Tag Archives: moonlight

Flow of the Albino Does

a Spenserian sonnet by Thomas Davis

Albino does emerge from banks of snow
Into the moonlight of the winter night.
The sheen of silver from the ghostly glow
Of luminance stained from the full moon’s light
Spreads through the shadows where the snow’s soft white
Moves with the movement of the silent deer.

The maple trees begin to stir, a slight
Breath silent through a sky pristinely clear.
A huge tree cracks. A wave of startled fear
Jerks through the deer. A wind begins
To blow through barking trees, the atmosphere
Alive with movement as the moonlight spins
Light dancing through an empty field that flows
With running waves of ghostly silver does.

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In the Aftermath

by Thomas Davis

The woman wrapped the child against the cold
And walked into the forest where the glow
Of moonlight pooled a deeply shadowed gold
Beneath the trees on softly shining snow.

She gathered wood, the baby on her back,
And built a fire, its warmth a dancing light
Upon a great flat rock protruding black
Into the lake’s infinity of white.

Then, in the dark, sat, death-still, beside
The flames, the baby in her arms, the smear
Of stars above their heads a radiant tide
Of silence singing to the ebbing year.

At last, her voice a permutation slipped
Into the night, she started chanting words
Born deep in spirit as the blackened crypt
Of waters stirred beneath lake ice, and birds,

As black as mourning shrouds, began to fly,
The forest stirring like the waters, wind
A whisper as the baby voiced a tiny cry
And shadowy trees began to sway and bend.

The woman got up on her feet, her voice
As silver as the moon, and sang as deer
Began to bound onto the ice: “Rejoice,”
The woman sang, and as she sang the fear

Felt during hours of pain-filled, labored birth
Dissolved into the biting wind and light
That danced with deer upon the lake, the earth
And living integrated with the night.

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Moonlight’s Footings

by Alazanto

The moonlight:
bloody and scathed,
yet still intimate with a surreptitious fog,
crawls under the roots of November oaks.

The crows:
Forms shifting,
aspirations tuned to the leaves,
plot their conquest of riches untold.

I lean against an old light post:
Its tenuous figure leads my gaze toward a languid archway.

Dim shadows can’t stop whispering
as they congregate among misplaced bricks.

I want to talk to them,
but they scuttle away (in fear?),
spreading their wings atop higher estates.

As the streets, so tranquil, succumb to the fog,
the crows burst into chatter,
the oaks slip into laughter,
and the shadows, now mute, carry themselves into flight.

Anger pierces through the thick, grey and encroaching,
dragging along what mooning remains.

The archway awakens with unease.
My footings lost, I fall through its twilit bosom,
only to find you, my love,
at sea in a serene slumber.

That which haunts us shall set aside a bearing

of touch (to awaken),
so gentle of knowing,
that it may resound
in a moon

finally restored.

Note: There are a couple of versions of this poem. This version was on our home laptop. It is shorter than the other versions, and I like it the best. I believe Kevin put it on the laptop during one of his visits to New Mexico since I do not remember doing so.

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