Lover's Moon

Lover’s Moon

 

A paper star falling in garden'd night

blown free as detritus, broke-petal'd loon

ground into spring's carpet, too small for sight

I'm coaxed by a merciful crescent moon.

Some say she’s a woman, lying and fair

an inconstant firefly gone too soon

roulette wheel of faces under her hair

while mercy shines down from my lady moon.

Some say he’s a man, full of wink and grin

his face made from craters bleary, jejune

one side too bright and the other too dim

while mercy shines from the man in the moon.

And what do I say, the empty wrapper

the grey punctured leaf, the rosethorn buffoon?

I say each one sees the face he’s after

while mercy shines down from the crescent moon.

 April 2012


Posted for   real toads

Kerry's Sunday Challenge: the Kyrielle
(or alternately a musical, bookshelf art inspired write;see link)
Kerry defines the form: 

"The name kyrielle derives from the Kýrie, which is part of many Christian liturgies. It is a French rhyming form that originated in troubadour poetry and is written in quatrains, in which each quatrain contains a repeating line as a refrain (usually appearing as the last line of each stanza). Originally, the phrase "Lord, have mercy", or a variant on it, was used as a refrain." 

You can read more at the link above. I've used the abaB, cbcB etc rhyme scheme, and altered the syllable count to ten, because I missed the part that said it was eight. *blush*


And as always, for fun, and for those who prefer free verse, here is the unpacked, chaotic original from which I drew the form version:

Lover's Moon

Sitting in the night garden

just another wind blown

bit of detritus, petal, old leaf

shredded paper rapper

ground into spring’s carpet,

I’m coaxed by the crescent moon.

Some say she’s a woman

because she changes herself

day by day, making an endless

circle of faces, the full heavy orb

of ivory breast, the curve of hunter’s bow,

the veiled and disappeared mystery,

ever fading, returning,

inconstant and a lie.

Or some say the moon is a man

full of wink and grin

one side always bright, absorbing

the energy of something bigger

the other always cold, turned away.

What do I say, 

bit of trodden compost 

blown in the night wind? 

I say

the moon is a rock mirror

distant surface reflecting,

watching 
over every lover

who’s lost.

March 2012

Image:  Thorns, © joy ann jones 2012