littoral

 

 

littoral

I’m
caught up
in the grandeur
of grey-green
brilliance

soft
windward
knots
 
stranded
in shafts
of summer
light

and the
magnificence
commanded

by the brackish
mounting swells
of our fluid
composition

(c) cs moon 2015

 

  

 

Photograph by Diana Matisz

This poem is part of a photo promot and collaboration that was organized by the wonderfully talented and creative poet/photographer, Diana Matisz. The full collection may be viewed on her wordpress site at :
https://lifethrublueeyes.wordpress.com/2015/06/07/group-collaboration-3-2015/

 

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rites

rites
 
 
 
I imagine him
here
sitting up tall
beside all of the other
hung-over tongues
that rose too early
 
on Sunday
 
a crooked man
in a wrinkled blue suit
 
   his son
   sent me his wristwatch
   and an old picture
   of a young girl
   sitting on a swing
   in Pekin
 
   a month after
   he died
 
   with a few
   polite words
   scribbled
   on a yellow
   post-it note
 
you know
 
about how he
carried the photograph
around in his wallet
 
for thirty years
 
from the middle pew
I stare down
at the second-hand
swirling beneath
a small circle of
dirty glass
 
and as the choir
begins to sing
and the congregation
clings
to narcotic parchment
 
I drop
a single new
dollar bill
beside the watch
and my
four-year old face
in the plate
of pay-as-you-go
faith
 
and leave
what’s left
of a man
 
that never was
my father
 
to be collected
 
for the saints
 
 
 

© cs moon 2015

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Vire Island

 Vire Island

I heard
about it once
in an old
Elton John song

a place
where there is
only you

and you can hear me

and other
states of grace
I cannot name

though we
locked them up
on Vire Island
for safe keeping

so when
the clocks
all stop
their ticking

and the days grow
too short
to carry
the clouds away

we’ll stand suspended
on this bridge
throw our keys
in the river

watch
as the gods
gather a fistful
of flaxen sky

tie the winter wind
in knots

softly drop
February frost
on the landscape
around us

I’ll bury my face
against the steady
thrumming
in your chest

wonder
of the gentle ghosts
that led us here

and the glory
that we found
in this morning

(c) cs moon 2015

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dandelions

dandelions

there’s something
gruesome
about tulips

the way they lie
beneath
the fallen leaves

neat tufted rows
planted in a cold
earthen casket

where colour
slips off everything
old and new

closed blooms
crawl through
a muddy tomb

I much prefer
a random gathering
of dandelions

the haphazard way
they scatter
laughing at the light

tiny torches
bright yellow pinwheels
spin on windy hillsides

spent in the burn
and sway of a
scorching summer’s day

© cs moon 2014

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checkmate

checkmate

 

Checkmate
 
 

 
maybe
it was
the way
 
he made
the meter
shifting
lines
 
made
the maiden
keeping
time
 
played
to meet her
laden
rhymes
 
laid what
made
the maiden
climb
 
rapped
iambic
wrapped
in rapture
 
check her
master
checkered
crafter
 
rapt
I am
enjambment
captured
 
red pen
wielding
cliché
slayer
 
raging
checkmate
Mr. Prater
 
maybe
it was
the way
 
we eyed
each other’s
lines
 
but baby
I don’t
mind
 
anytime’s
fine
 
his lips
wanna
 
plagiarize
mine
 

 
 
 

 

© cs moon 2014

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Sepia

sepia

 

Sepia

all that’s left here
is a mere hint
of us
 
splintering images
in glinting silver
 
lies
buried deep
 
with the ghosts
we engraved
on brushed metal
and a bed of oak
 
our allegiance
creeps up
like leafy poison
from the forest floor
 
small tendrils
of treason
and burnt colours
stretch us toward
the wretched
heavens
 
as October
sweeps in
like a silent movie
in Sepia
 
and splitting bark
marks the fall
of another
 
dying season

 

  

© cs moon 2014

Photograph by Diana Matisz

 This poem is part of a photo prompt and collaboration that was organized by the wonderfully talented and creative poet/photographer, Diana Matisz. The full collection may be viewed on her wordpress site at: http://lifethrublueeyes.com/2014/10/25/collaboration-5-2014/

 

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rain-soaked rivers

 

rain-soaked rivers

our existence
swells
in bottomless
beveled wells

until
the clouds
can’t carry
the wait

water
borrows
the rain

in fluid loops

we fall
back
again

each drop
rows
on rain-soaked
rivers

knowing
the ocean
can only hold
a fragment

of our sorrow

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