Not Another Poem About The Moon

astronomy crater dark moon
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Not Another Poem About The Moon
On its way to wax and wane
Reigning over night, sometimes day
Shares a celestial crown with the sun
A gentleman, that moon
In the tension of here and there and hiding
Doubles when shining over the sea
We dance a pas-de-deux
The moon and you and me
Dramatic monopolylogue, you as man, you as moon,
You as director of the tides
Performed nightly in your starring roles
Hands down best performance under the sun
Go, go, go
Into the night
Chase after the moon
Stand under the weighted ebony canvas
Pinned to the sky by asterisms
Plant your feet
By the thousand year old oak, narcissus bulb,
Or alone in farmer’s fallow field
And stand
Stillness becomes you, drenched in moon glow
Spilled to earth from cratered and chiseled full moon
Blushing with humility, pink becomes you, your best color yet
Every once in a blue moon
I see the silhouette of your face
And grin wide and wide-eyed
As the child in me meets the man in you
You saw me looking up, and seemed to wink
Accolades for the star, the moon
Transformer of the heavens
From crescent into
King and Blood and Blue and Harvest too
The Oscar goes to
The man in the moon
Best in Everything
Go into the night and day
Day and night
Singing every moon song you ever knew, anew

Beauty blinds, heals us
Fly me there
On a wing and prayer
Oh how do you memorize your lines, performed perfectly every time?
Bow, we applaud you
And the bovine who leapt over you too

We are simply fools to think
We don’t need another poem about the moon

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Don’t Stop Me If You’ve Heard This Before

Don’t Stop Me If You’ve Heard This Before

the writer of Ecclesiastes knew
I  am learning too
there is nothing new under the sun
a million graduates graced the stage
diplomas and dreams clenched in fists of tan hands
a million mothers have sat with pride
remembering everything that ever was
nothing is not remembered, nothing is allowed forgetting
you may say I have heard this before
this retelling, it’s too familiar to wake me up, make me come alive
everything about this moment
the other ones too
though told before
burst forth with new birth
and old is new, anew
don’t stop me if you’ve heard this before
because I will not stop talking
a million mothers may sit with pride
but there is only one me
and there is only one us
repetition is the echo, the bold, the exclamation point
everything bears repeating
the chorus and refrain sing me home

 

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On Joining Me in Another Place

Dear Ones:

If you are reading this post because you happened here from the crazy place that is the internet, Welcome.

If you are reading these words because you are a follower or subscriber of this blog, Thank You. For following along on this writing journey. For your support and encouragement, your comments and your own words here.

I am popping in to say that this is my writing home, my blog, my website, my place. But I want you to know that I also have another place, designed for people who choose to share a little space in their email inbox once a month or so. That decide to invite my words into that guarded space, the inbox —in the form of a letter. It has grown to be one of my favorite places to create, to communicate, and to correspondent with my readers.

You are invited, and I would be honored to have you join me here: The Notebook. 

Emails are free, and are sent once a month-ish. Once you subscribe, you have access to all letters in the archives.

I hope to see you there. (which is right here: The Notebook – a subscriber only monthly newsletter.)

with grace and gratitude,

elizabeth w. marshall

(join me on Instagram where I am apt to write a miniblog post, a poem, or a short prayer or two, too. I am a huge fan of Instagram as a place for telling stories and weaving together pictures and words. It is like a picture book for grown-ups.)

My Post-2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once Upon A Time

 

March One, 2018pexels-photo-886470.jpeg

Dear Ones:

There is a sacredness and intimacy about this art of letter writing. A beautiful tenderness of one me speaking to one you—though the you is multiplied. Perhaps that is why I have saved so many letters over the years. A hunter green metal foot locker hides under the bed in my office—a repository of memory and mystery. In it rest decades upon decades of letters. I have saved them—like a memory hoarder, sometimes not even knowing why. As if one day there might be a grand revealing of important plots and sub-plots. As if the aged smell of paper and stamp and glue would give up clues to my past. As if one line might contain a piece of my bigger story that longs to be heard, one that needs remembering and re-telling. If I would only pull the thread.

Click the link to read the subscriber based letter in its entirety, as well as receive access to the archives of The Notebook: These Pages of Mine.

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Visit me on twitter @graceappears, Instagram @graceappears and on Facebook. These are just a few of the places my words appear. I would love to have you join me there.