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Paul Moon Poem
(for Michael Jackson and Karen Carpenter)
Dear my other one by the Gemini,
Shadows are a planet.
We live as shadows.
Therefore, we’re a planet. Love,
when striving for stars, it’s what we chose.
Winter charities and harsh summers solve
its problems by fall & spring or enteric
Paul and overcast Penelope. We’re life.
Shadows are life. But all shadows attack
its life source, to seek its meaning’s riff.
But, you leave as a condom or saint,
using this world for your answers, then
departing to hell’s or heaven’s quadrant.
Planets are love because we don’t know. We send.
We receive. We’re confused, but love. We seek.
We’re questions for answers’ birth, not its end.
Such as we lullaby childhoods’ wisdoms, we weep.
But, we should be shadows and planets,
as lovers---beyond God’s lands---Yes…un-asleep!
Why did you desire the omniscient?
Why annul our orbit of many questions?
Paul beheaded and weaving Penelope bent---
not broken. Oh my. Now, guitars are sins.
Violins are no longer constellations, Eve…
Please forgive this Adam’s heart’s terminus.
I dwindle from memories, thinking oversights.
Taking for granted mealtime smells and dance
within our misunderstandings, our blights.
So, I begin as Omega and work backwards.
My coffee swirls as shadows by my spoon’s spin.
The cup is the planet, and I weave forwards
to my life. Beheaded from the past, I leave thin
and thick with grief. This too will pass, here and now.
Shadow is planet; but death does not mean
good grief. It means goodbye as one can know.
Copyright © Paul Moon | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Moon Poem
(for those in Kwangju: May 18, 1980)*
after Dante
Taking this peach within the mouth, the tongue
hovers around its sunset skin like a lover
and its Sappho sweet bite is heaven. A song
of honeysuckled rivers is like your
kiss… The night is in July. At once
Platonic love is redemption or
when the world is beyond our Kwangju…Please
let the streets be freed from anticipation
of the bayonet and gun… Let litter seize
this street or any avenue… Plan
my kiss and we will be happy and free.
The night is the peach---the dead sun…
Recall the dress you wore as a weapon, me
wearing---I forgot… Your raven hair, soft
yet sharp by its embroidery
of strands being held by one silver pin. The left
hand of God and right hands of angels
must have done it… It was my dry throat
drinking from Styx River which made the chills
even more pronounced at the sight of you.
The dress’ print was you. It was petals
of prints within splotches of orange, gold, red, too…
and white--- bandages… Horrible bandages.
I’m wearing black/white. Suddenly we choose
to hug underneath those flickering pages
of streetlights… we an arrow’s color shot through bodies---Rage…
*Excerpted from Chalmers Johnson’s Blowback : The Costs and Consequences of the
American Empire: “General Chun did not wait long after talking with Gleysteen (US
Ambassador to South Korea) to complete the coup d’etat he had begun the previous
December…On May 18, 1980, a few hundred demonstrators in Kwangju took to the streets to
protest the imposition of martial law. They were met by the paratroopers of the 7th Brigade
of the Korean special forces, known as the “black berets,” who had a well known reputation
for brutality going back to their service on the American side in the Vietnam War…Gleysteen
wrote, “Rumors reaching Seoul of Kwangju rioting say special forces used fixed bayonets and
inflicted many casualties on students… Some in Kwangju are reported to have said that
troops are being more ruthless than North Koreans ever were.” [When asked of the decision]
Gleysteen replied, “I grant it was the controversial decision, but it was the correct one. Do I
regret? I don’t think so.” (112-113)
Copyright © Paul Moon | Year Posted 2011
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Paul Moon Poem
(for N.K.)
Gossamer thoughts, gossamer things weaved as
sliken nightgowns with quarter moon kisses,
lurking with left handed promises
with secret eyes and au pair wishes.
In morning memories, school girl, you and sun
rise, maybe mantraing,"Thy will be done."
Gossamer days, gossamer nights envision
dawn and dusk as tenacious myths begotten
by Genesis and Revelation.
Spider (Greek astronomers gave no constellation)
Mayan's Orion* for celestial landings
and only seen at a bird's eye viewing
or mountains or planes---you always succumb
to "Thy will be done" by your demure designs.
Gossamer thoughts, gossmer things, love,
you, too, shall pass, from a school boy's mind,
not thinking of you until dawns efface
old webs and dusks become Penelope's face
of quiet desperation, imploring,"Where? When? Why?"
I'm now spinning webs spelling,"Goodbye, goodbye."
While expiring, your nightgown creases...
You're sleeping Arachne's and Selene's schemes
with gossamer dreams and gossamer needs,
while stars weave around quarter moon promises.
Copyright © Paul Moon | Year Posted 2011
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