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Best Famous Blue Moon Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Blue Moon poems. This is a select list of the best famous Blue Moon poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Blue Moon poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of blue moon poems.

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Written by Lisa Zaran | Create an image from this poem

Dreams

 It is later than late, 
the simmered down darkness 
of the jukebox hour.
The hour of drunkenness and cigarettes.
The fools hour.
In my dreams, I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette.
It's okay, I'm dreaming.
In dreams, smoking can't kill me.
It's warm outside.
I have every window open.
There's no such thing as danger, only the dangerous face of beauty.
I am hanging at my window like a houseplant.
I am smoking a cigarette.
I am having a drink.
The pale, blue moon is shining.
The savage stars appear.
Every fool that passes by smiles up at me.
I drip ashes on them.
There is music playing from somewhere.
A thready, salt-sweet tune I don't know any of the words to.
There's a gentle breeze making hopscotch with my hair.
This is the wet blanket air of midnight.
This is the incremental hour.
This is the plastic placemat of time between reality and make-believe.
This is tabletop dream time.
This is that faint stain on your mattress, the one you'll discover come morning, and wonder how.
This is the monumental moment.
The essential: look at me now.
This is the hour.
Isn't it lovely? Wake up the stars! Isn't it fabulous? Kiss the moon! Where is the clock? The one that always runs ahead.
The one that always tries to crush me with its future.
Originally published in Literati Magazine, Winter 2005.
Copyright © Lisa Zaran 2005


Written by Olu Oguibe | Create an image from this poem

Song of Sorrow

Song of Sorrow 
for rosa diez

si només, però, aquesta
llum parada poguès durar 


I shall sing you a song of 
Sorrow when the moment comes.
It is the way of poets.
He will come bearing along his voice Like the lament of an old guitar.
Only night shall fall; another day dawn.
I shall sing you a tearful song.
In the desert the rain fell on me.
Bushfires danced their way through The undergrowth of my verse.
Your footfall soft as felt, you Stepped into the light and Asked the poet for a song.
I shall sing you a lyric of pain.
The blue moon peers through the foliage Of your eyelashes.
The minstrel hawks His tears through the streets of night.
A household god is asking for water; An old god is pleading at your door.
There's a white rose on your breast.
It is the fortune of poets; I shall sing you a song.
Untie the fresh leaves of dawn, I want to make my journey short.
I will go upon the hill and cast my little net, Decorate the river of your morning with petals; I shall speak the words of songs.
It is the destiny of poets.
I shall sing you A song of sorrow When the moment comes.
Written by Billy Collins | Create an image from this poem

I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakeys Version Of Three Blind Mice

 And I start wondering how they came to be blind.
If it was congenital, they could be brothers and sister, and I think of the poor mother brooding over her sightless young triplets.
Or was it a common accident, all three caught in a searing explosion, a firework perhaps? If not, if each came to his or her blindness separately, how did they ever manage to find one another? Would it not be difficult for a blind mouse to locate even one fellow mouse with vision let alone two other blind ones? And how, in their tiny darkness, could they possibly have run after a farmer's wife or anyone else's wife for that matter? Not to mention why.
Just so she could cut off their tails with a carving knife, is the cynic's answer, but the thought of them without eyes and now without tails to trail through the moist grass or slip around the corner of a baseboard has the cynic who always lounges within me up off his couch and at the window trying to hide the rising softness that he feels.
By now I am on to dicing an onion which might account for the wet stinging in my own eyes, though Freddie Hubbard's mournful trumpet on "Blue Moon," which happens to be the next cut, cannot be said to be making matters any better.
Written by Richard Hugo | Create an image from this poem

Letter To Kizer From Seattle

 Dear Condor: Much thanks for that telephonic support
from North Carolina when I suddenly went ape
in the Iowa tulips.
Lord, but I'm ashamed.
I was afraid, it seemed, according to the doctor of impending success, winning some poetry prizes or getting a wet kiss.
The more popular I got, the softer the soft cry in my head: Don't believe them.
You were never good.
Then I broke and proved it.
Ten successive days I alienated women I liked best.
I told a coed why her poems were bad (they weren't) and didn't understand a word I said.
Really warped.
The phrase "I'll be all right" came out too many unsolicited times.
I'm o.
k.
now.
I'm back at the primal source of poems: wind, sea and rain, the market and the salmon.
Speaking of the market, they're having a vital election here.
Save the market? Tear it down? The forces of evil maintain they're trying to save it too, obscuring, of course, the issue.
The forces of righteousness, me and my friends, are praying for a storm, one of those grim dark rolling southwest downpours that will leave the electorate sane.
I'm the last poet to teach the Roethke chair under Heilman.
He's retiring after 23 years.
Most of the old gang is gone.
Sol Katz is aging.
Who isn't? It's close now to the end of summer and would you believe it I've ignored the Blue Moon.
I did go to White Center, you know, my home town, and the people there, many are the same, but also aging, balking, remarkably polite and calm.
A man whose name escapes me said he thinks he had known me, the boy who went alone to Longfellow Creek and who laughed and cried for no reason.
The city is huge, maybe three quarters of a million and lots of crime.
They are indicting the former chief of police.
Sorry to be so rambling.
I eat lunch with J.
Hillis Miller, brilliant and nice as they come, in the faculty club, overlooking the lake, much of it now filled in.
And I tour old haunts, been twice to Kapowsin.
One trout.
One perch.
One poem.
Take care, oh wisest of condors.
Love.
Dick.
Thanks again.
Written by Dorothea Mackeller | Create an image from this poem

The Open Sea

 From my window I can see, 
Where the sandhills dip, 
One far glimpse of open sea.
Just a slender slip Curving like a crescent moon— Yet a greater prize Than the harbour garden-fair Spread beneath my eyes.
Just below me swings the bay, Sings a sunny tune, But my heart is far away Out beyond the dune; Clearer far the sea-gulls’ cry And the breakers’ roar, Than the little waves beneath Lapping on the shore.
For that strip of sapphire sea Set against the sky Far horizons means to me— And the ships go by Framed between the empty sky And the yellow sands, While my freed thoughts follow them Out to other lands.
All its changes who can tell? I have seen it shine Like a jewel polished well, Hard and clear and fine; Then soft lilac—and again On another day Glimpsed it through a veil of rain, Shifting, drifting grey.
When the livid waters flee, Flinching from the storm, From my window I can see, Standing safe and warm, How the white foam tosses high On the naked shore, And the breakers’ thunder grows To a battle-roar… Far and far I look—Ten miles? No, for yesterday Sure I saw the Blessed Isles Twenty worlds away.
My blue moon of open sea, Is it little worth? At the least it gives to me Keys of all the earth



Book: Reflection on the Important Things