(In)attentive
mind fixed on my art
I have been silent and given
little of myself
the moon at noon
is a brother
to no one
Poems on the topic: moon
Poems on the topic “moon” on Poets.by.
Cockaigne
find me
a place just wide enough for rocks
find me a land of fire
but no flag
a blockhead land
in which a beggar must have
the greatest hands
a world in which money
is counterfeit nonsense
like a king’s wind discernable to the eye
where God will grow
in whatever body
poor lord of silence
but I
overcome with seasickness
shut my eyes to the moon
Winded
a green wind at the door
I let it in to play
and it began to play with fire
I ordered it out and it went
and got lost in the forest
till the moon made it
go to sleep in a bottle
The Other Coltrane
when the new moon’s still a sliver
pale fingernail against
the blackboard
& you hear
the shriek of wheels gone
slightly off-true with the track
ninety-nine cars heaped high with coal
hurtling by in the darkness
don’t it make you shiver
that night train
Cabaret
in the distance one gunshot
laughing men
the moon sinking
into a cabaret
I love any treat of a heart
able to bleed
Fulmination
the received spit
of news in the mouth
War Moon
The unexamined life
a question sore as a scar
would go to a good grave
not send a letter to hope
here lies the moon
great as a clock
telling pretty stories
Hawk
one hawk above
is pure peace
his table is an innocent world
with no prisoners in it
like a body by moonshine
Proving the rule
too soon the feet find
one ugly song to sing
all hands in the world
grow dangerous with wear
this is not true
of the moon
Whole hog
the last pig
hanging from the house
moon on the marsh
One Autumn Before Computers
A giant puffball bulges among
the dried stalks of goldenrod
like a misplaced hope.
I stuff it in my coat pocket & look
around for others, without success.
That evening, I chop its spongy cloud-flesh
into a sauce with clams.
Then, too, there was the spruce tree
a porcupine had recently girdled.
It stood in the dense center of a galaxy
of needles, some fallen pale side up,
some dark green – a pleasing blend.
Out at the feathery edge, a scattered pile
of hickory shells. I crouched there
tracing words with my finger
over & over in the soft dirt,
Response to Descartes
the difference between waking
and dreaming is the difference
between having a falcon
and having the moon at my door
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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