Poem: Prayers for a Waning Moon

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Prayers for a Waning Moon

For a week they have refused to leave you in peace,
the dreams.
The dreams of God and temples and western saloons,
of gauzy romance and stalkers in search of mysteries
that never existed,
Of strange cats and stranger children with empty eyes,
dreams of horizons full of bonfires and Celtic music,
of your greatest love tender smile,

A week of them!
African drums, passionate and angry,
sterile cities, smirking,
Neil Young singing, strange altars.
Strange dancers, strange images, Dali-like,
Christ on the Cross, rising heavenward,
ripping the locust wood post out of the raw earth.

You can smell it,
the raw earth.
It is the smell of rich black soul,
spring soil, full of promise.
Yes, your dreams have aromas.
You can smell the fires, like ancient sacrifices.
You can smell your lover’s perfume.
You can smell incense and fear.

Night after night they come,
Hour after hour, Amazing things,
Frightening things.
Things of love and unpredictable passion.
Landscapes and rent curtains,
angels singing,  a black choir swaying
and they dance to dirges.

And you sleep and wake and sleep again,
aching for the waning moon,
tired, so tired of the howling
deep in your mind.

About this poem. 

We all just experienced the fall “Supermoon”.  Some of us have been experiencing it for a week.  These are all from real dreams I have had in the last few nights.

Aren’t you glad you don’t live in my head?

Tom

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