She and the Moon

…to the blue moon, October 31, 2001

If the Moon would fall
A gift hev’n sent
She’d raise her eyes
To watch the descent.

From where She stands
There’s nothing to do
You took Her soul
It ran with You.

The shattered Moon
O’er the Earth around
Its luminous crystals
Strewn on the ground.

She’s shadow quiet
In the background
Lost She is
But never found.

The defeated Moon
Understood Her pain
Though His selfish wish
To be whole again.

Emotionless face
She can’t understand
A crystal shard
In her hand.

A blinding sparkle
With a flash of light
To Her chest it plunges
She holds it tight.

Redeeming the Moon
She pays the cost
Her life for His
But now She’s lost.

The ransom paid
So piece by part
The Moon reforms
‘Cept the piece in Her heart.

At the top of the Earth
A shiny sphere rests
Missing a portion
The shard in Her chest.

But the icy dagger
Hears the call
It takes Her along
To the luminous ball.

The shard slips in
The appropriate place
She joins the Moon
Forever in space.

You won’t miss Her
Nor the silent tears
But She’s happy forever
She resides in the Sphere.

With Her pain subsided
In eternal life
She smiles upon You
In her afterlife.

Her patience rewarded
You will see Her soon
Blow Her a kiss
When you see the Moon.



Screaming at the cobalt moon
Shining in my face
And whisper to the silent storm
Stealing sleep at a quiet pace

This treasured pillow of feather and down
Where I rest my heavied head
Made me wary of dusty creatures
Residing under my lonely bed

The inky damp darkness
Splintered by green LED light
Tapped on my shoulder
So I continued the fight

Of begging the night
To shut my eyes
From my lungs I plead
For sleepy sighs

Drip of the faucet
Rhythm of the clock
Louder seem
Than sounds from a rock

So hard I plead for
The death of sleep
That when I wake
Only dreams I keep


Writer’s Block

no words flow from my haunted pen
none formed by sullen ink
perhaps an extension of the emptied mind
like a specter to the grave they sink

perhaps it’s water inside my dull dark pen
invisible to the eyes
an absent mind possessed by phantom words
and truth exchanged for lies

naked thoughts refuse to flow from
my pen’s dented tip
no damnable words no hated prose
this poisoned ink I dare to sip

my pen I want to take my life
bury the shaft a handful deep
so darkness clouds my unconscious mind
I need the death of sleep


Ghost Town

Walking down this dusty avenue called a street
One is struck by the nostalgia in the morning air
Hustly bustly sounds draw one’s eyes up

then down

To the right, and up, she steps out onto the balcony
Tucking the small roll of green into the crease
Of her ample cleavage

the roundness of them surrounded by ruffles

of white, pink and black

pinked cheeks, smeary kohl eyes, tendrils of hair against her forehead

On the dusty way below
A widowed mother frowns at the sight above
Averting her Christian eyes, simultaneously distracting the attentions of her son by conversation
She is knowing full well that the boy’s manhood is fast approaching unbridled and out of control, as the stage without a driver
Why tempt what she already knows

The girl on the balcony, satisfied with the evening’s wage
Breathes deep the clean morning air
Tipping her face, eyes closed, to the sun

A horse’s heavy steps keep time with notes sung vicariously by awakening birds
Eager to greet the town with their songs
Leather and metal livery hardware clang in time to this rhythm of life
Riding on the horse, a road-wearied rider in velvety worn leather
Looks up to scope out the sleepy town

spying the young harlot

the pretty widow and pre-man son

The storekeeper opening doors
Straining against stuck windows
Cursing his elderly elbows

The barkeep sweeping up remains of last night’s customers on the wooden planks
A group of schoolgirls, ruffly skirts dusting thin ankles, hair in plaits
Giggling, oblivious to the leathery stranger as they walk briskly toward a clanging obtrusive bell

chickens scurrying, clucking, kicking up dust

wafting cooking smells, strong coffee, bacon

floats eerily out of windows

And a morning breeze swirls around the whole scene
Drawing it in, whirling it into streaks of sights, sounds, smells, dust
Louder and louder
To an unbearable drone

Until it disappears into a vacuum
The vacuum of my brain
Of what is left of a town gone
That may or may not have ever been

a ghost in my imagination

I get back into my car

in this desert

adjusting my white, pink and black party dress from the evening before


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Site page © September, 2006, by Beth-Ellen Colvin