The Woman in the Moon..

The Woman in the Moon...

I am slightly out of the circle,

yet hold two poles together

I always take a neutral stance

I've searched the world for meaning

and rode on a bicycle in

the Tour De France

On pure, clear nights, I watch
true love bloom at water's edge
as men stoop to one knee

I fill souls with romance

I am the woman in the moon

watching my own shadow dance

Making my rounds, I pull tides 

and pour moonlight on the sea

I show off my radiance

I am mainly in a state of flux
Concerned about my privacy,
I take breaks to reflect

I observe crucial world events

Buttermilk tears in vanilla eyes
I see such suffering and pain

I hope for peace, but in vain

Tides and calendars I chronicle,

my moods are illogical

Follow me as I wax and wane

I steal across curves of the earth

My role and face change frequently 

I am a prop for owls and bats,

you see,
and frequent listener to lullabies

Find me in Tarot Cards and art
I love pussycats and sunrise

I scowl at storms who keep me

from sending inspiring quotes

to Yeats, Gibran, and Anin

I breathe Lennon songs across 

a celestial terrain,
encourage spirits pioneering



I cast moonbeams in subtle ways,

I blend with any crowd

Of dreams I am a weaver,

sailors sing Amore' out loud
I invite believers
I grab stars and rearrange them,

 put them back again

People in Miami boast of my eggs

I eat grapes, rye bread and cheese

Wine causes me to blush

the shade of an orange martini

Cows jump over me

I've seen the birth of a hermit thrush

Before I slip beyond the horizon

or disappear in wisps of blackberry smoke,

I kiss all the children goodnight

Proud of the guidance I provide,
I am the woman in the moon,

Lucky lady, shining bright



Today we are writing about the moon over at dversepoets.com 
Take a peak and read other poets' posts

Torremolinos

dversepoets.com

...where we write today about sounds of love...

TORREMOLINOS...

In Malaga, 

lips quietly sipped wine

Strings, piano, 

and bandoneon unearthed inside her 

new thunder, penetrated tender 

chambers of her heart 

Bodies, boots and heels 

tangoed an angry, yet innocent 

poetic cadence, 

resonating across shiny tile floors

Rustic arias 

floated in the night,

descending on the terrace 

of Torremolinos, 

where they stayed

Noise of clanging swords embattled 

in Quixotic dreams of chivalry 

echoed in her delicate ears,

her senses overcome with images 

of giant windmills

She was not deaf to 

the sonic whispers of dolphins,

or the sighs of distinguished red roses when rising to screams of intense pleasure cascading over 

the garden gate.

From a church above, 

morning bells tolled, 

lingering still the hummings of sweet release when she awoke in the arms of her lover in Torremolinos...overlooking the blue green Mediterranean Sea  and Costa del Sol.

Fear of not finding the truth...

Today we are writing about fear, in any way shape or form....
dversepoets.com








Fear of not finding answers ~


I wish to be unfettered by the news 
of plague amid all manner of rumblings 
of the earth
From my helpless, hopeless feelings toward 
an angry society,
I turn only to what I know to be true, 
my experience and what is at hand

I place my pen down on the blank page of 
my notebook, where I sit on a twisted 
driftwood log, 
unable to write my life as a book, 
or any book, with beginnings, a mid-life, 
and a smashing ending.

I pluck yellow flowers, mini-spindled sunbursts, 
notwithstanding their deep running roots, 
growing from under 
the sand at my feet, between wood and smooth rocks 
close to the waves

I place the stems on the same page beside 
the pen in the book
as the flowers already begin to wilt
Flowers pressed temporarily inside a book, 
await rediscovery 
as I check my mind again for unfound words

How will I know how it all unfolds 
after I am gone?
Faint gull calls, a distand train whistle
ride a brisk winds to my ears
Perhaps traveling longer the path I am on
will provide answers, an easing of  my fears

I take detours through what is left of the 
forest of elegant ideas and 
unfulfilled dreams
I fear not knowing everything, the sum 
of the equation, the punch line of the joke
Is there more? Why or why not nothing else?

I build a small fire with wood shavings and
tinder gathered from the forest's dry floor 
I blow on it, hastening the warmth for cold hands
I feel a oneness come over me as 
the essence of pine penetrates my soul.