Moonbeams
Sometimes, the moon drops down a line
when fishing for him, or her,
who’ll climb starward that silvery vine
in search of wild adventure.
Categories
An Amazing Poem about Moonbeams
Tag: moon
Recurrent
Upon the beach there lies a rainbow foam
white, at first, then with opalescent shine:
a shimmering hue in the dazzling sun
whose bubbles in their iridescent domes
display, like love, attractive and subtle signs
for brief and beautiful whiles, then are done—
burst like a primer when touched by the gun.
Now the beach grows cold; the gloaming glows gold,
while new waves that roll reflect stars of old—
and, again, the foam’s hues shimmer and run.
Share this:
Categories
A Nighttime Stroll
While I marvel at the starred, phantom sky—
where silver clouds scud and the pale moon beams
in an epic ether, tinted ink blue—
a weary, worthy town slumbers and dreams
of fortune, of flight, or falling through space.
Where the air smells of pine sap and wood smoke,
fireflies blink, the dirt path leads into trees,
and pondside bullfrogs call mates with hoarse croaks.
When descending the hill through low grasses—
that run to the foot of a hemlock stand,
whose spectral shadows hide the wispy way—
there come a turn and vista of the land.
There lie the distant village and spired church,
the quiet houses, and earthy, quaint lanes
surrounded by arable wheat pastures:
rolling hills topped with rippling grains.
While on a solitary nighttime stroll
through rustling grass and the brisk, biting breeze,
in view of an old, wild, gleaming river,
there comes a worn, welcome feeling of ease.
Share this:
Share this:
Categories
An Orange Dusk
The dusk was very orange tonight
A trick of the clouds and the light
And as that same light slowly failed
The gaudy orange sky quickly paled
And turned into a starry sphere
Like a face with comets ear to ear
And an eyelike moon, clear and low.
Seeing that, folk wonder, rightly, where the days go.
Share this:
Categories
Summer Grasslands
Bison graze the tall, golden grass.
A sparrowhawk rests on an oak.
A herd of wild horses, paints, pass.
Like the sun, they’ve never been broke.
It is summer. The wind is hot.
The river’s just a silty stream.
By it, a fox settles in for thought,
Then he curls himself up to dream.
At night the fireflies come out.
The flies twinkle like earthly stars.
Owls hoot. Wolves howl. Trees creak in drought.
Planets can be seen: Venus, Mars.
The wind rustles the big bluestem
And shakes the leaves on the willow.
Silver clouds scud. The moon is dim
And lights the plains with its grey glow.
Share this:
Categories
The Prairie in Winter
The cold north wind comes tumbling through
Laying drifts high against blackjack trunks.
The deer are out. The sky is blue.
Here lie tracks of hares and chipmunks.
The snow’s buried the prairie grass.
Big buffalo huddle and snort.
Over the plains bald vultures pass.
Winter is long. Its days are short.
The full moon rises behind clouds
Whose billowy silver forms gleam.
Skeletal are the blackjack’s boughs
That reach across the frozen stream.
This is the plains in December:
Rolling, snowswept fields, a huge sky,
Leafless riverbottom timber,
And an arid air, crisp and dry.
Here are wild and austere beauty
Found in the mist of bison’s breath,
The crow’s feathers—glossy, sooty—
And the old weave of life and death.
Share this:
The Enchanted Tomb
There once was an enchanted tomb
Which rose from a graveyard’s gloom
And it caused great delight
When it flew through the night
Before the bright shining white moon.
The Blind Witch
There once was a witch who could fly
But she was blind in both of her eyes
She flew with a cane made of bone
That was as white as sea foam
And she was at ease in the darkest of skies.
The Rainbow’s End
There once was a rainbow’s end
Which leprechauns did diligently tend
They planted a garden of gold coins
That any man could purloin
If they could but find where that colored light did descend.
