Dark Night, Full Moon

A small full moon, high

in a blackly cloud-covered,

almost starless sky.

Only one point of light,

Mars, is visible with her –

bold, warm and bright.

It is enough. There is peace

inside the womb-dark,

a soft release.

The night makes no sound.

I enter sacred space.
The circle folds me round.

(But I couldn't get a good one that included Mars.)

Linked to Gillena's Monday WRites and to the Tuesday Platform for 24 May 2016 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

By Singing Light

‘In my craft or sullen art / Exercised in the still night / When only the moon rages…’ – Dylan Thomas

White full face floating in my window, you spread a sheet of light across the wide dark sky. You spread another over me in my child-size bed by the wall under the sill. You hold me wakeful, glad to be so, watching you watching me. You smile, serene. Your gaze on me twinkles: knowing. You know me. As I grow, you shine through many windows – my desk in deepest night, after everyone else is in bed and I am writing, writing; my kitchen when I rise, unable to sleep, and look out over the still street and somnolent houses, and above them to you and the stars.

You are my distant love, my pale beauty: luminous, mysterious. You are my close friend, right by my side, firm touch on my shoulder, whispering wonderful words in my listening ear. There are times in autumn when your face is enormous, golden. You roll along the horizon, keeping pace with our passing car – always riding with me, always looking with true aim across the space between and finding me, filling my sight. My lifelong love, others may see you too and even adore you, but the secret look you send to my eyes tells me our converse is personal, ours alone. You sing for me, very softly, very clear. Now and forever, I thrill to your secret song.

spreading dawn

more and more birds chirping

slow moon fade

Written for Haibun Monday #9 at dVerse, with a suggested focus on the moon. Also inspired by Brendan at 'imaginary garden with real toads' asking us to write of our Muse as paramour.

Image: Creative commons – full moon March 
(no other attribution given).

Night of the Blue Moon

I use my laser-tipped shaft

– a long crystal laser –

wand and athame both.

I cast a simple circle,

no elaborate ritual tonight.

I’m a plain and basic witch.

I welcome the elements,

creating sacred space

in my small back yard.

Even in moonlight

the trumpet creepers

glow bright orange.

The trees bend in

above me; the rose bush

has tight new leaves.

It has been a strange day.

Now I reach night, and accept

that some friendships grow old.

This, though, is constant: me

and the full moon together

in a garden, year after year.

I let the day go, in its pain.

With raised arms, I accept

into myself the moon’s white light.

I draw it down, and use it

to bless the plants and my cat

and the listening nature spirits.

I ask that the world will know

love, peace and truth. I ask

to be strong. And wise.

Linked to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Acceptance

This poem also appears in Sherry's Poets United feature: A Chat With Rosemary Nissen-Wade ~ On Poetry and Witchcraft; and again in her later feature: Poems for a Witchy Halloween, along with poems by herself and Magaly Guerrero.

New Moon Ritual at the House on the Hill

We are dancing in a circle on the grass. We  are holding coloured scarves. 'Let the colours choose you,' our leader said as she passed the basket around. When the basket came to me, the golden one was on top. Our scarves are as large as tablecloths but fine and filmy, undulating in the evening air. We hold them by the top corners, letting the other edge fall and dangle. As we dance to the centre we flutter them up. As we dance to the rim we sweep them down to the ground. The night is still light when we begin. By the time we are finished, the dark has come. Over the starlit grass we inhale the scent of roses.

Submitted for dVerse Form for All: Prose/Poetry

Full Moon in March

I went out under the night sky

clad for ritual

in my small, enclosed back yard.

(I have quiet neighbours

who stay indoors after dark.)

The moon emerged from cloud

bright white

and stood awhile above us

meeting my eye.

My black cat came out too.

The night was mild.

No breeze — only

as I lifted my arm to cast circle

a quick cool breath on my wrist.

I paused, then asserted my right.

Barefoot on mossy earth

I flung out my arms in joy

and breathed up sustenance.

It filled me.

I had nothing to utter but thanks.


Submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #89

The Goodbye Ritual

On the night of the full moon last

I did the ritual —

I called the Powers to witness

my long-delayed, formal goodbye

to the dear man who has gone into my past.

