The Dark Moon
The garden holds its breath.
The gate has misplaced its shape.
Beyond it, the dam keeps only
the stars that have fallen in.
The Young Moon
A sliver of moon silhouettes
In the dark branches of the gums
enough to find the washing line,
my hand against the rail.
The White Moon
Each night it finds more of the yard:
the cracked birdbath, the pail beneath the tap,
the chair you left facing the creek.
Each morning, less of me remains
at the window.
For several nights, nowhere is dark enough—
the cup on the sill, the unlatched gate,
the possum’s startled eyes
burning in the grevillea.
The Old Moon
The brightness withdraws:
first from the water, then the fence,
then the chair, which becomes
only a chair again.
Above the roof, one pale hook
unfastens itself from the dark.
I close the curtain
without looking back.
Lying by the window pane
Staring at the Great Unsaid
Watch the evening fall again
Too serene, couldn’t I instead
Read a book of highest thought
That would move me back and forth
Over the old Moon I’d float
Going home to sinful earth
Then I’d tell you how it went
All your questions be replied
Lots of photos I would send
You shall keep them well archived
But with sorrow my heart’s fraught
There’s no exit from this stage
By the Great Unsaid I’m caught
Like a blackbird in the cage.
Without you here, the world spins on
and winter still returns to spring.
The rising sun still greets the dawn,
and still, I hear the bluebirds sing.
The sky is wide, just like before;
the river's run still meets the sea,
and waves still crash against the shore,
just like the grief you left in me.
The seasons change, the wind still shifts;
the flowers bloom, and children grow.
but like a fog that never lifts,
I still can't seem to let you go.
With hills and mountains, still, I stand;
but walk with woe on shadowed streets
to mask the mark of time’s sharp hand;
you broke my heart, but still, it beats.
The same old moon still shines at night,
but when you went, it changed my view.
It’s glowing cold, so far from light
It feels the sun as I do you.
The world spins on since you have passed,
yet whispered winds still breathe your name.
I'll live my days and reach my last,
and still, I'll love you just the same.
wood nymphs waltz
fleshy dancers gay with wine
august old moon
MOON MOODS
Over a sink full of dishes I stand
Fry pans, coffee cups, sudsy hands
When I notice an ominous moon
Angry face signals bad things coming soon.
Weary from a day of dashed hopes
My mind turned to bubbles like soap
Then I threw down my wet, dirty sponge
And went out the back door with a lunge!
I climbed up my yard’s tallest tree
To the tippy top branch I could see
Then I whistled the 5-Star alarm
And swung from stars arm over arm.
Til at last I was before that old moon
Who looked at me like I was a goon
“Your face looks so troubled and mean,
“Foreshadowing the bad things you’ve seen.”
The moon took a breath, unfurrowed his brow
“Thank you, my sister, for stopping me now.
“I’ve been feeling lonely and just out of sorts,
“But you bring me cheer, and some stunning rapports.”
I turned for a minute to bask in his glow
When things all went screwy and more I don’t know
But I turned my head back and the dishes did beckon,
But the moon shown a happier and nicer reflection!
Burn in the cool sun,
Be a friend of the old moon
to recollect love
© Mahtab Bangalee
16 October, 2023
Chattogram
That illuminated dust ball,
dough faced;
a pie with no filling.
and it seems to have the scent
of a long dead romance.
On the porch my spayed
lays her head in my lap
ignoring the weak wolf calls
of an addled moon
and its piss-poor love songs.
Red Fox is a totem being,
for in true wisdom, he is seeing,
though in dreams, an image fleeting;
it bears repeating, it bears repeating.
Reminds us all, we have to laugh,
have fun, play, be a little bit chaff,
though some may call you, old Falstaff;
you’re not riffraff, you’re not riffraff.
Late at night, when old moon beams,
red fox will come into your dreams,
he can lead you to great schemes;
wise guide it seems, wise guide it seems.
Red fox wisdom upon dream scroll,
says keep your eyes upon your goal,
while with humor you can grow;
you’ll become whole, you’ll become whole.
