listen: there's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go

poems by moon dad. chaos on main @liltinysoprano

[moondadpoems]

another spring gone

and summer’s burgeoning heat 

sinks into my skin.

I see myself 

in the bright refracted blue

of the sky, the impossible

loft of the picturebook clouds,

but when I look in the mirror

your smirk stares back

from my lips, the depth

of your eyes’ knowing gaze

in my reflection’s glance.

this year

I won’t be so careful

when the sun makes me

flushed; glassy-eyed

and languid; my

freckled neck bared

to sweet incandescence;

my blood turning to ink.

this year

I’ll write a new story

without you.

[moondadpoems]

fire up my rockets

and launch me into space

so I can get off

this godforsaken planet.

for years have I 

danced my longings

under the light of the 

full moon; celebrated

the champagne bubble

buoyancy of Jupiter;

felt the ascetic dream-

building and hand-holding

of Saturn.

turns out

it’s cold up here;

fragile,

lonely,

to want more than 

this Earth can give;

to hunger for a future

I’ll never get to see;

your orbit a brief flyby,

fearful of my gravity.

I’ll keep yearning

for the touch of far-off

celestial bodies

out here where endless

horizon can hold me,

and you’ll burn up

on re-entry,

blaze become

ash become

memory.

[moondadpoems]

this morning

I forgot to miss you

until your memory

came rushing back

like an unexpected

downpour, the dark clouds 

of Carolina summer afternoons

rolling into my mind.

the storm cleared

just as quick as it arrived,

the sun making a show of

lazy blue hills on the horizon;

the story of you no longer

whispering poems

into my impressionable ear.

but the dirty wet pavement

glimmers and stinks of

tempests and nostalgia

and I am learning how

to be a poet with no muse

[moondadpoems]

already it smells of honeysuckle

and the thick wet air of summer

catches in my throat.

I wanted to claim you;

sink in my teeth and make you

surrender to feeling:

my body’s soundtrack

your thundering heartbeat

as you flush and shudder

under me so new. 

I wanted to worship

all of the places you are soft

and gasp with surprise at

all of the places you are hard,

watching the ripe peach of you

come apart so sweetly

at my command.

I wanted to blister

from the raw heat of you, of

where I would have liked

you to be: full lips plush

on mine, on skin, on slick;

your tongue spilling the secrets

of my body.

already it smells of honeysuckle

and the almost of your memory

catches in my throat.

[moondadpoems]

I’d always imagined

how my river would look

through your eyes, could I

have shared it with you:

banks grown back wild

under the bluest skies,

remnants of stumps and swings,

the gorgeous shit brown 

of the slow-flowing water–

I mean, the whole thing

is full of E. coli anyway.

maybe we were the geese

swimming upstream when I

was grieving you before

you were gone.

still, a cardinal alights on

a branch of my favorite tree;

a bug lands on my shin,

thinking my tattoo a flower;

I put cucumbers on my

sandwiches and almost don’t

think of you as I reclaim

the way I see the world.

[moondadpoems]

one month now with no you

feels more gentle than I expected

after this chokehold you had

on my mind.

I’ve been The Fool: I’ve picked

petals from poppies and cried

into chicken nuggets;

cooked meals for my ancestors

and fancied myself a cosmonaut

of alternate universes.

I cannot say how often my pen

will still sing of you, after

one year of poet and muse,

but I know that even with no you,

the world has still brought me spring.

[moondadpoems]

don’t

tell me how to behave.

I’m long overdue for

letting my mind be this

feral thing, running

wherever he pleases.

I have no time for your

polite inkstains; your

idle susurrations–

I’m chasing this hunger

I never knew I had

for the skin-bared sweat

of high summer; too hot

for dew but drenched by

the electric thrill of

afternoon thunderstorms.

if my wantonness

offends you, good–

I’ll keep dancing ‘til

I become one with the

river.

[moondadpoems]

I always thought I’d sink gently into love,

but there I was, flattened by emotion.

in retrospect, I should’ve listened to my pride;

to the face staring back at me from the river.

now I pick the petals from my black dahlias,

one by one, a grievance or a curse,

casting you as the villain in my story;

and I try to use this futile anger,

and I try to forget your smirking visage,

and I try to finally let fade this feeling of

you

prompt by: @smittenbypoetry

[moondadpoems]

sometimes I still wonder if

the nocturne of your keyboard’s

click and clack

sings you through ‘til dawn.

write me no aubade

as your city lights give way to sun;

gladly I sleep alone

to greet the periwinkle sky.

