Moon Blue Poems | Examples
These Moon Blue poems are examples of Blue poems about Moon. These are the best examples of Blue Moon poems written by international poets.
I can hear the wolves howling.
A blue moon sky tonight,
movement, motion, magical,
we're synchronized just right.
Her silhouette's smoldering
behind translucent screens.
Perfect, pleasing, pandering,
my fantasy, her scene.
Incense burning, candles aglow,
a breeze blows her to me,
luscious, lacy, lingering,
the only thing I see.
She touches without touching,
spectator on a chair;
wanting, warning, whispering,
she lashes me with hair.
Sorceress now claims her prey.
our bodies do entwine,
teasing, touching, tenacious,
then finally she is mine.
Two bodies brace for battle,
a squall stirs up the sea,
holding, heaving, heavenly,
right where I want to be.
Our hungry mouths are feasting,
enlightenment now sought,
rampant, racing, ravenous,
until that moment's caught.
Marjorie Moose, with her chandelier crown,
found twelve ducklings just wandering down.
No mother in sight, no map in their beaks
just confused chirps and moss-covered cheeks.
She took them to a pond shaped like a spoon,
where frogs sang jazz beneath the moon.
She taught them to nap in a thistle-made bed,
While squirrels served pines and soup in a shed.
But one day the sky sent a postcard of rain,
Signed by a breeze from the mushroom terrain.
Then Mama Duck swooped from a cumulus cloud,
and all the ducklings chirped, absurdly loud.
“We love you, Moose Mum!” then gave her a hug,
and a necklace of gum from a raccoon’s tree rug.
Now legends say in the forest of blue,
babysitters have hooves and hearts too.
The sedate, dreamful morn
is planted in a heteromorphic
carnation.
It is engraved on the sonorous,
red star.
The moon is sowed in a melodious,
delightful route.
An unparalleled felicity fills the
soundless, enchanting rivulet.
As the sun sets in the evening sky,
the pretty blue turns pink.
Oh my,
I am pink for the clouds to drink.
The moon must go to bed,
the sun must come out to play.
Marshmallow clouds meet the sun's rays,
I am pink showing off this new day.
Thriving in the sun she sways inside her garden
each time a fragrant wind arrives from the sea
Her lavender blooms fill the earth with pardon
she bends at will like a tiny bud young and free
She is a rare and beautiful blue moon in my hand
pulled from the ground she sets my heart aglow
when I inhale her, ... then I begin to understand
why she is my favorite rose, why I love her so
Giving always giving, she is the perfect flower
loosely scented in my home she is fragrance
convening with my senses with elongated hour
this little rose of mine, means love & romance
timorous blue moon
plays peek a boo in brooding clouds
distant thunder claps
That moon by romancing is made,
I never know what people do.
But its love light has picked your face.
That moon by romancing is made,
Sets my fingertips to the day —
A night that's between me and you
That moon by romancing is made.
I never know what people do.
JANUARY 2024
Hello, person.
My person, who bathes and drifts in the steaming lake of blue
And chirps a melody of solitude
While strumming the oak guitar for the blaze.
Hello to you--
If you want to hear my thoughts.
My person, whose eyes bleed of the weeping willow's dye,
Who holds the warmth of the stars in their skin,
Who holds the wisps of frail roots in their hair,
Lashes swooping down like evergreen branches.
Hello, person
Who goes with the tide
And lets the moon take them whichever which way
When the blaze does rest and can't guide you any longer.
Hello, person
Who gets washed ashore.
Who loses themself.
Hello, to you--
If you'd like to stay a while.
What is something blue; the bride will tuck away her someday
in her til-death-do-they-part bouquet-distillation.
—by poet
Light up the darkness with star sound.
honey moon, round,
brilliantly blue -
preemptive view.
Sound of the sky, lights up bride’s gown;
blessings flow down.
Black rose, of groom,
forever bloom
in a silver-moonshine bouquet.
It’s bride’s someday
and her groom’s plight -
round-robin rite.
Dancing in my room as the daylight fades
my silhouette turns pirouettes on the window shade
how much love does it take to break the spell
and shake this gloom I know too well
rainy days I've had my share
the outlook it's not always fair
searching for a way reaching out for you
'til you return and make the sun shine through
slipping into dreams as twilight falls
my fantasy's reality 'til tomorrow calls
how much faith does it take to make amends
and wake this love in you again
lonely nights I've known a few
that cold cold wind it cuts right through
looking for the good hoping for the best
wanting all your love getting by on less
and I'm talking to the man in the moon
telling him I'm missing you
walking with the man in the moon
wondering if he's ever been this blue
As the stars twinkled gaily in the sky,
they could only laugh -
They watched the moon through all its phases,
crescent, quarter, gibbous, full, and half.
But as she cycled through her lunar changes,
grieving for all love untrue,
the stars sadly noticed that
the moon was always blue.
So, they charmed a gentle nightingale,
"Please sing your pretty tune",
and "the stars beckoned her song
to reach the crescent moon."
Blue,
like a whisper behind glass,
keeps its secrets folded in saltwater.
It doesn’t shout—
just lingers
in the air between questions.
There are days
when blue stretches its long limbs
across the sky,
lazy and endless,
a sigh from a god who forgot
what he meant to say.
It lives in the eyes
of strangers you almost loved,
and in the silence
after good music ends.
Blue is memory’s favorite color,
smeared across the backs
of photographs and promises.
It has weight—
the kind you carry in your chest
but can’t name
in ounces or regrets.
It clings to the ribs
like a hymn
you only hum.
Some nights,
blue walks the shoreline alone,
watching the moon try on
all her silver dresses,
never satisfied.
It is the pause
before “I miss you,”
and the space
between waves.
Blue
never needs permission to stay.
There,
if your spacesuit tears,
death awaits.
“Armstrong, when he arrived on the moon,
must have felt the same,
though this is only
a hundred meters.
Still,
I felt a kind of
nirvana,”
said Jacques Mayol.
There,
if your breath falters,
death awaits.
Though he returned
from the deep many times,
in the end,
he chose his final dive.
He chose a place
from which
there is no return.
Nirvana—
a state of release
from suffering.
They say
a restless mind
disrupts the breath.
Even in the depths,
he kept
his mind still.
But in truth,
deep within,
there were waves
rippling all along.
When you dive deep,
not a single bubble,
not a single ripple
can rise.
Whether the world
a hundred meters down
is suffering
or peace—
I wouldn’t know.
Nor can I say
whether the world of death
is suffering,
or peace.
Loss is love leaving lavender lips dry
As a sunless sky and moonless night
As bothered as babe who’s red eyes cry
And hollow as a jilted wilted barren bride
You took love depriving my muse oxygen
Weeping she waits for it to breathe again
Cranberry kisses are no longer a dream
No imaginary white wedding dress esteem
Nothing borrowed not even the blues
Only sorrow came when love left clues
What are they you know them southern bell
Dreamed of hoped for by white wishing well
No Prince Charming tall dark and alarming
Feeding fantasy with rainbows when storming
Love is gone and perhaps reality laughs
At rosy love song leaving aftermath black
No longer painting days nor walking with sway
Loveless life is one of strife
Feeling some kind of way
“Blue moon you saw me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own.” Lorenz Hart
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
What an extraordinary eyesight
To gaze at a blue moon with delight
With its wonderful shine in the sky
That dazzles the iris of the eyes.
Eyes, indeed, are lured with such relish
Sky with such tints diffuses great bliss
Delight flows from the heart of viewers
Sight of such beauty charms good suitors.
Such scenes sink deep in the memory.