the eagle & the moon

It’s not so usual, perhaps,
thinking of privilege,
when there’s no falling off,
no air beneath feet.

This past week, walking on
a tight rope, without a net,
when the eagle had left
our branch of sky,
the earth was flat
as a pancake, a dry winter,
you say, it was humbling
to know things could change,
in a minute, into torpor.

We never felt more
vacillating, like a language
we had spoken differently.

Maybe I had come to
the end of another book–a thud
as loud as rain,
a soft click clasping
the leaves shut.

Last night, as the laundry
dripped wet, a drizzle,
wrung by a faulty machine,
I was comforted by the moon
coming full circle,
outside the window.

I resolved not to waver
in speaking with truth, not to choose
silence, as a way out, or fall
into easy thinking, such as
does old mean something other
than a sanatorium,
playing with beads,
waiting for nothing much?

We wait for tonight’s moon,
the same moon,
traipsing across the sky,
a surety like
the eagle’s return.

the moon is

Caveman 92223′s photostream

The heat is atrocious in the tropics. Weather is a ruler to measure skins. It shrivels. It keeps you indoors, so you fiddle your thumb and let your fingers do the walking. It is evil. Look to the oil spill. Look at corporations. Look at the sub-prime economy. The tyranny of capitalism is evil. The shrunken pocketbook fallen on the pavement. Savings are saintly. All that buzz about investments. Money no longer grow on trees. Pensions are obsolete. Piggyback funds. Your greed is golden. You forgot about the moon. And the squirrel.

When it’s too hot to go outdoors, I dream. Woody bark. Leafy green. Tan earth. Buttress roots that conquer pavements. Cement uprooted. Fences overrun by creepers. A blue flower is a happy secret. When my feet swoon among wildflowers, it is liberating. Tulips are sprouting. Plus-sized roses are generous. Botoxed with chemicals they’re not. It’s the crisp weather. You could travel for miles without seeing people. Swimming is suicidal unless you do not mind hypothermia. Don’t quote me. Sandflies will settle on sandwiches after you’ve laid out a picnic. Stop for salmon so fresh and cut out the middlemen anyway. The ice-cream is mad and melt-free.

The moon is outside my window. It is pasty-faced and full of craters. It makes me long for fruits and vegetables. Bacon and lettuce on organic bread is heaven. Try celery sticks and apples. Gardening and flannel shirts will make you glad. A metal watering can can be sexy, especially its spout. It’s precisely 30 years since I’ve seen a chicken in a toilet. A brown plump chicken tied to a pole that descended from the cistern. How I hated to empty my bladder. When it had gone I could breathe again. It also meant chicken for dinner. I never enquired into the actual slaughter. I’m protected. I looked up from my keyboard and the moon had illuminated the clouds. I cannot forget the squirrel.

which way the moon

Napowrimo #28: intuition. Today’s prompt is provided by member, Julie Jordan Scott.

Arthur Koestler wrote: “The moment of truth, the sudden emergence of a new insight, is an act of intuition.” Akin to a “sixth sense,” intuition brings pieces together. It gives the gift of heightened awareness.

One single, specific memory I have from a math class comes from the first day of geometry class. I was 15 years old.

The teacher asked “What is intuition?”

I raised my hand — an unusual act for me when math was involved. “Intuition is having a hunch,” I said, “sort of knowing or having an idea of something out of the blue, like without really knowing you somehow know.”

What does this have to do with your life and your poetry?

Take a moment to remember a breakthrough moment in your life or a “freeze-frame” moment from long, long ago. An “a-ha” or an “epiphany” moment or a moment that has a story yet to tell.

Let’s prepare to write a poem using our intuition intentionally today. Write this prompt on your page: “When I remember my “a-ha moment” from my past, I understand the place I am meant to go with my words and poetry today is … ”

Restate the prompt as you free-write and don’t write a poem yet. Instead, go about your business of the day purposefully not writing a poem.

Notice surprising turns of phrases you hear. Listen to people who say things to you that seem especially surprising, lyrics to songs. Eavesdrop intentionally. Wait for at least 2 hours and then write your poem from the words your intuition and your free-writing gave you.

Come night
she looks toward
bleached bones awash
in an ocean shining
dark salt-eaten

transparent light
sees soft marrow
in pale glow finally
the elf moon
she follows