Super-Sized Special Series

Moon Boggling 

 

Photo by Al Knutson

 Blue Supermoon Where Art Thou? by Sharon Waller Knutson

Aug. 30, 2023

Ultra rare Blue supermoon in Pisces;
prepare to howl and heal,
the New York Post warns.
The moon will rise at 7 pm
over Arizona and reach its peak
at midnight, the Arizona Republic says.

I was excited and prepared all day
for her visit as if she was royalty.
I even showered and shampooed
and put on my makeup and perfume.
Is it dark yet? I asked my husband.

I expected her to peek her blue
face in the window at dusk
and like my mother glow
after the paramedics put her on oxygen
and the coyotes would howl
and my heart would heal.
That didn’t happen.

It was pitch black and just
as we were going to bed,
we looked out the window
and saw two bright lights
shining in the sky like headlights
on a county road on a dark night
and figured Blue Supermoon
was fighting her way through clouds
to reach her destination.

She wasn’t blue, but bright
yellow like her sister sun excited
to show off her super-sized figure.
We waved and went to bed
and slept bathed in a bright light
waking up rested and restored.
I will be ninety five if I’m still around
when she visits again and I hope
she show up at a decent hour because
we old people need our sleep.

 

From My Grandfather is a Cowboy    

Ode to the Strawberry Moon by Shaun R. Pankoski

Ode to the Strawberry Moon
She’s pink tonight,
holding sway over ripening fruit
of a similar hue. She casts her light
with benevolence,
while under a leafy bower,
they sleep.
Morning will bring the tenders,
weeding the beds quietly,
diligently, as a roaring sun
arches his neck to the sky.
But tonight is her night.
I stand, naked, in the field,
mourning my breasts.
My nipples, reminding me
of those sleeping berries,
have long been excised
from this body,
now a pale cylinder,
a straw through which
all of the light can be absorbed.
I raise my arms up to you,
O strawberry moon. I do not cry.
I gaze at you in wonder
as Venus and Mars
peek over your shoulder
like curious children.
I want to be filled,
fulfilled, saturated
with your ruddy light.
Something like blood,
but sweeter.

First appeared in Gargoyle.    

 

 

Harvest Moon on Stipp Street—Halloween Night by Joan Leotta

At the end of my street,
rising round and full,
the moon arrives in grand form,
red orange instead of silver,
spanning house to house,
taller than the spindly pines
that quake in amazement at its size.
I want to touch it.

Slowly I step out onto the sidewalk
Toward the giant moon
My neighbor's houses are quiet
I am alone in the street but.
my silent steps are not quiet enough.
Moon, quick and clever,
like a frighted bird
hears my steps and flies backward as I approach.

Rising higher and growing small, into the sky
As I step forward,
at last it perches high
above the street
no longer blocking the street,
no longer touching the trees
high out of reach.

Still glowing bright, silver again, and high
Moon lights the way
for laughing children who now tumble out of
doorways to walk house to house in search of treats.

Moon winks at me.
I wink back

I retreat indoors to give out Milky Ways
to all comers.

Second Prize, Dancing Poetry Contest    

 

 

I Wonder what the Moon Thinks by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

 I wonder what the moon thinks
So many strange objects clicking pictures Far off from another planet.
No eyes to see who’s behind the flashes.
Full moon, new moon, crescent moon.
Does it want to be left alone
To shine in peace?

Moon, say something!
What do you feel
about this matter?
Would you like to wax and wane
Quietly? Need some privacy?

Man has stepped on your surface
Do you mind that? All that equipment?
All that noise? Do you charge a fine for littering?
Wear your moonshine or somber face
I’ll know the answer.

One way to show you my love
Is click pictures of you
Share them on my Poetry page
Everyone loves them.
And you!

Grateful if you accept my Friend Request.
I’ve sent you two poems in the Nova Time Capsule One is my father’s and one is mine Tell me what you think of them Please say you love them With a moon emoji.
I’ll be waiting.

 Do you even have Facebook
Up there?
Or have you set your beauty
With a privacy button?
I don’t blame you
We have enough unfinished business
On earth.

 Why do we need another’s space?

first published in the Usawa Literary Review.     

 

 

Following the Moon by Marianne Szlyk

During our last bus ride
of the evening, heading east
towards home, the moon rises
alone in the puffy sky.
The moon is a pearl
button on an angora sweater;
an actress in front of
the heavy curtain on stage,
the spotlight trained on her;
a white cat peeking out
from the dark.
We’ve heard rumors of stars,
but they are elsewhere, further
north, further west.  The moon
is here with us tonight.
It follows us home.  It sees us
inside.  It keeps watch
until dawn.

Originally published in Jellyfish Whispers.  

 

 

 

Photo by jlewis

in a row by jlewis

mother said to keep my ducks
in a row, but never explained
exactly what she meant

we never had ducks anyway

under a silver-white moon
untamed ducks appeared
silent black-winged omens
flying like a story well-writ

beginning, arc, and finish
so evenly spaced i wondered
if mother, or some other angel,
was practicing moonlight maxims.
 

The Man on the Moon by Tamara Madison

When I was small the sky
was so bright with stars, some said
you could almost hear them crackle.
The grownups oohed and aahed,
pointed out the constellations
whose shapes I couldn't see.
I had no sense of vastness;
It was just a spotted tapestry to me.

When the moon was open wide
I saw a mottled hole leaking light
but they would try to make me
see the man there. Sometimes
I thought I could see a pair
of outstretched arms, or splayed legs,
before the vision vanished.