Not that I could see the full moon.

It was utterly black, that sky —

not even pin-prick stars.

Heavy, relentless, the rain fell and fell.

Light would not pierce that veil, not soon.

So I came indoors,

and from far and high

I called them all —

the elements, the God, the Goddess —

into my bedroom, which used to be ours.

And there I said goodbye to my beloved;

a final, deliberate farewell

within a circle of sacred space,

watched by the moon’s invisible eye …

admitting at last that he is dead.

This form, invented by David James, is called Karousel

Poem submitted for dVerse OpenLinkNight #82

Published in THE d'VERSE ANTHOLOGY, 2013.

Full Moon Observance

Dark rainsky
I think the moon
will be hidden.

When I go out
into clear cold
she is right above.

I tilt my head
her white circle doubles
the two overlap.

Around the vesica piscis
bright blue light
shines and deepens.

Lady Moon
I stand on the earth
and beg for blessings.

The hour grows late
help me now to fulfill
all my promises.

Submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #51

This poem also appears in Sherry's Poets United feature: A Chat With Rosemary Nissen-Wade ~ On Poetry and Witchcraft.

Dark of the Moon

dark of the moon
the night before solstice
midwinter

I remember
nights of dancing
song and prayer

I celebrate
in silence tonight
solitary

a watcher
(not that there is one)
would only see

an old woman
sitting and writing
sipping wine

lifting her head
now and then to gaze
at the dark

she is wearing black
and around her neck
a moonstone

Dark Moon

moonlight

rainfall

street lights

grey-blue mist

backlit clouds

not one star

moondark

light rain

street fall

backlit mist

blue-grey clouds

no night star

nightfall

dark street

rain-lit

star-mist dark

light grey-blue

back street night

street rain

light fall

dark moon

Moon journal: 30


And submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #11

Included in the book, THREE CYCLES OF THE MOON

Hana

I could pull a card for Hana, lady of joy,

except that I know her soul is Priestess.

She is poet and true-seer, guided by the Moon.

These last few years she has been exploring

Empress expression, blossoming in the Sun,

dancing in water, in tropical gardens, cradling

her infant daughter, watching her young son 

play and grow, willing him strong,

expanding herself, embracing herself.

But she is Priestess, who keeps her soul free.

The man with the face and form of a god,

eternally a youth, was temporary.

Venus was too much woman for Adonis!

And the soft, lush, fertile island

needed at last a contrast. She travelled

to the cold north, to a landscape

of tougher beauty, and found

her roots in rock and earth.

Deep roots. They bring her back now

to the temperate land of her birth, her girlhood.

Here she begins the ordering process,

the process of story. She has lived through

great adventures, emerging changed forever

and whole. She begins the chronicle.

                       ********

Seeker of joy, finder of joy, may you always 

dance in the light of the Universe! 

And may you, Moon-woman, continue 

inspiring and living true dreams.

Moon journal: 29

Included in the book, THREE CYCLES OF THE MOON

In the Gilded Tarot, the Moon

In the Gilded Tarot, the Moon

has a soft face, sweet lady

gazing up at the light she reflects.

The crayfish, mysterious symbol,

is not crawling up on land

but jumping half out of the water.

The towering gates

are like massive candles

or Olympic torches.

Central is a gold disc

like an artist’s palette,

and like intersecting cogwheels.

The sun is about to rise.

Low down over the water,

the sky is pinky-purple.

The dog and the wolf 

bark in unison to greet

rising sun and risen moon.

This is a variant image

from the one in Rider-Waite.

Could I do magic with this?

I could, except that

no-one’s deceiving me,

they’re all asleep.

And I too need my sleep.

No need to find a secret name

for my hidden enemy —

the one who deprives me of rest

is myself, while the real moon

climbs the sky oblivious.

Note: This is not a reading of the Moon card in the Tarot, but 
a personal take on the images in this particular Moon card.

Moon Journal: 28

Motivation

Nights of no moon,

days of no moon poems.

Somehow I am four short

of those I need to fulfill

the promise of one every day

for this lunar month.

It’s true: there were days,

a few days bunched together,

when I got jack of it — 

turning up faithfully

night after night

for your no-show.

