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In keeping with our moon theme, this from Rachael Ikins, (click on the image to see it larger):
Tuesday in New York City
It was a beautiful September morning in the Big Apple
My son, my only child was at work.
He was in a building behind a church
And in the shadow of one of a pair of iconic skyscrapers
Not yet nine o’clock in the morning
Everything was quiet and normal
Then the first plane hit
Everyone thought it was an accident
Across the street and thirty stories high
The view was incomprehensible
Seventy stories higher and across the street
People begin to jump to escape
He makes eye contact with a man falling toward the street below
He is unable to speak or to move frozen by what he is seeing
A second plane attacks the other skyscraper
He knows it’s time to get everyone out
At ground level bodies litter the pavement like discarded rag dolls
Stepping over them and around them is indescribable
Yet they do it, they get away stopping for nothing
All they think about is surviving
With time they will go on with life
They know they will never forget
That beautiful Tuesday morning in
September in New York City
Boca Branch, FL
Perigee Moon (at Seventy-Three)
Huge moon, midsummer moon
White disc glimmers
Magic light behind the pines
Bars of brightness on the lake
A moon to make a wish on
As fifty years ago
On a summer night near another lake
Holding his hand
Beneath the full moon
I wished hopefully, selfishly
Not knowing what I wanted
But knowing that I wanted
Moonrise, sunrise, ebb and flow
Wishes forfeit, wishes fulfilled
Holding his hand this summer night
In the light of the perigee moon
Parents, grandparents, lovers still
I wish for more years together
In the moonlight
Greenwich Branch, CT
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Visit our on line galleries to see more works by our members.
A TWIST OF TIME
A quaint establishment had housed their union.
candle light and wine
to set time
in slow motion,
like the drizzle of rain
down the window glass,
holding the future at bay.
Both knew it would not last
or the rain.
Time too, trickles
into the dust.
In the ladies room,
she freshened her lipstick,
and blotted it on the napkin
still clutched in her hand,
then shoved it in her pocket
as she joined him again.
They drove in silence
to the airport, following
a twisted road through mist.
At the security check she kissed
him so hard the Green Beret tumbled
to the floor and they laughed,
attempting to make
light of the moment.
from her pocket
she yanked the napkin,
“See, an imprint
of our last kiss. I plan
to frame it till we kiss
When he returned,
she spoke with the funeral attendant,
“Please before you close the casket would you lay this in his hand.”
by Joyce Gregor
Pikes Peak Branch
Backyard at Midnight
What’s that light out back?
There’s no moon that I know of.
But wait…it is the moon!
I didn’t expect that.
Yard so illumined tonight…
the pool has that milky glow,
And the deck…it’s lit up like a stage
waiting for performers.
Junipers in the backdrop, husky and dense,
casting shadows over the landscape.
No wind at all, after the torment of
earlier constant blowing.
The stillness of midnight seems made for me
or someone, to notice…this muse, this desire.
Linda Marie Prather
Modesto Branch, CA
I am still accepting “moon poems” and welcome submissions of poetry on any subject for both the website and upcoming issues of the Pen Woman Magazine. –Treanor Baring
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Some of what’s new on the NLAPW website this week (click on each to visit page):
Dimmed by the Dashboard
Pulling into a Salina truck stop
the dashboard lights dim,
the purring engine ceases,
the rotating eighteen wheels halt.
Your headlights scope out
the open skies of the West: Colorado,
Kansas, Arizona and New Mexico.
Driving is all you know, like your father
and his father before him.
Drowned by miles of prairie dust,
desert heat and mountain snows,
you pause to study the fuel gauge.
Humming along to the drone of the road
I search through crackling stations on late night AM,
dropping in on a hokey call-in show.
“Who do you want to dedicate a song to?”
I say to myself, “A lonely trucker. No, his wife.”
”Please play ‘Living Between the Moon and New York City.’”
I stop the station wagon. The crunch of gravel
underneath four wheels turns to silence.
Waiting outside our Denver home,
I gaze at the odometer, mileage apart,
mileage together; the ledger of years,
coated by iridescent moonlight, swirls
on the dirt-encrusted dashboard.
Looking beyond the dark, the unspoken quiet
bleeds into dawn, and the light between us
remains unchanged, undimmed.
by Nancy Godbout Jurka
Pikes Peak Branch, CO
After Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways
of Looking at a Blackbird”
The moon climbs out of the river.
A firefly stops his flight
beneath blood clouds
trailing for miles.
Once, my belly hung
heavy with an imperfect motion
as though the moon, angry
and rotund, avenged my kind
for the generations behind us.
Why are the Indian women
bowing before a temple light?
Do they know the moon
shrouds a mound, sacred
A man preparing to live
dies this way: climbing
into skies, swearing
the only light worth saving
is a delicate balance
he calls Moon.
Children of Darkness, how long
have your eyes contained
the alterations of ancient moons?
The waters cover the shores tonight.
There is a Sea of Showers
in the moon’s full light.
The moon crosses the ocean again.
Huntsmen lower their heads in prayer.
When a woman’s blood
darkens with imbalance,
she knows there will be no
moon that night.
The moon hangs cold
as the Mothers lay their offerings
upon a sacrificial ground.
All night, tribesmen chant their hymns;
the old moon pales in the new moon’s arms.
Sister, I am here beside the garden path.
I watch your spirit ascending
among the dusk clouds.
By the sanctuary door, I place twelve
silver jars in an arc of moon color.
Overhead, watchmen turn their lantern
toward the earth.
Chesapeake Bay Branch, VA
©2001 Greatest Hits, 1982-2000, Pudding House Publications, pp. 18-19
From the author: In the early 1980s, I was inspired by Wallace Stevens’ well-known poem, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” to write my own rendition of various ways to view the moon. The resulting poem, “Moonwatch,” received First Place in the National League of American Pen Women’s Nationwide Poetry Contest in 1981 and was later published in The Cooke Book: A Seasoning of Poets (1987) and in an invitational chapbook series, Greatest Hits: 1981-2000.
I thought I’d share this poem with you in tribute to this week’s memorable view of the moon.
From the editor:
Thank you for sending in your moon poems. I will keep posting them as long as they last. What a wonderful response. Please continue–if you don’t have a moon poem already, well, maybe this will inspire one. And thank you to Nancy Haskett, whose wonderful poem started this!–Treanor Baring