Ninety four . . .

My Lady the Moon

by Stormcat

My lady is shy even

as she follows my journey

through that labyrinth of passageways connecting

the eternities, hiding behind

clouds or the earth itself.

To glimpse a silver crescent edge of her eye peeking

around a forest tree or through

breaks in the overcast,

having known the fullness of her countenance,

fills the soul with the heat of hope’s passion.

It seems

unlike the celestials

that mortals are afraid of failure yet

my lady, unlike the others, cowers

from success, of all things, intermittently

close then far, large then small, brighter

then dimmer, white then blue, hidden

completely then in full open view.

Whenever she hides,

as she always regularly does,

darkness gathers me and a terrible sadness

condenses my freedom into

painful loneliness, longing, looking

for any sign of her return.

You see, I’m in love with the moon . . . . everything

her solitary strength and her radiant softness

But I wonder can the moon love me and even if

Yes

has she the freedom to act thereupon,

the wherewithal to take a lover

or would such be paramount to treason

in the eyes of all those burgeoning lovers

who depend on my lady’s

solitary spirit

to seal their own

romantic inspiration . . . 

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved

Ninety Three . . .

Death of a Poet

By Stormcat

I read a poet who had lost his love and thought

of you. Of us. The why it feels. The standing,

on a ledge, no way down, no way up, save your

agency to accept or reject and that inability to

thus choose. There are words (derogatory and

venomous) words forbidden, rejected by choice,

by that same agency.

To loose one's love is horrible. But for a poet . . .

such is an existential crisis of the unquenchable

oeuvre. What is to become of all those exquisite

declarations of never-endingness. Such poetry

never to be discarded has become a lie. How can

a poet publish a lie? Thus it can never be read

again. Poetry diluted is moot.

And if his poetry is moot then that poet has no

purpose and life itself . . . ? Moot! Beauty ceases.

Nature withdraws. Stars no longer sparkle and

songbirds annoy. Flowers look like weeds and

food becomes tasteless. Music seems intrusive

but silence, intolerable. Left only is cowardly

nonexistence,  inebriation, death.

Copyright 2014 All rights reserved