,
barely audible in the mute hope of this stethoscope, where no drum sounds,
no savagery of heart amplifying fire.
no pulse of temple, no Goddess in hips.
no pitch to this rhythmless routine.
take me underground,
bury my body, mourn what I was,
leave flowers in place of,
vacate where I am now,
yearning to flourish,
into the crepuscular,
muscular flex of
this sensual sunset.
I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.
Filed under Abuse, Borderline, Broken, Chaos, creative, Depression, Displacement, Enslaved, Flowers, Grief, introspective, Loss, Malady, Memory, Mental Health, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Self, Shadow, Sobriety, Sorrow, Soul, Sun, Swan, Swan Song, Tragedy, Trauma, Unwanted, Upheaval, writing
What cycle of the moon would bring us our doom; two fish washed ashore in a forest.
The tide pool offers us a view of birds, previously hidden, but for those moments we would jump above the surface of the water.
They build nests and create something numinous beyond all seeing.
If only we could grow wings.
If only we could find our way
free from this puddle before the sun rises and dries up our dreams.
“But where then shall we go and what will we behold?” Asked the one fish of the other.
When our sadness flows in streams we will drown in the river of our selves, sink deep into the roots of the trees and then branch out to the sky and swim among the stars.
Filed under Beauty, Bird, Death, dreams, Drowning, Fairy Tales, Fish, Forest, Freedom, Moon, Poem, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, Sun, Time, Tragedy
Today I wrote your name in the snow, like a small child professing her love in frozen molecules. The problem is that the snowflakes melt as soon as they touch the earth, isn’t that how love goes?
You told me you love me to the moon and then the moon shattered in three crescent pieces on my floor. (The crimson moon necklace made of clay, you bought me on the island that day.) Where will you love me to now that our moon is broken?
Ovid said that although all things are temporary, nothing perishes. Everything is flowing. It’s sink or swim.
I doubt this was an accident.
I meant to replace the picture I had hung in my kitchen that reads:” those who love passionately teach us how to live.” I was going to hang the calendar you sent me for this new year, the one about unlikely friendships in the animal kingdom, and then smash, down from the nail, like a fallen Christ.
Is there really a Hades? Can we take a boat there? What will Persephone say when she hears the news?
We may never see another spring.
What a tragedy.
And I walked about my small coffin of an apartment repeating “I broke our moon, I broke our moon.” Bury my heart at the Acropolis.
Filed under creative, Death, Greek, Grief, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Mortality, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, Sun, Time, Tragedy, travel, writing