The Neighbor

The Neighbor

In cryptic cursive he penned
words of gratitude
my cold heart
wondered at the knock
hid behind
on a cold and wintry day

I should wonder what he wants
when all he brought
was his  small note
an offering
and laid it by the door

words of thankfulness
I sit
with guilted
that I  would rest in vain
slow to do the same
pen a note of telling
how it is I feel
black pen on gilded cards
left staring at a
hand that cannot write
a few short lines of humble
I learned from him
the neighbor sent to me
with a shaky cursive hand
still fresh from loss and grief
who poured
into a 2×3
this kind response sat at my door
one day when I was covered up in grief

who taught him how to love the sky
at night, I found him staring
at it ablaze, in oranges and reds
I’ve seen him smile and stare
gazing heavenward
awash in grief
I weep at my
oh January finds me
in desperate need
to write a letter
release it from my cold and thankless heart
and had he used the mailbox
rather than my door
I might have missed the chance to
be shaken
by a simple act

I heard the screen open
slam and hit the door
awakened by my
the neighbor
in cryptic cursive, he penned
words of gratitude.


In Which The Moon Talks Back

In Which The Moon Talks Back

So much happens by the moon’s bright light
Radiant beams
Poured holy rays on stables where Christ was born
One dark and sacred night

Entranced, we the people of the Light
Bound by grace
Poured out on moonglow
From heaven down to Earth
Cast like nets, its light remarkable
When seen upon the sea

And we
Gaze skyward
Spend countless
Hours, living breathing
World without end, amen
A people
Held agasp
Struck by evening’s light
Moonstruck by a blinding power and might

Love has been made
Lovers have swayed
Drunk on the liquid earth-bound light
That drips from way on high

Dreams are dreamt, then
Swept away, by
Every phase
Of our neighbor in the sky
We count our days, wish and
Plan, mark the calendar by the wax and wane
Look out the window panes
To see a world, lit as by an ember’s glow
Mourning and in pain

The tides
A pattern that rules the sea
Rolls at the spoken word
Of that man
Up in the moon, it seems
Come and go when they are told

Is it not his turn?

Synchronized by the one
Whose chiseled face
Stares back at us
He’s always been a man
Faintly smiling
Like a profile on Mount Rushmore, carved
A face held hard and fast
His eyes mirroring the stars
Steady, rock of ages suspended
In a galaxy God-created

But why have we not asked him
Does he not have something wise to say
Subject of story, songs and tales
Mentioned early on
In Genesis, I’m just curious

What would he say
If he could speak, write
A story of all he’s seen
Would he whisper
A cautionary tale, did he
To our men who took Apollo there
By the light of his own
Would he dare say what he has seen
Or she
Or it, the one who lit
The world so bright, continues to light us
Night after night
I suppose it is time
For the one-sided conversation of moon and man
To end

Let’s give him a turn

Dare we listen,
For once, hush so he can speak
To what his broken heart has heard
And seen

Could we stand to learn
From one who has seen a million
Preceding his own glowing rising

Does he dare to tell his side
Or is he simply content to spend
His nights
Counting bovine jumping over stars
On their way
Child’s play really
All this talk of one who cannot talk

Or even speak to what he sees
Or is it she
Would tear a soul right in two
With words
The beauty and the beast
Of life right here
On planet Earth

Dreams are held
And he won’t tell
The prayers deposited in secret
Under his bright light

The celestial secret keeper
Holds them tight
And let’s us talk of
Wild imagined things
And dream of childish delight

All under a holy holy holy
Moon-beamed light

Quiet yourself for a night, or two
And listen, if you dare
To what hush-toned radiant moonspeak
He’ll whisper in the pitch of night
When the moon talks back to you

Blue Moon HMM

Joining Laura at Laura Boggess dot com


rock and roll

Roll me like a chicken leg
in a buttermilk battered bowl
of dusty dry white flour
waiting for the grease.
Just pepper it with honesty, sprinkle it with truth.

For I am weary of the lies
Weak and faint from less than real
Tired and worn-out from the half-truths
The Velveteens wear beautiful
The beautiful is real.

Throw me in the hot-grease
that southern Crisco oil
the fire of smokey goodness, that smells and tastes like true.
Just pepper me with honesty, and sprinkle me with Truth.