For in humor, wisdom is found,
never be in sadness found,
his advice will keep you sound;
great things abound, great things abound.
Old moon was leaving; he said his goodbyes to creatures of the night.
Butterflies and moths felt sad, knowing they would now never see his light.
Luna moths decided to surprise him, and they turned brilliantly white.
To show their appreciation, letting retiring old moon see their bright.
So, we lie here again, under the same old moon. You are a constant my friend.
So, we examine my fears, my tears and my thoughts. The reasons I fail, the silence, the pain, the living it costs.
So, I know what you think. You rattle my cage each time I try sleep.
So, your power over me? I’ve studied you too though your conceit would never suspect such treachery from the mild mannered me?
So, what do you think now? The air is colder up here, but the wind seems cleaner somehow.
So, you never thought I’d getaway? What’s wrong, come closer, oh are you just too used to getting your way?
So, that was quick. That’s some fall I took. But, let me tell you that was no cheap trick!
So, now it’s my turn. To prey on your fears, to be the fire in which you’ll burn.
the old moon smiles from the sky
the leaves slowly dancing cry
golden fairies kiss the earth
springs of water, a new birth
I sat there and understood
God is loving, God is good
the old moon smiles from the sky
Why does the ocean instantly appear
more beautiful when you admire its grace?
Why does the timid butterfly draw near
your hand, as you adore its wings' soft lace?
Why do those moments racing through the year
slow to a halt as you look in my eyes?
Why do my life's distractions disappear
when your warm hand and mine become allies?
When you gaze at the bright orb of the night
why does that old moon speed my heartbeat's thrum?
Why does the future no more speak of fright
as you, with optimism, bid it come?
'Tis myst'ry all, my love, that such as I
should be the one to ask these questions, "why?"
// for Janet, my lovely wife and soul mate for 36 years //
written 10 Oct 2020
Suns rise like small reefs.
Why does the girl wave?
God, endurance!
The old whale swiftly leads the captain.
Where is the sunny wave?
All clouds lead clear, small seas.
The shark grows like a old mast.
Oh, faith!
Rise calmly like a rainy wind.
All breezes fight dead, sunny sharks.
Never command a sun.
The ship sails like a big shore.
Masts sail!
Stormy, stormy sailors roughly view a sunny, dead ship.
Clouds endure like old reefs.
All suns lead stormy, sunny sailors.
Never view a sail.
Rainy, stormy sails roughly view a stormy, big seashell.
Where is the stormy whale?
Reefs endure!
The moon dies like a old moon.
Endure roughly like a dead sea.
The weary and gloomy moon
Droops alongside confident mountains,
Tries to stay until noon.
Clings to the boundary, slipping down
Being hidden but not wanting to hide.
To time, old moon is bound.
A longing, endless.
Sad moon surrenders to the horizon, daylight lessens.
Less ends of light to grip; reject regress.
Dull moon falls west, sun rises east.
A longing, a chase endless.
The pursuit is a beast.
For the moon craves to collide
With the eternal flame it is infatuated with,
That’s why we see high tides.
The moon’s heart lies in the sea
Becoming swollen
Wanting the sun to see.
The moon, lonely,
Is in love with the sun.
Always has been, always will be.
06 March 2020
Title Chosen: A Lull
Contest: Pick-A-Title, Vol 14-Tristich
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
divorced
pause.
between the last syllable of your goodbye
and the memory
of all we promised to each other
is a dream that will not die
a suspended sunset
that once gifted our eyes
old moon in a tired sky
cacophony of crickets
in the backdrop as you cry
with questions that ask only
why why why
and I,
sinking drowning
fading into the ink of my heart
can’t remember the first misstep
or how that fissure tore us apart.
ragged edges painted red
with fingers raw
pointing at what each other said
pause.
between your last step
and the wetness of our first kiss
there is a breath still breathing
in the hollow of our chests
making sense of what making love
once meant
wondering where our innocence went
what took it’s place
and what we didn’t say
to our children
who are still wondering
why we went away.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.