Thursday, July 28, 2016

Postcard From The Moon

Postcard From The Moon

We met in the dark
at the end of the world,
the last moonhunter and I.
In the melting evening's whisper-light
we raised our glasses high.

He'd come round the Horn
in a hot air balloon
he propelled with a treadmill of fish,
and when he stretched up for me fondly
I felt inclined to grant his wish.

I held his hand
when the fever rose,
I sang nonsense songs while he bled.
I poured out when he asked me to give him
a pool of moon for his bed;

but when I was a sliver
devoured by night,
he went to the sun for a shadow.

'So, this is the end of the hunt for the moon...'
 ~ my postcard pinned to his pillow.

 ~July 2016

posted for   real toads

some nonsense for Kerry's 

Top: Man Drinking With The Moon, vintage postcard, c.1910
Footer: Man On The Moon, via steampunk tendencies on pinterest


  1. So wonderful, the idea of the postcard pinned to its pillow.

  2. quite simply I love this! so much marvellous imagery and quirky elements - a "treadmill of fish"
    "a basket of moon for his bed"

  3. love the one you are with, twisted, as it may be...once the conquest is had, he's off to another for whatever the momentary need is. easy to fall prey to such fantastical adventure though - a hot air balloon, a treadmill of fish...and yet, all too soon consumed is the moon. nice use of language and voice in this joy.

  4. I so enjoyed this read, Hedge (and it needs to be read more than once to fully appreciate the wonderful rhymes and rhythms).
    You have found words for those somewhat strangely surreal picture postcards - imaginative, amusing and with a depth of feeling.
    i wouldn't call it non sense - the whole read heightens the senses. Thanks for playing along.

  5. "I sang nonsense songs while he bled."

    For some reason, this made me think of our Bernie. Then again, everything sad (and annoyed at the way things are) make me think of Bernie... and the granting of his wish. And ours.

  6. Joy,
    I enjoy the playful lilting imagery and rhythms in this. All of this sets up the serious (for me) contrast to what I see as the heart of the verse: "but when I was a sliver/devoured by night,/he went to the sun for a shadow." What an insightful, and artful, way to describe the easy path to loss. I enjoyed this a great deal.
    Steve K.

  7. You pulled me in. Thank you.

  8. This vintage postcard has all the elements of a well-known hurly-burly, we've heard it since our grandparents were hip -- Hot Damn Yang and Luna Lin, dancing at the Moonshine Inn, precisely and peculiar as the steampunk orchestra plays Louis Armstrong. The Moon's sad surrenders--all her light reflected in his need, joy, heat--waxes gloriously, but when nothing's left in the last quarter, he reflects himself as sun shadow. Men. The fable is so bitter and ironic hung over the hopeless clueless clashes of us mortals. This is woven so delightfully ("and when he stretched up for me fondly / I felt inclined to grant his wish."--perfect), and the end buttons it marvelously, as a note, a postcard, pinned to a pillow before gettin' down the road. Amen.

  9. Such a pretty poem really, in all the best senses of the word. (I don't mean to trivialize it, because it is more than pretty, but it is also pretty--the images are just lovely to follow through and picture and the sound is beautiful as is the general story.) It is funny here that the "inconstant" moon is so constant, and truly loyal to her hunter. (I can't help thinking a bit of The Giving Tree.) A great play on moon shadow, and so interesting that he can't see that in the darkness--see what he is looking for, I mean. Wonderful of course for the pics and great pics. k.

  10. This is as fanciful and as satisfying as a children's story. I particularly like the part about being inclined to grant his wish. And even though she is gobbled up by the night in the end, she still finds a way--or he does--to preserve her visage, her mad (because, the Moon) good will, her light.

  11. The postcard art you chose is pure delight ... as is your beautiful poem.


"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats