Moon wanes
Dark’s domain
Moon waxes
Light’s faxes
a single owl
screech breaks
the silent November night-
the Hunters moon
waxes blue
I see the moon riding with its reddish-golden tinge.
I see the moon riding as lives here die and begin.
It has no fanfare, no blazing gas, no rings.
It just reminds us that we’re mortal short lived beings.
It pulls back the oceans and commands the seas. It arcs, it wanes, it waxes—showing wonder to us, sea creatures, birds and other animals without wings.
I see the moon riding through the night, and sometimes through the day, reminding us that its silent power touches every earthly thing.
We are born breathless,
empty but not still.
Poised, suspended in silence
awaiting the first cry!
The first inhalation,
as the spirit enters us,
for the very first time,
with a profound
loud announcement,
that catches
the mother's
the father's
and watchers' and carer's
breath away
in awe and wonder
at their
new birth.
Much in nature is breathless;
lifeless but not still.
The tides ebb and flow.
The moon waxes and wanes.
Day becomes night,
and night becomes day.
The seasons come and go.
Waves rush in, crash, gush and exhale;
without gathering a breath.
The sky changes its mind.
Storms gather and disperse,
announcing their arrival
with a loud
thunderclap - a smack!
But there's no life within
to inhale,
draw breath
and breathe,
at their lifeless,
and breathless
new birth.
I perceive her as fire, not too smokey
But glossed enough to burn my desire ,
This back street pleasure filling empty pathways
Isolated by moonless eve... guarded by egg shells :
Only the waves know this rapture,
Only the stars hear loud groans,moans...
Although this warmth or heat is rented,
My own misery or angst dissolves
As her skin waxes on mine ... slow
Then fast in restless grind of hours.
We take tingling drops of wine
Before sunlight gleams to rise over sheets
Now crumpled by lust, maybe an ounce of love--
She, draped in mannequin's thin wrap
Is delicate and tough with a heart unbidden :
How in this moment, her flaming eyes
Flirt with my demons... and yet her cunning mien
Restrains surrender of constant ardor--
And while I button her second-hand dress
Our next rendezvous is done, again--again
The comfort of my scourged loneliness,
Allayed by the harlot of my nights.
Though we dwell in dense matter
And move about on land
The mirrors of fear are working
Against all we can understand
Light has the power to grow
And expand territory within
So that TRUTH can be known
When sight waxes dim
Learning to breathe through pain
And stay in uncomfortable spaces
Allows the trajectory of embodiment
To occupy uninhabitable places
Our journey is not for the weak-hearted
We are warriors sent to fight and win
Tunnel systems of terror hide in wait
Though death may take us, we rise again
We are living light radiating to pierce
Strongholds of doubt and fear
Basking in the heat of LOVE"S fire
Transmuting darkness into cheer
Written by Trudy Schrader on 05-21-2026
FROM TEARS OF GRIEF TO TEARS OF JOY
Be ever mindful that we mourn the loss of loved ones,
Because of the love and onderful oneness, we shared:-
Yet, the pain of such love, due to death, is likewise healed
By that love–that supreme love–God so bound in onement:-
In shedding tears of love’s grief, the Psalms remind us,
To wait on the Lord–being in good courage–for He will,
In and through His love, strengthen our hearts in trying times:-
Indeed, we’re reminded, “...weeping may endure for the night;
But…[in and of God’s healing grace]...joy comes in the morning.”
As time passes and waxes onward in its being,
Know that in the keloid memories of time shared
With those loving ones who have likewise passed on,
Tears of grief will indeed become smiling tears of joy!
Meanwhile, in burdening times of present moments,
Just do as the Psalms have further reminded us to do:
“Cast thy burdens upon the Lord and He shall sustain thee…”
Indeed, be ever mindful that God is our everlasting refuge,
And that ever needed–present–strength in our troubling times:-
The fate of a crayon, it waxes and wanes,
From the engrossing grip of an artist's hand,
To a still life framed in a box of chains,
Where unmade strokes are jailed till scanned.
The sky was never cast so blue of hue.
The grass and trees so blushed with green.
The sun so brightly yellow and true.
Than when crayon pastels daubed the scene.
Each crayon remembers its last lip kiss,
Soft and compliant, in a sheath of dreams.
Kept concealed and wrapped up in bliss,
To enliven dull scenes with vivid schemes.
So unleash the dreams you've put away,
In a boxed-set of crayons for a rainy day.