I was in the middle of life before
I finally saw the tilted smile, the fond
gaze that reassured me, once I knew
aloneness, that all would be well
in any case; I could always find solace
in the roundness of its shining face.


MOON by Barbara Crooker
Nestle the ample moon
of your husband.  “Is There Lightning on Venus?”
     Marilyn Kallet

The ample moon of my husband is rising softly
as he breathes through his CPAP hose.  He looks
like a baby elephant, the elongated crinkled tube
attached to his nose.  Everything has softened now,
in both our bodies, and we ache in places
we never knew we had.  Moonlight frosts
his hair, which is no longer old pewter
nor the luster of silver.  Instead, it’s the garden
in January, after a storm.  Drifts piled
against the window.  

So let me nestle against you, O my beloved,
your full moon riding high.  Together, we can
make our own mournful music.  The night is cold,
but our bed isn’t empty.  Let us ride in this small
boat on the incoming tide.

from Some Glad Morning  

 

 

This is a poem about a full moon by Joe Cottonwood

 

called a Hunter’s Moon 

I never saw rising because 

I live in a valley covered in fog

 

Each night in a hot tub I soak,

each night a different phase of moon

before reaching my eyes 

must scale the mountainside

to pierce the fog 

with silver shafts

hovering among the redwood trees

like beams from a celestial projector.

 

This is a poem about a nose 

touching my elbow 

at the edge of the hot tub,

a black wet nose,

a raccoon cub wide-eyed with life,

handsome fur thick and glossy,

curious, electric, spirit of night.

 

Startled delighted I exclaim There you are!

like an idiot and the cub, scared,

so quick on its feet scampers — gone.

 

This is a poem about the felt, 

sometimes seen, ever there: 

fog, full moon, cub nose, 

the damp touch 

of the wild cosmos.

 

First published in Plum Tree Tavern 

 

  

Luna by Alarie Tennille

The moon a golden gong
suspended on night’s thread,
swaying just above the rooftops.

At the window, my cats stand sentry,
eyes and ears locked on Luna,
awaiting her command.
Transfixed, ready to shed
their bodies and prowl the sky.

 

 

 

Photo by Lorraine Caputo

ECLIPSING by Lorraine Caputo

The Flower Moon
turns russet-rose red,
zinnia-orange …

in its blood light
I meditate,
wandering

through a door  to
another realm,
my mind eclipsing …

awakening
to a pouring rain

& that door
a-slamming
shut

first appeared on MasticadoresUSA   

 

The Aging Huntress Speaks to Her Reflection by Marilyn L. Taylor

Dear old moon of a face,
you've been looking back at me
for decades now
    
always giving me your best tilt
and a little quiver of lies—
but don't I love you for it?

Don't I fix my gaze on all
your nubbins and craters,
know your geography by heart?
    
Maybe I'll take you to town tonight,
tricked out in gilt and camouflage—
see how it goes with the men.

Not the young ones, those cheerful bucks
who look at you with all their teeth
thinking:  Teapot.  Hairpin.  Marianne Moore.

It's their fathers, beery and balding,
and the loners in their silver ponytails,
heartbreakingly wistful—

they're the ones I want
to cool my heels with, feel
the warm breath of on my neck

while we knock a few back,
shoot the breeze, bathe together
in your fading borrowed light.
 

 

Mirrored Light by Jacqueline Jules

The moon’s light
is only an illusion,
a reflection of the sun,
shining beyond sight.
Yet each month,
I watch a slim crescent
wax to a brilliant orb
and consider
how luminous
my life would be,
if I could mirror light
from the heavens
like that.

Second place winner, Spirit First Poetry Contest    

 

 

Moon Glow by Marilyn Zelke Windau

Night envelopes in silence
After the sun gives day its farewell.
Darkness blankets
With a star-covered, velvet quilt.
 
Then slowly, slowly, a glowing white orb
Emerges above the tree line.
It presses against the dark comforter,
Seeks to win the galactic competition.
 
It calls to Venus, to Neptune, to Mars,
To me, a daughter of the Earth.
It finds an open sliver of window shade,
Beams me awake.
Oh, moon! You rise to beckon me from slumber.
You are the dream this night.

first appeared in Your Daily Poem   

 

 

I am Whole and Ubiquitous by Luanne Castle

I’m not the flip side of the sun, although that’s how I’m presented in cloth books for babies. I’m not merely the monarch of silver or shadows or home of owls and bats, mother of mothers or keeper of clocks or menstrual cycles, though I am all that. I am the bright place in the midnight sky. I am searched for and watched night by night. I am praised. I watch over you when you sleep. But remember, during the day I am there, too, hidden behind the swagger of the sun.

 

Phases of the Moon by Joanne Durham

To be as certain as the moon:
to know today's slim hold on sky
will widen tomorrow, to count on the coming of a cascading

radiance, obvious and intentional, how the moon tracks
the nights when clouds drift past like ghosts
and when stars speak in clear, startling voices,

and the time
of a slow curve toward oblivion - all planned
privately in darkness, no sharp corners,

no flat tires or slamming tornadoes,
no toes stubbed against the kitchen chair
I forgot to tuck under the table, no mood swings, no broken

promises - but also
no surprise birthday roses,
each opening in its own rhythm,

the last still lifting its scarlet head as the others drop
their petals, no careening into love and not even noticing
until the dizziness begins