Tag: darkness

Full Moon

~ Lynne Burnett ~ 11 Comments

sanni-sahil-cSm2a_-25YU-unsplash
Photo by Sanni Sahil on Unsplash

O! Moon’s so full –
I could say it is an orgasm
of light

or the white climax of a line
that in its beginning
meets its end

or it is a tearless eye
that cannot close
its dark and heavy lid.

I could say it is a dead planet
thrust deep in our throats
but you might choke on that.

How about a window
through which we are beheld,
in which we see a shadow of ourselves:

look how, night after night,
the moon slowly pieces itself together
until, weeks later – and then briefly –

it is whole again,
as if it finally finds the answer
to an old, disturbing question

only to lose it
down the well of darkness
from which it came.

I think this is the only poem from my first chapbook “Stealing Eternity” that I haven’t yet posted on the blog.

I am back from a nourishing month on our coastal waterways, my favourite season upon us now – a time of great release and vibrant ripening. Autumnal blessings to all!

Night-Light

~ Lynne Burnett ~ Leave a comment

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Photo by Erik Witsoe on Unsplash

Look how the moon hangs
its luminous sign outside
the bedroom window: the man
with a grin is open for business!

But in your private dark, nothing
so grand – only the chest-warming
glow of a night-light never turned off:
being able to take one good deep
breath after another, and feel
your own durable heart pumping
steadily in unsteady times,
its rivers, rich with blessing,
coursing through a world
that knows the fierce
need of it.

Another older poem which first appeared in North Shore Magazine and then my chapbook “Stealing Eternity”.

Radio Broadcast

~ Lynne Burnett ~ 10 Comments

Photo by Vincent Chin on Unsplash

Snowflakes feathering the trail
below the highway.  A young
fellow, toqued and sweatered,
strides out of the woods
where he has been camping
for some time.  Now on a search
for empty cans and bottles,
he asks me what I think
of last night’s news (which I,
watching American Idol, missed).

He tells me Iran warned the United
States it would feel the pain
if tough measures were imposed
against the Islamic Republic
for its nuclear program,
and ponders aloud the grave
possibility of a third world war
before drifting away,
back into his solitary life
which, like mine, lives
inside a bigger story
that is always ripe for change.

He knows the Earth he wants
to inherit, having made his
living room into a grove
of trees meadowed with stars,
stars loved more than priests
for their enduring benediction
of light, their twinkling
testaments of hope.
Trees whose raised roots
rope roughly into pews.
The ground that knows
no names, but keeps
a footprint.  Wind
that is a window.

The darkness humming
with a billion unheard voices
when a different congregation
is invited in.

This poem was first published by New Verse News in 2006 and then by
New Millennium Writings as an Honorable Mention in 2012.