Turning with the Days
Form: Tail Rhyme (AABCCB)
Gate 1 of “The Living Voice: The Moon Phases”
I.
The crescent wanes, then waxes wide,
As shadows stretch across the tide.
The stars begin their hush.
The morning dreams still cling to skin,
While silence hums its sound within.
The trees in stillness blush.
II.
I turn as does the sky above,
In rhythm with the pulse I love.
Each moment makes its mark.
The days unravel, coil, and spin,
Revealing truths once held within—
A torch beneath the dark.
III.
So let the spiral wind my name,
A song of light, of dust, of flame.
No path is ever lost.
I turn, the tide becomes my way,
The moonlight folds into the day—
And I, in breath, embossed.
~ 2024 ... 2025 ~
A time to take stock
to delve deep
One glance in the mirror
does not suffice
The old year wanes
the new one waxes
Time to bury axes
time to rack your brains
Where have I been
Where am I going
Am I shrinking; am I growing
Do I deign to sin...
A time to take stock
fast beats the clock
Pave the way this day
~ should you like a say
He’s been around a long, long time
(Put another way, he’s old)
By now he thinks he knows it all,
He does not if truth be told.
He likes to think he’s a poet
And he’s scribbling all the time.
But often the syllables are wrong
And it doesn’t even rhyme.
He tries to be hilarious
But his humour’s pretty grim.
And most of the jokes he uses
Are even older than him.
He waxes lyrical sometimes
When writing of love and life.
But it doesn’t impress the ladies,
Especially his wife.
He’ll keep putting pen to paper,
In the hope that fame will appear.
But in his heart he knows full well
Shakespeare has nothing to fear.
Moonstone on a chain, as I follow my gaze
into your soundless, opaque world,
I stroll about, peering through your milky mist,
striving to comprehend.
Inside your small body, the landscape is timeless and immense,
which makes sense,
given the beguiling round orb that is your namesake.
You were here long before I, or even mankind, existed,
and you will be here long after,
and, as the moon rules over the night, the heart's domain,
you grace the breast of one that organ beats within.
So, eternal one, don't you have some wisdom to impart?
The woman whose exquisite neck you adorn
is also like Luna,
as she waxes and wanes, and disappears,
only to appear again.
Silent gemstone that you are,
I long in vain to hear you speak to me or sing your melody,
so, that I might finally fathom your depths,
as if then I'll understand her,
and know what, perhaps I was never meant to know,
and which I must now, no longer a fervent youth, accept.
She will never be mine,
but I will always love her.
White doves flutter and longing words whisper
silence waxes haunting as Angels sing
a lone filtered light turns a soft glister
casts fleeting shadows from a white dove's wing
this arrow of light has pierced the dusk-gray
to light the face where my heart will wander
where my eyes are welcome and I will stay
captured by my love's smoldering ardor
as stars gleam and the twilight surrenders
wrapped by the moonlight, love we'll discover
at this time for us, we'll find love's treasures
a wondrous wonder so warm and tender
this primordial world of breathless sighs
this passion's realm found in my lover's eyes
"This is believed to be a version that I'd furthered a bit more," ... by Poet
Sing a song of gone-byes,
A pocket golden watch.
Four and twenty hours
Staked as top-notch.
When the time had entered,
The Cuckoo Clock did sing.
Wasn't that a dandyish,
As sunset be the king.
The king in his grandfather clock,
Tick tocking away.
The queen mooning the dark hour,
Waxes and wanes at bay.
The stars are in the heavens,
Hang amongst the clouds,
Then dawn came up and did astir,
Awaken sun aroused.
ORIGINAL
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing.
Wasn't that a dainty (or dandy) dish
To set before the king?
The king was in his counting house,
Counting out his money.
The queen was in the parlour,
Eating bread and honey.
The maid was in the garden,
Hanging out the clothes,
When down came a blackbird
And pecked off her nose.
Charred in solace of your embrace
reminiscences engrossed as imprint
harboured in placards of your grace
A birth, a thousand with no squint
in winter's pure pour of snow
reminiscences engrossed as imprint
Giggling with nights glow
in waxes and treelights
in winter's pure pour of snow
One who ignites in delights
grining in fire and refuge
in waxes and treelights
A festivity of tunes and rouge
that twirls in vitality
grining in fire and refuge
Presents reciprocated in sib purity
charred in solace of your embrace
that twirls in vitality
harboured in placards of your grace
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