Best Moonlight Poems
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Painting by Edvard Munch, 1895: "Moon Light"
your soft hand trembles in mine
no words are spoken
we observe our ascending full moon
as we have every month for forty years
empyrean empress rises to her throne
queen regent of the night sky reigning
over brooding blue bay and melancholic mountains
as predictable as death
we again sit in our folding chairs
whispering under our favorite tree
anticipating the coming light show
enjoying her long bridal veil
shimmering in the existential ripples
a nocturne of nebulous narratives
stopping at the shore line
stopping
she inevitably will descend
the shroud of shadow will cover the land
comforted that tomorrow will awaken
to a resplendent sun
and next month will bring another full moon
the doctor said three weeks
so this will probably be our last
your soft hand trembles in mine
no words are spoken
written 11 July 2023
Blindfolded, he takes me from the car through the humid air of August. He holds my hand, and then surrounds me with his arms, when small obstacles appear. He brushes the hair from my forehead, gentling me like a shy colt. The silk rectangular scarf, I had folded and tied about my breasts clings to me. My cutoffs ride up further exciting me, as he lifts me onto a wall. Shushing me, he says. “Sit still, honey.” I have no idea where we are but, his voice and footsteps have a slight echo.
the wail
of a harmonica:
moonlight serenade
Vibrations tingle across my skin, raising the down on my arms. A bead of sweat mixes with baby lotion and follows a shiver down, from cleavage to navel. Seconds become minutes, as the song caresses me. Oh, how I love him, this long tall drink of water with his huge hands and slow drawl. As the last note hangs in echo, I hear him approach. He lifts me high and traces the droplet down to the top of my hip-huggers with his tongue. I am still blindfolded when he places me on the ground. I feel his breathe upon my mouth. The tip of his tongue plays across my teeth. Ah, I remember him, his face, his hands, his taste, and that night at the empty skating rink…but, sadly, not his name.
the scarf
falls from my hands:
the drawer closes
First Published by Contemporary Haibun On-line Winter of 2013
I
love
walking
at midnight
as moonlight shadows
dance on the inky blue ocean
and watch as they sparkle and shimmer like tiny stars,
pirouetting gracefully like prima ballerinas with the ocean as their stage
9/3/19
Writing Challenge 1, September 2019 - Eight Line Form
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
Checked with PS Syllable counter 1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21
~
Cotton candy swirls
on a pink flamingo sky
Late December wishes
that are slowly floating by
Apricot horizons
glowing softly ‘cross the hill
Twilight born emotions
falling on this night so still
Sweet seductive touches
to caress my quivered skin
Satin slipper kisses
moist along my lips again
Silhouettes in moonlight
move in rhythm ‘pon the ground
Whispers in the darkness
come a most melodic sound
Sighs that lace the heavens
flow from breaths in rapid pace
Tickles formed of pleasure
bring a smile to your face
Midnight moans encircle
as your beauty leaves me numb
Finding love this evening
waiting for the dawn to come
~
I watch moonbeams dance on an inky sea
Clouds drift on by, oh how the moon does shine
Moonlight shadows always fascinate me
This ever-changing scene is so divine
Clouds drift on by, oh how the moon does shine
As I stroll down to the sea late at night
This ever-changing scene is so divine
Stars are twinkling, giving celestial light
As I stroll down to the sea late at night
I’m captivated by such stunning skies
Stars are twinkling, giving celestial light
Until the morning sun begins to rise
I’m captivated by such stunning skies
Moonlight shadows always fascinate me
Until the morning sun begins to rise
I watch moonbeams dance on an inky sea
22~03~16
Tonight is not like other nights
Tonight I could paint a moonlight
with the smudged ink of my tears
No its not the inexperienced arms of death
which are longing to embrace my breath
that fill this soul with pain and fear
Nor is it the breeze of thousand needles
'neath the soft glow of my skin ,
What scares me most is...
Not being here in a twenty years or so
to tread love's kiss upon my daughter's cheek
Feel my fingers running through her hair
Listen to the sweet sound of her laughter
Make a wish under the unnoticed starry stars
and watch her dance beneath a repetitive boring sky.
What scares me most is...
Not being here in a twenty years or so
To let the crimson of my lips
bleed its rose close to your pillow
and its fragrance 'pon your bed
Its not being here to hold your blemished hands
and say to you all words still left unsaid
What scares me most is...
That in a twenty years or so
You will be here , still hating candles,all alone,
Its missing the chance, to share those words that don't make sense
yet mean that I have loved you all along.
