The Moon

If I were the moon, I would be cruel
And flatten men with my milky fist
Until they can come to concede
The reason I exist.

I would breathe to fill cradles of beauty
That imbue our days with meaning.
I would live to summon daily redemptions
With a mammoth hand of dreaming.

If I knew the moon, I would linger
Over limpid lips that persist
In spurning my every advance
And spoiling every kiss.

Songs To The Moon

When there is merit in songs to the moon,
Its poetry has secret syllables

Singing in enchanted intervals.

Such poetry cannot come too soon.

A spray of stars upon the slate of night,

It must wait until the moment is right.

Until I can find my mind an anchor
To the brash chemistry of verse and rhyme,

To the fierce formulas of art and time.

Until I can free my heart from rancor
I cannot make this power manifest
And nor can I hope to ever attest

To its motive for being and merit.

I must marry my blood to the spirit

That still sings, if I can only hear it.

I have this love, but I cannot bear it.

I wait in the wake of the moon for strength
And the courage to travel any length.