Funny, when I do it

simply for spiritual connection

with no thought of poetry,

I don’t care if I can’t see you.

Knowing where you are

behind the clouds, I blow you

a smiling kiss anyway.

Moon journal: 27

Small Moon

Small moon, I don’t see you

although your accompanying star

is the one light visible tonight

in our clouded sky.

For most of this lunar month

which, theoretically, 

I was to spend looking at you,

I have been looking for you

and not finding.

Not your fault.

You presented yourself, I know,

but the weather ran interference.

You will be the same moon

(won’t you?)

next time you begin

your waxing phase.

But I wanted this one!

This phase of you. This present 

incarnation, manifestation, moment.

The moments skip past so fast

and we can’t grasp them.

I am not the first to discover this

but lately the realisation

seems more urgent.

Also we can’t

see past impenetrable veils.

I shall have to settle

as others have done

for the moments I am given

saying thank you.

Moon journal: 26

Included in the book, THREE CYCLES OF THE MOON

Rediscovering Stonehenge

(title of television program)

I am watching the History channel:

an excited anthropologist

thinks he has rediscovered Stonehenge

as a temple not to the sun but the moon.

Above the window which shows

the sun dawning at Summer Solstice,

another frames the light of the moon

coming to fullness every month.

And even the sun window also shows

Winter Solstice sunset — the true focus?

It seems self-evident to me:

the Goddess and the God,

the cycle of the seasons turning; 

neither sun nor moon alone, predominant,

but both, together, ruling the heavens

and shining down on the earth.

People, he remarks in wonder,

were able to carry out science

at quite sophisticated levels, observing

the movements of lights in the night sky.

Their physical skills, he adds,

cannot be parallelled. At certain stages

of the agricultural cycle, even today,

there’s a labour force with nothing to do.

The great pyramids at Giza

were built around the same period.

Newgrange in Ireland, believed to be

solar observatory and tomb, was earlier still. 

What magic built Stonehenge and the rest? 

He tells us: Infinite time and patience!

A German disc has been found,

dating from the Stonehenge era.

He displays it on screen, noting

it not only depicts the sun

but gives equal space to the moon.

At Newgrange he shows us a carved stone: 

three spirals coiling from one centre.

He wonders if this has religious significance.

Oh, just ask any witch! Yes, that

is a spiritual symbol, a clear triskelion.

After the end of the Ice Age, he tells us,

‘the moon-fearing hunter-gatherers’

were superseded. Agriculture needs

the cycles of the sun. But when crops failed,

did they blame themselves for neglecting

an earlier, lunar worship? (Yes, he suggests.)

He shows us tall gold wizard hats, decorated

with all the phases of the moon. The people,

he supposes, needed priest-kings, masters of time, 

who understood these older mysteries.

Finally, with irritating time and patience,

he arrives at my own conclusion:

sun and moon are united, sun and moon

are in harmony! Those ‘windows’ at Stonehenge,

when you get them lined up just right, reveal

everything that they reveal: the movements 

of the sun mimic those of the moon; and

the movements of the moon mimic

those of the sun. It becomes self-evident,

and he says it: They are one and the same.

Moon journal: 25

Aso submitted for dVerse Poetics: Repetition.


P.S. The triskelion mentioned is duplicated in the Poets United logo in the sidebar at the right!

Included in the book, THREE CYCLES OF THE MOON

15% of Full

My energy correspondingly wanes

and so does his. I’m down with flu,

he’s lagging just a day or two behind

with the same exhaustion that hit me

twenty-four hours ago. He has taken

to his bed with The Australian Author.

He is an Australian Author — 

but perhaps not The. I am one too,

but similarly....  Why am I sitting here

making poems, when I could be snuggling?

I guess I’ll be doing that to my dying day.

Making poems that is, not snuggling.

‘Not snuggling.’ It’s a theme.

I want to be comforted, babied,

now that I’m past the crabby phase.

(Lucky for me he’s not there yet.)

The moon and I are becoming 

littler, younger, foetally curled.

Moon journal: 24

The Moon Shrinks

as does my attention upon her.

She is not to be seen

through the haze that even the sun

has trouble piercing, the smoke

that even as it thins 

fails to disperse.

