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Moon Harp Poem
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.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2024
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Moon Harp Poem
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.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2025
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Moon Harp Poem
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.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2024
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Moon Harp Poem
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.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2025
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Moon Harp Poem
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.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2024
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Moon Harp Poem
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.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2024
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Moon Harp Poem
Today I grieve... and tomorrow.
Every tear that falls
on the second jaw
is there because of gravity,
or sorrow has something
to do with it--
my leaking groundward
as fingers grasp my crown
probing deep into scalp
for an answer--
when nothing more is found
but wet scraps of hair.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2024
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Moon Harp Poem
Quaint neighborhood sits near
Quaker church which provides
Quiet contemplation.
Quotes from founders enhance
Quest to share peace hugs. I'm
Quick to rise, sing hymns to
Quench my thirst for God Truth.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2024
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Moon Harp Poem
A hunter swift with eye that gleams
this Falcon's life's not what it seems.
Once endangered the Falcon cries
rarely heard in Western skies,
now seen up high in city dreams.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2025
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Moon Harp Poem
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.
Copyright © Moon Harp | Year Posted 2024
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