Poetry: Night of the Seventh Moon

Posted: September 27, 2014 in Uncategorized

The moon is liken to  an ovoid of clairvoyance, but it doesn’t know everything.

It is the night of the seventh moon.
Grays, hazes, fog, and shades of white
blend and overflow the rim.
Crystalline vapors swirl pensive
while sounds of gypsies move in unison,
a circle; they dance within a sphere,
in a wilderness illuminated beneath mystical orbs.
and then memories hearken a mere lad.
It is another night of the seventh moon,
and elders in the village say evil lurks.
Black robed clerics send pleas to the congregation.
Men, women, and children obey,
yet no one comprehends.
It will be a long night of discussion.
Pastor Ebenezer, the eldest, stands
with clasped fingers and prays a plea of consternation.
Liken to storytelling, yet it is not from pole to pole.
An elder orates and everyone listens.
It is the night of another moon
another time; another narrator preaches,
and says evil lurks, and the moon
holds inside a man who maddens humans.
He is  volatile controller;
everything beneath his gaze is his.
The image is more pronounced and dominates
the tides,  and times to plant crops.
He observes the universe and mortals.
Volatile controller owns everything and everyone
beneath the moon.

One night the image is more identifiable
and active, it paces and presses with nimble
fingers, press sides of the enclosure
as if the panes were transparent glass.
A neighbor passes a farmhouse.
In hunting garb; he is adorned in
a red knitted cap and ventures–unafraid.
His voice calls back to his wife.
“Leanna, I’ll be home before the fire
needs more wood.”
Daddy, Mama, and lad sit before
a warm fire– alive, and safe.
And then memories hearken  a mere lad.

The wind blows frigid and paralyzing.
Hours pass the watcher in the window.
A knock raps at the door, eerie to the night.
It is Leanna, the neighbor’s wife and Mama bids
her entrance.
The woman is uneasy and waxen white
as snow that covers the ground. She paces
Oakwood floors and wrings her hands
in despair. Her leather shoes are glazed
in a mixture of black ice, and frozen slush.
Mama comforts Leanna, to no avail.
and eyes depart, desolate in the
husband’s absence. She fears for his return.
Mama and Daddy retire and the lad hears
vociferous snores, but Daddy is home.
Restless soul, of a lad, slips out with lantern,
and an old telescope. Eyes upward,
A lad observes the moon, in all its brilliance.
The colors change to a darker, bleaker hue.
observant,He stands on the porch
holding vigil for the missing man.
Hallucination or imagination–there
seems no difference, but shivers run
the gammit of his body, from neck to feet.
Memories of gypsies dancing
enter his mind  and he looks skyward.
They move fast and faster,
and came into view, but a doubtful mind knows
that gypsies don’t fly to the moon. He treads
through snow and hears hunting dogs,
and trips over a fallen  branch, to be
plumented deeper into the earth.
Invisible hands reach to claim.
The lantern is lost in snow drifts.
Something, someone watches from above.
“Is anybody there, help me,” his voice
echoes. Hunting dogs are at the top,
and young fingers claw at stinking earth.
Assent is slow and he continues upward
toward the beasts and uncertainty.
At the top, tongues lap his face
with sandpaper tongues and
He clings, digs, views clear, starless skies.
Clouds float past and he treads snow
to retrieve the lantern and telescope.
Lens to eye, he squints
and sees something that isn’t there.
Shivers dimple down, as he sees
two images in the moon. One looks low.
Two struggle; one falls,
unfamilar yet not. It cannot be ascertained.
An image looks down and the lad gasps.
It is not–must not–cannot be.
Hallucinations abound to gazes fixation.
The moon controls and it is:
The last night of the Seventh Moon,
and  memories hearken.
Elders of the village and  clerics
assemble to affirm  rightousness of  wisdom.
A red capped image looks downward,
hands press against panes of the moon
A lad remembers the clerics, the elders, the words:

Someone requires  haste and  a degree of virtue,
when relating:
Leanna’s husband won’t ever be home again.

wyn sharp

updated 19 May 2016

  1. To be read on You Tube in due course of time.
    Prompt originated from Prof. C.


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