Tag: moon

As I Think Of Kelp, How It Lies In The Shallows

~ Lynne Burnett ~ 10 Comments
Image by Alan Robb from Pixabay

the birds begin their evening declensions,
note by note, the grammar of praise.

The air cools. I close the window to a crack,
the pale sky falling out of sight, yoked

now to darkness. I write at my desk by the light
of a lamp: a small moon turning the tide.

How fathom the mysterious waters
in which my soul swims, finning stars?

The clock ticks but time sleeps
until I return to the bone-white shore,

a wave from far away, heartbeat of the ocean,
tugging at the wagging brown tongues of words.

This poem appeared in the Crosswinds 2019 Poetry Contest Anthology.

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!

Face to Face

~ Lynne Burnett ~ Leave a comment

Photo by Robson Hatsukami Morgan on Unsplash

Mist trails the moon’s departure,
tracing an absence through
the precisely ordered landscape
to the brim of the water, edging
toward the face in the river,
circles it and slips away.

Like the moon, and by its light,
my face is a silver coin tossed
into a dark well and wished on,

its frame of long hair
a rippling shadow of leaves
pointing the way to a peace
I can only imagine,

the eyes seeing beyond
the ghostly grandmother
willows and elms,
beyond the standing flesh of me,

the mouth – the missing line
of a poem. I want to kiss it.

I am no Narcissus, but I cannot stop
looking at my shimmering other.
This liquid face has no age that matters,
no sex that specifically appeals.
It is a painter’s first brushstroke,
bold and horizonless.

I bend close and closer,
almost falling in.
More than my known face
I want that one –
a moon sailing
through rivering stars
on a bright path
home.

This poem was first published by the Pedestal Magazine and was
later included in my chapbook “Stealing Eternity”.