But I know that behind the veil

she’s a crescent,

a sickle, a scimitar, a curl of light;

outline of a pregnant belly, holding 

darkness within, the shape

of the unknown.

Oh void, oh mystery, oh edge

of nothing-something,

I am starting to forget you —

starting not to want

to enter the dark to look for you.

It’s Spring, Ostara: I dance in the sun!

Moon journal: 23

Love in the Afternoon

The three-day-old smoke haze hides the moon.

My Astrological Moon Calendar and Planting Guide

shows it exactly halfway between full and dark —

so I imagine this to be a time of perfect balance.

Anyway it’s Spring. The afternoon is warm.

All the work is done. There are new sheets on the bed.

We kick the cats out of the bedroom and make love.

Long, lazy love lasting for hours; leisurely and light.

His skin is clean and smooth, sweet-smelling.

I nestle in, we stroke each other all over.

Afterwards he declares it our best loving ever.

‘You have a short memory,’ I say. ‘Some other times....’

There is something to be said for the slow descent

towards the dark, and the way the focus narrows in.

As the time of a life cycle shortens, moments lengthen.

‘In the last quarter, the movement is toward integration.’

Moon journal: 22

Submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #10

Included in the book, THREE CYCLES OF THE MOON (a collaboration with Jennie Fraine and Helen Patrice). 

Shared, approx 14 years later, with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings  #183: A Perfect Afternoon.

Making Connections

All day a haze of white

has covered the sky

turning the sun dark — 

but it’s too hot

for a nuclear winter.

The internet tells us: smoke 

from controlled burns and others

spreading across the corners

of two States. 

Tonight of course

we see no moon.

Out walking late this afternoon

we spoke to neighbours 

we’d never met, 

all at that point mystified.

Much later, watching on telly

an hour of Jimi at Woodstock,

I well remember

seeing this first at the time —

the height of the Vietnam war

and the height of the protests.

We knew about the napalm by then 

and My Lai. So did he.

Oh my God, we said in ’69, 

as he played the Star Spangled Banner

and gradually his guitar

gave us the noise of screaming 

over the blare of guns.

Confusion / connection / communication.

Even in times of no light.

Moon journal: 21

30 Poems in 30 Days: 25, Include a pop culture reference. 
(Yes, the 30 Day poems are liable to get a little out of order now, 
as I seek to combine prompts when possible.)

Included in the book, THREE CYCLES OF THE MOON

Tonight the Moon

Tonight the moon

is a bright orange light,

as big as if full

but only three-quarters now

and hanging low down

under its nearest star.

I am glad to note that star

always attached to the moon.

I call to my love to come down

where he can see the surprising light

of this almost-orb we have now

blazing, not quite at the full.

Once he was full

of energy, sizzling like a star,

but frail and slow now.

Still he is thrilled by the moon

sending orange light

through the trees, and comes down

to where he can see it whole. I help him down

the steep stairs. Out in the yard, we are full

of childlike delight,

standing gazing at moon and star.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘An astonishing moon.

I see it clearly now.

‘But I must go back up now.

I feel unsteady here. I think I might fall down

when I tilt my head back to look at the moon.’

Already my pleasure is full,

having shared with him tonight’s bright moon and star.

‘Let’s go!’ I say, keeping it light.

We climb back up the stairs by orange light

shining on us here, tonight, now.

I follow him like that attendant star

which follows the moon up and down

the arc of the sky; follows from new to full

and through the dwindling to the dark moon.

Leaving the moon, we enter interior light

knowing that life is full even though slower now —

having adventured down to an orange moon and a star.

Moon journal: 20

Included in the book, THREE CYCLES OF THE MOON

Alteration

Low in the sky

the moon has lost

the top of her perfect circle.

Close by

is the only visible star.

Two streetlights

as if in reflection

sparkle, half hidden by trees.

Most of the houses are dark;

only two windows lit.

Despite their peaceful beauty,

I am a little uneasy

viewing these paired lights.

The still air seems expectant

with the certainty of change.

I write a haiku sequence

and realise I don’t even know

what is haiku any more.

I’ve moved into

a different space.

Quietly, without notice,

I am changed after all these nights

attending to the moon.

Reality and dream

evaporate. There is only poem.

Moon journal: 19

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #136