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Rachel Mooney Poem
Existence precedes essence,
or so I've been told.
And living in the Aesthetic
one can choose to question, or not choose at all
and float effervescently oblivious into the cosmos.
One longs for moral prospects of Karmic law,
but absurdism reigns Almighty
and at the base finds something raw; esoteric.
Yet, at the core of every human lies the query of life.
There are no answers;
the urge to question is enough.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
I am from solemn, vagrant, forgotten; from paper and cloth.
I am from the Wheatland.
A derelict gerdner, no longer tending the bud.
I am from Nietzsche and Jaspers,
from Mother and Father and Daughter.
From nonsensical and ecoteric voice and curiostiy;
The questions unanswered.
I am from no where, wheat and rye.
From the past; the scent and the soft hum dissapating into the never ending ether.
I am from no where.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
Light like shrapnel dancing in every direction,
Bemusement and fear alike are born from this celebratory waltz, as often are with you.
A pang like hunger, growls low from the bush with leering, darted eyes,
Averted and illuminated only by the light which jabs scant through the air.
Still, skiddish at the light and sound, it lurks waiting for a chance.
How peculiar, now, that you would run from it, avoid it's foray fervently,
as chilly air sweeps the burning embers swiftly still.
Hunt; it will if it must, but how odd the chase seems now in this mocking distant light.
Light like shrapnel dancing on a lynx.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
Waiting;
Oh, how one waits.
We are always biding on some pardon.
I wait for you, bee, in the Spring of my lifetime
to absolve this affliction and pollunate the secret garden.
The locked garden we clammered for as babes.
I have forseen your sting for what seems an eternity,
and now, how one waits.
There once was a time when you waited for me.
I was Mulish and as time passed, so did your wait; on to the next amusement.
Are you so easily diverted, bee?
Pollunating the first violet which crosses your path.
That weed is no match for me.
I attempt to iradicate it but it grows like a sea.
Oh, bee,
come back to me.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
Bygone was a time I looked so apathetic, I saw that you had no face.
Reckoning for my past trespass comes now in listless waves.
You are the highest of the high and I could surmise why
your seraph face now haunts me.
To this day, fleeting eyes avert from your golden throne.
Yet, your hexadic power over me I have cemented on my own.
Only fervent stolen glances bestow your holy, holy, holy glow
as your seraph face now haunts me.
Worshipping constantly what could have been I,
Could you not atone my sins with ease by your siren cry?
Facing toward your mecca, perfectly obedient, ardent, and devout
as your seraph face now haunts me.
Feathers rib out in a sunburst of ivory afore I did not see.
I sleep to dream, yet even there seraphim will not let me be.
Apathetic no longer, sainted cherub, I curse my past stoicism
as your seraph face now haunts me.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
You are no longer the object of my doting fondness.
Once a manifestation of allure, your crooked tooth now juts out at me like a dagger
as you speak listlessly.
I am averted.
Your skin greys with the winter solstice
and as the days grow shorter,
I, the vernal equinox and the cardinal fire alike,
long for Spring instead.
But you, oh, you.
your wintery breath turned rancid and spewed forth your venomous bile like a viper.
I placed you high in the sky, but then buried myself in the frozen earth
because you could not manage me.
Unconventional, impulsive, not like you,
you damned introvert.
You are no longer the object of my doting fondness.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
There is a wooden table
topped with granite black as night
that occupies my thoughts preversely when in sight.
It's hand crafted curves
bend and wane like the sea,
almost dancing, transmuting, engulfing me.
And in the stillness of the night,
it perplexes my eyes;
the light bouncing off the granitetop like a million fireflies.
Or maybe they are termites
feasting fatly on the kill.
spoiling my wooden table while they greedily take their fill.
The table's shape contorts alarmingly
in the black of darkness' fall.
The table wanes consumed by water and I heed it's neptune call.
In a wave, it crashes down
but I dare not look away.
Like a waxing tide it pulls me closer, closer as I lay.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
Vipera Berus
As friend and foe,
sidewinding spinster,
you crept into my bed.
I should have known,
Vipera Berus,
that soon you would need fed.
Snake charmer,
with your song of disarmour
You latched unto my skin.
Merry Medusa,
molt your hide and
show your mortal sin.
Satan serpent
harbour incarnate.
I saw this in a dream.
Saltwater Snake
Wading impatient
afore luring me downstream.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
Fickle movement,
or so it seems;
An old willow bending with the wind.
I undulate from your branches,
both rough and flowing;
An unsuited arboreal life I lead to touch you.
Impenetrable and strong is your foundation,
your roots have taken over any vegetation that once lived in this pasture;
now all the green belongs to you.
And oh, how I was green.
Under you I laid, willow, like Rip Van Winkle
and basked in your complacent shade of protection.
Moving with the tempestuous storm,
a scant bolt took you, something much brighter than I;
This tempest came from the heavens.
Seized your fickle dance and I am in nature no more.
Partial only to your shade, I see through a yellow eye;
Jaundiced.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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Rachel Mooney Poem
Your gravity, jester, unlike any other,
Distorts and maims.
Oddly difficult to sway, yet
Bound by gravity;
are you not he who pulls me?
You creep into my dreams
and drizzle elixer on my lip.
Now I am under your puck spell,
you merry wonderer.
An everlasting intoxicating slumber.
I yearn salvation from this dream,
but like black matter,
you loom imminent.
Able enough to pull the seven seas;
you pull me.
Your fog billows like smoke in a chimney, sprite,
catching in my whispering throat
and betraying my judgement.
Into your dark thicket I roam
and at once I am home.
Now think this, trickster.
I am your plaything; you jest me,
Until morning light
and I am myself once again.
Until next nightfall when dreams begin.
Copyright © Rachel Mooney | Year Posted 2009
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