Against the Moon as Such, a haiku sonnet

The moon is not full 
of dreamy light.  The moon is 
full of….well,…the moon.

One could say the moon 
is full of rock, I guess.  Yes, 
lots and lots of rock.

And the moon is not 
a hole punched in anything,
either.  It shines like

….well, it shines like the 
moon, I guess.  It shines like a 
ball of rock.  Up there.

In the sky. Where it winks its
cold eyes at the sun.

Skywires – 1


Some see an interruption, a disruption,

our marks upon the landscape.

Really so different from a termite’s mound
or a bee’s hive or bird’s nest?


Part of an ongoing series that I have not worked on in a while and lately have felt that I need to get back to.

Time for a power-line hunt.



Our lives are six kinds of dust.
There is too much that must

be done before a thousand 
something elses can and

will be done and we'll be 
done when we are dead.  We

won't be done until we're
old and then?  The sheer

weight of it all will fall
from us like lights from small

cities of the mind gone
the way of the false dawn,

drawn from the bones of our
nights, from the final hour

of this short day’s lost seam,
this longest of night’s dream.

Moon Bones


There is a fall in
to dark, felt in the bone, a 
loss of heat, a slow 

tilting away and 
cyclical spin into space,
a shy, unnoticed 

turning of blue and 
green to grey.  They say that the 
light goes out of it 

as if the light leaves 
of its own accord, a wan 
A-chord in the wood.

There is a word in the dark
where no moon is heard...


There I read of the spoon-fed dead, how their 
zen amounted to zed, surmounted by 
spires built to go higher until their fires 

flew in the sky and spied and tried twisting 
their wrists in the bonds they had become so 
fond of, that they loved even though reviled 

and shoved away and held sway over the 
fray and stayed none the less where their sun-born 
lies could not see through the tresses but blessed 

the butcher and the barber none the more let 
them near with their knives and their shears while tears 
came and the rending of garments began

the beating of chests and the mustering 
bluster and pounding of hearts into dust


...and you looked at me 
with your moon-bone eyes and I 
saw to the hearts of 

the stars felt solar 
wind in the spars and lines of 
age on my primal 

face knew the breeze with 
the skein of seven seas knees 
climbing millennia 

to the crow’s nest and
finally resting raced to 
the crest of the day

and rubbed galaxies 
from the corners of my eyes. 

Two haiku sonnets and a...pseudo-sonnet?