Friday, October 21, 2011

Moonshine, or Is It Monkeyshines?

Photo by Janet L. Pantoja

—Jane Blue, Sacramento

Each night the harvest moon
pours in, up all night with me
lopsided, crumpled
and scaly. My dragon moon
drunk in the quiet night, nothing
so quiet as 4 a.m. as we
contemplate each other, no one
between us, drinking
the night and its wonders, the silent
colorless trees, the empty streets,
no explosions
or chants of complaint, even the dogs
are asleep; night after night,
rectangles of light on the floor
and shadows of the mullioned windows,
the mysterious craters making faces,
stars drowned by the liquid moon
even as parts of the full moon fall of
and it's the gibbous moon
still bright, not quite halved.


—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

As easy as going to sleep allows
The dragons to slip into the room,
Out of the drains, out of those spaces
In your room that only the dark defines,

As easy, a tears find their roads
To the center of the heart where
Our relatives, long gone now, still
Are able to be seen in their earthy
Dress and fine turns of phrase,

As easily as a landscape can turn
From blasted sand and scrub to pines,
Oak and ernest streams hurrying
Down the mountain side intent on descending
As far down them as they are able.

Yes, as easily as all this I find myself
Caught in the scarves, the history of war,
The descent to the shore, where that moon,
Moon, moon, too soon so red, so ruined
Illuminates the wave tops, opens sleep,

Tears its gardens apart, the dragons
Furious with it all, flying all over the place,
Searching for the realms where they are
Still real, still honored, still part of any real world.


—Taylor Graham, Placerville

They say the very hills are haunted.
The seacoast's known for Bogies and Ghosts;
Knockers warn miners in the depths.

The seacoast's known for Bogies and Ghosts,
they walk the landscape and the stair.
A lovelorn girl of mists and a murdered lady—

they walk the landscape and the stair
and disappear before your eyes.
Headless Horses draw the Devil's coach

that disappears before your eyes.
The church-stones get moved every night.
Black-cloaked, who rushes into the sea?

The church-stones get moved every night—
is the man-of-god really a smuggler?
Here, only the living wear masks.

Black-cloaked—who rushes into the sea?
Headless Horses draw the Devil's coach,
Knockers warn miners in the depths.
A lovelorn girl of mists and a murdered lady—
here, only the living wear masks.


(take-off on a legend)
—Taylor Graham

I'm angry-blood-orange wattles
and comb. The rest of me is black
as the heart of that flawed human egg
I tore out of it with beak and talon
to be free—

that rector who pitched himself down
the cellar stairs as he went
for dark wine. Jealousy did it. He died;
I was born full-feathered. Black
so they call me

a demon. They say a kitchen-maid
caught me in her oven,
slammed the oven-door, and
there I'm trapped for all

Not true. Just walk out on a spirit-
night. Watch the sun set angry
blood-orange into black; wind a mad-
cockerel-waltz over rooftop
and lea.

Just look what men do
to themselves and each other.
They're fighting-cocks.
Caught? I'm still
flying free.


Thanks to today's contributors—Medusa shall refrain from making jokes about Blue moons [see Jane Blue's SOW poem above]...

Email is still an inexact science; in Michael Cluff's case, it screwed up the spaces between lines in one of his poems which was posted yesterday. Herewith is the correct (we hope!) version:

Yard mist turns to Bronte
sonnets are not as thick
hegiras will scout out forward as far as
orgone booths will permit,
mastadoons shirk their collective duties
jinxing fireballs falling to earth
comet cleansers wallow in pits
tallow is never allowed to penetrate
impetigo left behind after
leiderhosen and legatos balance each other out
vicunas wait on the rancho
marabous abandoned in the annual
flight to Kilamanjaro and Mauritius
winnowing out the weak
Uruguian twinberry transplants
nimble enough to avoid shibboleths
poised to anchor the world's whimsical
girdle to an escarpment
diluted and dilated by saturnalic
argot swaying to a New Orleans beat
xenobiotic to a Strauss waltz
bilious to a Yorkshire moor
zoned to indulge the cambering fog,
egalitarian in its loutish
quietus of a Heathcliff and his forever
Kathy he helped to quash
under a dry bloodied moon.


Today's LittleNip: 

—Janet L. Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

Magical, mystical, mesmerizing
Orb of reflected sunlight
Occupies night sky to our delight:
New, full or waned—inebriating!



Photo by Janet L. Pantoja