The Pull of the Moon

Part One:  High-tide/Crescent Moon

the moon
the pull of the moon
is gentle in grip
but
fierce in fruition!

we all, yes…all.
we all are like
either the sea or the moon.

Do you ken the difference between
Treasure and Riches?
Money and Wealth?
Bauble and Gem?

(…either Sea or Moon…)

No?
Oh, Sea, then you,
you are storm tossed and windswept,
and without strength you quail
and bend you to the moon’s soft mastery.

Yes?
You do?
Good, Moon. good.
you will pull tides hither
and push waves thither and
write your calm and placid face
across the depths of the
changing but never changed deep.

Part 2:  Low-tide/Full Moon

your heart thrummed,
a bird trapped in a room of windows
and just a transom cracked thru which
you flew on vague and careless whims
of winds still racing with the moon.

your wings battered walls and ways out
implacable and illusory, and
the sound of many waters
rushing over gurgle stones
and running from the moon
and losing
filled the fluttery desperate room.

your wingtips grew wet and red.

i stood there, horrified and still.
my rotten wooden bucket was
half full and leaking water salt as blood,
liquid moonlight stolen from
her treasure ponds.
I was going to wash those ancient flagstones
beneath your fluttery flight.

i dropped the bucket and ran to you,
hand upraised and palms open and soft
and scared of your rustle and bustle and frantic frenzy.

i pushed like the moon,
arms waving and wordless voice wooing
“there, there”,
i reached like the sea and grasped
handfuls of beak and blood
until I had you at last
and safe from yourself and walls and ways out,
and slowly hurried to the transom high and sideways
and thrust you out to freedom in the dusk.

you flew to branch and twig and lit,
heart a fluster and hard with anger that
was pulled over fear and hurt like
some feathery mackinaw
and there you glared glitter-eyed and beady black at me,
my rotted bucket and water everywhere.

and then to air you took, to wing,
soaring on the lines unseen,
the traces invisible
that followed down those beams,
those living lines of light
hitched to us one,
hitched to us all in night.
all.

then i, sorrowful and glad in the darkening wet room
so hot and still alive with evil fates escaped,
i watched you go, trailing cries and wing-tip red,
fly and tinge that golden glow deep crimson
with the bloody brush of wingtips caught
but now made free again,
and I felt me within, I felt me outside in,
I felt that ever always draw as well…
the pull of the moon

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2 thoughts on “The Pull of the Moon

  1. “i stood there, horrified and still.
    my rotten wooden bucket was
    half full and leaking water salt as blood,
    liquid moonlight stolen from
    her treasure ponds.
    I was going to wash those ancient flagstones
    beneath your fluttery flight.

    i dropped the bucket and ran to you,
    hand upraised and palms open and soft
    and scared of your rustle and bustle and frantic frenzy.

    i pushed like the moon,
    arms waving and wordless voice wooing
    “there, there”,
    i reached like the sea and grasped
    handfuls of beak and blood
    until I had you at last
    and safe from yourself and walls and ways out,
    and slowly hurried to the transom high and sideways
    and thrust you out to freedom in the dusk.”

    This is what it felt like??

    Growing pains, sis.
    Right??
    And then comes the delightful s-t-r-e-t-c-h of the heart…
    as we walk together…
    past.
    We. walk. past. ❤

  2. Yes sis. perfect summation.

    funny about this poem…it is actually 2 poems, and that apurpose, as I was so of 2 minds regarding the precious gift.

    glad you were able to flow in metaphor, and understand it was a highly subjective experiential accounting…

    and summing up the work of Graceful Hands
    in hearts made large and writ upon with Love
    and taught to dance to Mama’s gentle croon
    hands clasped we answer the pull of the moon

    i honor the gift in the title, and the giver with the poem

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