Tag Archives: moon

Autumn Moon

On the invisible screen

upon celestial wings

twilight of autumn moon

swinging gracefully

wooing millions and zillions.

At times she veils behind

passing clouds teasing

all admiring glances.

Her raiment sways poetically

removing darkness from night.

She personifies romance

in the distinct of distance

flashing clandestine smile.

She is every poet’s dream

Who loves to cherish

her charisma in silence.

Every onlooker is in trance

when the dazzling display of vision

disrobes all illusory fantasy.

She envisages piousness.

A poesy beyond lyrical form

shines eternally in perfect milieu.

© Maaya Dev

Forlorn

 

Did I lose you somewhere
Between the hyacinth and the ribbons
The pleats and folds of my adult drape?

I know you still wait for me, my moon
As the night flutters, the unfailing rose
Drunk with solitude and honeyed longing.

I breathe shallow and deep, my eyes
Swept away by stardust, I am alone
Your milk, eager and firm, waits for me
At the shore of the night.

Between my trembling lips and voice,
Your song hides in the fugitive wind,
Slender and silent, you walk away,
Barefoot, soaking in the night’s last ashes.

Did I call you, my white hills
Breaking, sinking at the wake of dawn?
I return to the day, dust blown
Crushing sand beneath my feet,

You have sliced me to pieces,
I move, unsure, forlorn, in spirals
Of smoke as I call you out
My moorings trapped in the day, dying.

Lopa Banerjee. Written in February 2015

Let the Night Sing

Shadows creeping,
The fangs of the night unfold,
Faint footsteps resound,
Silvery beams of moonlight.
The dark woods,
Dense canopy of trees,
The pitch black,
Skin slicing through
Silhouetted darkness.
Twinkling stars
Hissing sound,
Let the moon stay,
Let us make love.

Lopa Banerjee. February 9, 2015

Paying Slave

Every night she wonders
How the moon tastes
What a waste of imagination
No it was not
At least that day
Because she had nothing to eat
That night
She fed her children
And that was it
She didn’t want to sleep
She feared bad dreams
They say, empty stomach leads to bad dreams
The scars on her skin
Couldn’t adorn her
She wished the stars could decorate her
The same way as they decorate the sky
She wanted her husband to be a fighter
And here he was, fighting with her every night
Kicking and punching her
Getting stuck with
A useless drunkard
How smart was that?
But here she was
Being such smart
She could set herself free
Only if she knew
She was a slave
Slaving for free, I had heard of
Slaving and paying for it
Isn’t it surprising.

While the bud butterflies melt their wings
Within the light red poppy chain,
The pink-gray clouded, sad sunset rings.
In this lost sky, the sun’s light vein
Is almost thrown in a bloody rain.
The leaving sun abandons the sky
For the moon, and in the cricket crawl
The leaves of the oaks whisper ‘good bye’,
While the coming night has a dark shawl.
She looks at the stars with a black eye.
The sun and the stars find synergy,
In the regolith on the moon,
But with helium fusing energy,
This moon looks like a big balloon,
Or like a fragile, silky cocoon.
And like those thoughts enveloped in words,
Or like angels carrying their pure love,
Are the Feathers of the Holy Birds
In that rain dropping the divine globes
On the strong souls needing love rewards.
Any epistemological sphere
Is pouring up to the Holy Book,
Or is falling down to disappear.
The reverse arch gets a killer look.
Tries to provide fragrance of fear.

The fluid, wicked waves draining in sight
On Earth to meet at infinity
Are like the dark rays in the pure light.
Light rays are arches of Trinity,
While dressed in wind seems to be the night.

Stars are candles and night lights them all,
The colors withdraw in the last light.
In the black darkness, they look so small.
The dream seeds germinate for a fight,
Becoming real while breaking their wall.

© copyright Marieta Maglas

Cubic Words

There are hues of
blue embracing those of red
to vibrate in harmony.
There is a sense
of their movement above
the limits.
There is ceaselessly a feeling in the sense.
The feelings can be objects.

Conceivably, the things have a beginning,
because we believe it,
and maybe
there is neither beginning nor end.

In the spring rain,
there are kissing statues.
In the lulled lodgings
emblazoned with
shadows of shabby objects
on the walls,
there are lonely people
meditating about their life.
There is a measure of vulnerability
For everything that is good

and for the starving birds
in searching for seeds everywhere
as for those cancerous youngsters
having unimaginable pains,
still yearning to be cured not till experience.
In the coverings,
there are riders of the history
dressed in armor
to enter the mind’s imagination and
all that is not the mind’s imagination.

In the spring nights,
there is a moon becoming a curtain
for the great vaudeville
of the stars

formed from the other stars,
no two alike,
and being

like charming women
wearing masks and
wide necklines, nor
like those ballerinas that like to costume
in lactate white to suggest
dandelions dancing to spread their seeds.

In the luxury shop windows,
there are gems looking like flowers
and flowers looking like gems.

In the Sisyphus dimension,
there are tired eyelids in abeyance.
Nothing bends from above, everything falls down.

There are emerald northern lights.

In a puddle of sun,
There are emerald green, tattooed bodies
Dancing tango.

There are cubic dragons,
and there are things that have been taken apart
to be put, then, back together in a wrong order.

So, there is self-loathing,
and there are feelings of worthlessness
in a life spent earning filthy lucre.
There are resentments to destroy the lives.
There are the wrong things that fall apart and
the wrong things that fall together with those that are right.
There are words coming out in a wrong comprehension
to be incorporated into bad memories.
There are wrongly imagined riders of the history.
Uprising dove feather and prying eyes
get at the meaning of the truths in the uprights (there are many
truths left) .

But there will never be…

Blue trees
And eternal corpses.

 

Poem by Marieta Maglascubic words

Life Under the Moon

monsoon’s end
patches of emptiness
on the evening moon

sun bath
an eagle circles
the day moon

harvest moon
a path of lantern traffic
to the farm hill

harvest moon
taproot of a carrot
shows up red

full moon –
winter’s stillness
in a soap bubble

holding on
with what she left behind
winter moon

When You Bring The Spring ~

Sweet spring from far away
Calls to me with a flowery smile,
But it’s going to be quite a while
Before I can even get away…

The clouds that hang over me
Are ready to burst anytime soon~
Behind them the waiting moon
Would have to wait until I see…

Summer days and simmering nights
Are dreams of wintry eves~
Only the colours of autumn leaves
Remain now as delights…

The handsome days are yet to rise
And I shall wait for you to bring
The smiles and songs of gentle spring,
To our love beneath the starry skies…

When you do bring them to me,
I shall build us a castle of dreams
That won’t crumble with loveless seams,
But will stay up for the world to see…

– July 11th, 2012
(c) Sana Rose 2012