In a twenty years or so ...In a twenty years or so
Will the ones I hold so dear
still find a way to know ?
MOONLIGHT MADNESS
The moon falls out like a secret above the frisky clouds
Daylight and night the stars come in crowds
Like a glistening diamond, I can't stop staring
Mixed-up in that moment that has no time sharing
Holding onto the tip of the tree limbs like a puppeteer
I can hear the words the moon whispers into my ear
TONIGHT!
I will illuminate into a world only I know of
My very own little secret sparkling island getaway
A world where beauty hides the beast
I'll be the only exile under a sunless night feast
TONIGHT!
I'm going to pass on all my secrets away---
As I have on my dreaming moonlit gear
Comfort upon this mundane wonder, astronomical sphere.
TONIGHT!
I looked one last time at the mooned night
I will close my eyes, and find myself in a box kite flight.
TONIGHT!
I will lay myself down to sleep,
Not allowing my imagination to rinse off with wild sheep
Like a Nightingale, I rather sit and serenade myself to sleep
With the refreshing thought, the moon is like the pillow I keep
In this mad, mad world!
The moon seems to be the only object that holds it's sanity
Arousing me with it's inner peace and spirituality
The night was fickle as November
A time when all sleep in slumber;
A moist mist hangs over the river,
And a still cold moon hangs as a sliver.
A soft liquid light captures the glow,
Of the first few flakes of new fallen snow;
She shines her light on turret towers,
And tucks in bed the sleeping flowers.
Her crescent rides through clouds that fly,
Shining on wolves as they howl and cry.
Etching the transient phantoms of night,
As wings of an owl brush the dust of flight;
The crystalline light shines on lovers,
Yet pale and still the moonlight hovers;
To tip with silver the restless waves,
And on tombstones marking silent graves.
Cast your moonbeams, cast them down,
As you float in your silver crown;
And the ribbon of dawn will wrap your head,
And put your shining eye to bed.
A repost
Beside the rustic harbor stands a lighthouse on a hill
It keeps a watchful vigil o’er the waters deep and still
At night the harbor waters shine almost as bright as day
And nothing is as beautiful as moonlight on the bay
The shores stretch out their golden arms along the rugged land
The waters seem to sing and dance across the golden sand
A cool and salty ocean breeze blows softly through my hair
As tiny sparkling water droplets gently fill the air
I stand next to the water's edge and listen while it sings
The water seems to know the gentle comfort that it brings
I long to have you at my side beside the shining sea
While list'ning as the water brings your image back to me
Though we are very far apart I still can see your smiles
As the water whispers soft and sweet across the many miles
I hear your sparkling laughter and it softly seems to say
“I love you”, and it fills my heart like moonlight on the bay
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Silhouetted in the early morn
Five black crows await the breaking dawn
Sitting still and silent in a row
Their shadows cast a forbidding glow
Dusk turns to dawn as daylight breaks
Dark skies fade as the world awakes
The moonlight pales in the morning light
Soon to rise again and welcome night
Jan Allison
24th March 2015
form used - Ekphrasis
Black and White film Photography – A V Giorgio
~awarded 3rd place~
Mystical amour of moonlight moth's whimsical lure,
a glowing flame in sensual saffron gold attire;
restless tease with every breeze, gilt-cavorting contour,
pale green fluttering, her wings stirring his breath afire.
Lilting lightness in beaming brightness, her dark eyes shine,
in the night renewed flight, fragile love on agile wings;
aerial display of desire's ache amaranthine,
hungry heartstrings crave what evening's ebony brings.
His illumination sparks her imagination,
heart’s replete, breathless beats, she basks in his halo-heat;
fascination with chance her hot romance, damnation,
flame’s fickle spurn, wistful wings burned, by love bittersweet.
Susan Ashley
October 18, 2017
~ First Place ~
Contest: Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever
Sponsor: Laura Loo
silvery grey moon
kisses the shimmering lake
romance fills the air
Moon Spoon Contest
Sponsored by Kai Michael Neumann
12~18~16
Barefoot in luxuriant grass, luscious, pearl moonlight falling down,
In the golden season of sensual thrills, in the hours without sound,
Underneath the tempting tangerine tree, eating of its fragrant fruit,
With the stars dancing to tomorrow, by enigmatic, invisible routes.
Barefoot in peaceful dreamland, caressed softly by romantic moon,
When the ebony world lies in waiting, for the yellow canary's tune,
Barefoot in tangy tangerines, in the warm, soft, wandering breezes,
In the darkest hours of sleepless night, when it seems time ceases.