photo by Collyn Ware
Marmalade Moon As the moon rises it spreads marmalade across the treetops. Too often, the world is a wafer broken easily by brittle words. But tonight, we who live lean stand dumb in the presence of such decadence: a light feast, a banquet of lunar nectar. In this month of marmalade moons we remember how the world ripens; how the sweet peach of summer swallows all our pits and stones; how we rest in the nectarine assurance that— if even for a moment— there is enough for all.
3 Comments
I have worked with Paul and Nate.
July 12, 2020 at 3:17 pmAlthough I feel ruefully inadequate to offer an opinion on writings and poetry, yours seem powerful and kept me glued to the lines to read the next. Thank You
Thanks so much for your kind words, Mark!
July 13, 2020 at 1:51 pmIn one of the series of vivid nightmares I had while my 20-year navy veteran uncle was slowly dying from his body eating itself inside his brain in that horrifying disease we call cancer, nightmares I call the ‘Memory Foam Nightmares’ because the memory foam helped me to sleep more deeply, which meant I experienced and relived the dreams all the more vividly until they wouldn’t go away, day or night, one night I dreamt of a ‘Poet Tree.’ There was an old man, much thinner than me and a little taller, sitting under an old tree. His once brown hair grew toward the white end of gray. His glasses slid down his nose so he could look you directly in the eye without the glass windows filtering your view of him, or his view of you, through the ‘eyes of the world’ which the glasses symbolize. They also symbolize the way the world views wisdom, as an affectation or a commodity. a barrier and a distraction instead of the aid to life which they are.
There were holes in the ground all the way around the tree, full of kids laughing, chatting, playing all around, over, and under the roots of the tree. The tree nourished everyone and gave them shelter.
The roots of the tree run deep between each of us because we all come from the same family tree, and it is definitely a ‘Poet Tree.’
The old man watches fondly. Each child is in his family. Though we come from various lands, we all rise up from the same ground, breathe the same air for a short span, and then return to the ground.
It’s time to spread our wings and fly, so the family tree can reach the sky and grow.
The man reads poems from books. When he puts one down, another pops up in its place. Every story is worth telling, even if we don’t tell it well the first few times.
Some stories are not ours to tell. Leaves change with the seasons. Leaves and lives come and go, sway to and fro, bud and grow.
God says, “I love you Shannon, and I have called you by name.”
July 14, 2020 at 6:03 am