Ghost Moon

By -
It is a thirsty, yellow hot morning.
My thoughts are squandered, flat under the heat
Struggling to grow ideas, I look up and
I see the moon -
A hovering hologram from the black hours.
I am relieved for the reminder
Of the night world -
The dreams about beckoning green seas
And hastening purple skies,
All the magic that comes to me in the mysterious dark.
If the Sun allows a ghost Moon,
Midnight inspiration must also be somewhere,
Lingering in the arid day.


LJ Ireton 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lioness, outside The Garden

By -
Lioness, outside The Garden  Not all is lost - my lion walks loyal beside us. She was where I lay my head under the low stars, in the uncomplicated, verdant heart  of living; where ground-wings opened to pink and perfume  ever-present. He called her Ariel. I call her Ari. She carries the star-thrum energy of earth newly created; all fire eyes and focus,  yellow allegiance, claws on instinct. Whereas I - I can't stop thinking. I leave our tent; bark and stem like praying hands and rest on her sand-coloured fur - She is still the same; four-legged land of the horizon,  muscles of vine and forehead of moss, a head that moves like water around a river bend - a moving, prowling garden.   No, not all is lost. LJ Ireton, 2024
Read more

Fierce in the sky

By -
My spirit was swung low like a string hammock so I lay with it,  sunken under the hottest star to meld or fuse what it could.  I opened my eyes  to the sure, steady mind of a Red Kite, cutting through  finger-smudged clouds and all uncertainty - an ever-winning coin.  Under the relentless energy of the Sun And the set red bend of bone and feather, one strand pulled taut, alert again. I thought of poetry; the beautiful things forever flying fierce: star stripes, bronze birds, truth - all these strong lines  in the sky  are under my blood; my tired self is still singing.  LJ Ireton, 2024
Read more

Bronze birds, yellow flowers

By -
My sunflowers are half-sun, half-rust ring unusual - the petals are starting to drift still beautiful, lone flyers like the bronze wings above them flying right over the sun -  a clawed kite, haloed fork tail stirring me from numb wordlessness.  I write of this flame that you might know  the yellow flower, look up - up, where prayers go, riding briefly on birds of prey.  That the hollow cold of not knowing can fill, burn with just a flutter past the eye, a kingfisher blur, like orange sugar to a curious mind  wandering in the shade.  LJ Ireton, 2024
Read more