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Best Poems Written by Moon Harp

Below are the all-time best Moon Harp poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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New Home in the Southwest

A lean coyote chases a hare through
heat of desert winds. His swift doe
darts past my boots. They've managed
to escape, this time. He'll lead the chase
away another day.

I pause to watch the side-winder as he
considers a kangaroo rat, before moving
on between two century plants to a
rock ledge nearby. The tidy yellow rat
continues eating seeds, gleaning moisture,
never needing to sip drink in this dry
yet vibrant land.

The cactus wren with spotted breast
sits atop a prickly pear. The gilded
flickers' rosy cheeks and banded wings
are a colorful reminder of the beauty
I find out here. Their sturdy tails prop
them upright against a great saguaro,
carving out a hole for nest.

I crunch the tangy bulb of a white
desert lily whose green tendrils curl
on the ground. And here, as evening
cools walking back to my new home,
a silver moon illuminates my path. I
glory in this wondrous desert scene.

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As Time Goes by

Time goes by the way it does,
and we can't catch up,
and so we don't.

People put us in the recesses
of their minds, but we are still here.
And they are still there, I suppose.

I often wonder ... but ...
I've been told not to.

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The Old Sea Captain

It was not a dark and stormy night and the 
captain was not on the deck of his ship.
He was at the old Spanish Inn at a table
by himself.  I asked him what he was eating.
He said, "Tuna on rye, coleslaw and a mug
of beer." He was furiously writing something
on a paper napkin.

"When it's not a dark and stormy night," I
asked, "and you're not on the deck of your
ship, do you often come to this old Spanish
Inn and sit at this table?"  'Though he was
busy eating his tuna on rye, coleslaw and
sipping his mug of beer, he replied that he
liked to sit here and write.

"And, what will you do when you retire?"
I asked.

"If it's not a dark and stormy night, and I'm
not on the deck of my ship, I'll probably
come to this old Spanish Inn and sit at this
table by myself and order tuna on rye, coleslaw
and a mug of beer.  Then I'll probably sit and
write for awhile. Here's one I wrote:

It was not a dark and stormy night, and I was
not on the deck of my ship. I had come to the
old Spanish Inn to sit by myself and write at
a little Spanish wooden table.  I had just 
ordered tuna on rye when the waitress asked
me what I was doing. I told her I was retiring
and had come to this inn to sit and write
poetry, repetends mostly.

Details | Moon Harp Poem

The Patience of a Heron

He sat on the dock on a rainy day,
this heron; little and green.  He was
patiently fishing the cold, dark waters.
For now, his meal was a minnow.

This heron, little and green he was
in my mind, reminded me of someone else.
For now, her meal was small as a minnow.
I saw her in Nanaimo wandering the streets.

In my mind, reminding of someone else
I was startled to see how industrious she was.
I saw her in Nanaimo wandering the streets,
her shopping cart full of tattered belongings.

I was startled to see how industrious she was
searching the wet streets for her next meal,
shopping cart full of tattered belongings.
She seemed to have the patience of a heron.

     For now, his meal was small as a minnow,
     patiently fishing the cold, dark waters.
     This heron, little and green he was...
     he sat on the dock on a rainy day.

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Symbiosis

Somewhere in a rugged sunny terrain
a bushy-maned pony kicks up his heels
amid biting flies in a grueling summer heat.
An elegant cattle egret hitches a ride.
Devouring grassland insects, his daily diet,
the egret helps his buddy in his plight
keeping the flies at bay while loping along
together through brush and grass and sage.

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Fallen Kite

If sky is real, then so is wind --
a wind as friendly as a friend
that hardly anybody knows.

Wind, a friendly friend
does not hide behind a kite
but blows right through --
to lift it up and watch it soar.

Our strings are tethered
to this earthly earth  --
a downward pull to keep
us down.

A tangled tangent now --
to each his own to own.
We are not helpless
in this helping state.

We'll all reach out
to hold each hand --
to be that friend,
a friendly wind
blowing through
to left each other up.

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Twenty-by-Twenty Foot Yard

Sitting on a porch between two flags
I watch a man ride by on a bike,
a box of magic tied to his back.
Should I stop and ask him about it, Dad?
Should I ask God how you are getting along
in heaven without a bicycle? Without me?

Last night I forgot how it was --
the shape of your face, the slant of your nose,
the way you would laugh in the back
of your throat.  You had laughed as you agreed
that my observation of rug makers, or scrub jays,
or magic trick artists was from a different
perspective that yours, one you had not
thought of before.

But now, I cannot recall what your perspective
was, as I balance grief and sanity in my old age.
I've forgotten so much since your absence,
so much of what we shared our many years.
But one thing I do recall, as I was only eight.
You said that you believed in a parallel 
universe and asked if I could believe it, too.

The sun was warm on my shoulders 
as we stood in our small dirt yard.

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Chilly Winter Boredom

With blurred vision in my one eye,
on this cold winter afternoon
I trace the course of a blue-black fly

in my small kitchen.  Pretty soon
my boredom gets the best of me.
Once I eat a macaroon

I rise to make some jasmine tea
and wonder why I allow this bug
(who does not share my philosophy)

to sit there resting on my mug.
I do not know what's in his head,
but think he must be awfully smug,

so I get up and leave.  Instead
of drinking tea I go to bed.

Details | Moon Harp Poem

Photography

Phlox of purple field, Bill's
photographing hidden
Phoebe, favorite bird.
Phased by nothing else, like
Pheasant flying up, he
photographs Phoebes. Next
Phalaropes, wading birds.

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Dream-like Quality

What is to be known of the honey comb?
A frightening look at overcrowding at home.

She comes to this tribal gathering in robes,
wearing slippers, newsprint on her thumb.

Affection awaits the cat, whose attitude carefully
adjusted, has decided to stay off this ottoman.

It is February, and the weather remains cold.
To be warm, I should flip the calendar to autumn.

Tomorrow, let us fly rainbow kites of our sensual
minds, entangling kite tails of the color chrome.

Another day of endless poetry in her dreams.
The poetess composes another dreamy poem.

Best Poems Written by Moon Harp

New Home in the Southwest

As Time Goes by

The Old Sea Captain

The Patience of a Heron

Symbiosis

Fallen Kite

Twenty-by-Twenty Foot Yard

Chilly Winter Boredom

Photography

Dream-like Quality

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