[moondadpoems]

time has finally arrived

to soften; to cradle me

in shrouded memories

and new beginnings.

I never doubted she’d come,

not a moment too soon,

but my impatient tears,

the squeeze in my chest,

have been calling to her

for weeks now.

she does the laundry

and the dishes; picks up the

pieces of me from the floor;

dismantles the pedestal

that once held the fantasy

of you.

I’m thinking of you less

and less each day, though

I still indulge sometimes

my reverie of poet and muse–

until she takes my hand

and whispers, “it’s time

to put that away, too”

[moondadpoems]

I stand at a place

between worlds.

too feral to go back

to the quiet, but

sometimes, veiled,

I visit my past

like a well-behaved

wraith, watching

and knowing.

the chapel's spire

glows like a beacon,

singing to me tales

of who I might've been.

[moondadpoems]

train stations are liminal spaces

of waiting or just passing through;

jumping timelines like we’re 

changing platforms; watching 

universes speed by or sidle on past.

in one iteration, I meet you

for the first time at the train station,

jetlagged and radiant, dragging my

blue beat up carry-on luggage.

I spot you first in the crowd,

chestnut hair falling into your face.

when at last you see me, you smile

wider than I’ve ever seen, and I 

rush into your arms, suitcase forgotten.

I pull back from your embrace,

and my eyes sink into the deep pools

of your gaze, at once playful

and serious, drawing me closer;

I raise up onto tiptoes, your elegant

hands spanning my waist, and

finally, improbably, our lips meet–

the next morning I'll bring you tea

(Madame Grey, of course)

wearing nothing but your favorite shirt,

your eyes wide, taking me in,

and we'll both wonder what happens

after a daydream becomes real.

[moondadpoems]

I

hate

the smell

of jasmine:

nauseatingly

sweet, just like your deceptive words.

I regret I ever wanted you to bloom for me.

[moondadpoems]

in my dreams

I lie in the poppy fields

of the love

we never had:

the glimpse I saw

of your heart so

vibrant, promising;

my head on your chest;

your lips grazing

my forehead.

let me grow wild;

let me sink into

the scarlet impossibility

of you, your rapturous

sleep, for I still

see you in every sky

and I still remember

your kiss I never felt;

I still remember

when it felt like 

we were something.

[moondadpoems]

on my walk

today, my neighbor

Seth offered

me some weed

grown in Black Mountain

by his good buddy.

we’d never

met before, but I 

appreciate

Mary Jane 

as a gift that can unite

strangers on a hill.

I said no;

weed makes me dizzy,

but now I

most fondly

remember a contact high

one night this winter:

low lighting,

plenty of wine and

my favorite

faces, watched

smiling from my perch on the

chair in the corner.

[moondadpoems]

seasons change and

the wheel spins again,

but your heart didn’t thaw

for me at winter’s end.

despite my tears, I 

step forth, towards

fireflies and honeysuckle,

while you remain paralyzed

by that which haunts you;

what kept you from me.

I’d still choose you

if the wheel turned back

even if you could never

give me spring.

[moondadpoems]

this is a poem about

what springtime feels like.

picture it perfectly:

the sky? cloudless, periwinkle. 

the lake? a placid mirror. 

the trees? the coy green of new leaves.

the vibe? the exquisite longing

for balmy evenings on

cocktail bar patios that you’ll

never experience exactly again,

with the breeze carrying the

sound of bells, right out of 

some cliche wedding movie,

except if you listen closely,

the bells are ringing

Pink Pony Club. 

if you listen closely,

you’ll notice that the bells sound

just a tiny bit off; not quite

the wrong notes, but the

harmonies don’t click,

because their overtone series

is different from most

instruments we usually hear,

so although some ostensibly

chaotic bisexual organist

is playing the correct notes

on an oversized keyboard,

some barely perceptible

melancholy still resonates 

within us.

this is a poem about

the way I feel for you.