Tag: moon

moon in sky reflected in river
Photo by Brice Cooper on Unsplash

To Clare, Whose Name Means Light

1 October 2026 /

Poetry by Ed Ruzicka

I

I see moon’s fingerprint in rills
that spread across black water,
to nudge and lift up lily pads.

I know, I know, that you are brave
and like the rest of our family
never one to hug. Nevertheless
I must do something. Anything. Maybe

place two fingertips to my third eye
because I am old and have become
afraid of seeing into the future.
Hold my fingers there so I become calm again
and close to you as moonlight on dark water.

II

When we were wee, sister
whose name means light,
mom would instruct you
to sit down upon our couch.
Then she’d place me, swaddled, in your arms.
You cooed to me, softly sang
fragments of nursery rhymes
and ditties that you’d learned at school.

Tonight I want to give back.
Not that you need it. You are stronger,
so much stronger, than I ever was.
Yet I would like to lift you.
Hold you, sister formed of light,
the way black waters hold the moon.

Ed Ruzicka’s fifth full-length book of poetry, The Invention of Dreaming, published in early 2026. Ed’s poems have appeared in the Atlanta Review, Rattle, Canary, and many others, and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is president of the Poetry Society of Louisiana.

Photo by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen on Unsplash

Trajectory

13 June 2026 /

Poetry by Matt Zambito

The Moon grounds me so much
that the pressure leaves me
as if a pile of stable dust, while

the gravity of our planet is so weak
that I might float off and away
if I’m not careful. If I am careful,
I try to stare through the sand of

my glasses to see the particles
parting as if they weren’t as
they are but how they should be

if not for heat melting and space-
time’s curve pulling. To be safe
(or at least to be on its side), I’ve
got weighted boots on to tromp

over gray dirt hidden on Earth’s
surface, the force of being lessoned,
its meaning more than any orbit.

Matt Zambito is the author of The Fantastic Congress of Oddities, and two chapbooks, Guy Talk and Checks & Balances. New poems appear in Freshwater Literary Journal, Braided Way, and Pioneertown. Originally from Niagara Falls, he now writes from Wilson, New York, where he resides with his rescue dog, Sadie.

Photo by Arnold Mécses on Unsplash

Sometimes the moon

22 August 2024 /

Poetry by Jan Mordenski

cannot help himself.
Sometimes, with the next day
spread out before him like an azure flag,
and the golden glances of his brother—
the radiant rival on whom he so depends—
blazing across a bright tomorrow,
he cannot merely fade on cue
into his designated background
without comment, without query,
without—momentarily—
facing the morning throng
with a pale yet perceptible smile.

No, sometimes, with all the timidity,
all the temerity of a second son,
he feels he must, if only briefly,
hold his unsolid ground in that unfolding sky,
just to remind us how precious, how frail,
how necessary, is the belief in things unseen,
in persons unnoticed, in sentiments so deep,
so true yet unvoiced in those unabated moments
that are there, and then gone,
and then—hopefully—remembered
like the sighting of a summer’s moon
lingering in the morning sky.

Jan Mordenski, a trained folklorist and writing teacher, is from Detroit. Her poems have regularly appeared in print in Canada, Ireland, England, Australia, and the United States. Her poem “Crochet” was selected for the American Life in Poetry series. More of her poetry appears on Ravens Perch, and Quadra/Project.

Photo by Jack Taylor on Unsplash

Hiding from the Moon

26 January 2023 /

Poetry by Ben Westlie

On your porch in our stupor
I kept turning to leave
your voice clung to me
holding me like my shadow.

I don’t know if I trembled
from the bitter temperatures
or how your heart kept speaking out
of turn. The green glowing in your irises

like small cauldrons. The yearning bones of your face.

I should’ve hidden from the moon
so there could be no shadows to latch onto.

I should have blamed my drunken blood.
I prayed for deafness upon my heart.

I should have sprinted down your porch stairs
until I reached another state.

My kind of love wasn’t in any of your mirrors.

Your face is what I see when snow becomes
stars from moonlight. When I hear the creak of old
wood on porches. When I see unruly auburn hair.

I turned around to the begging
of your face. A friend is all you wanted.

The moonlight made me beastly.
A feral creature raging and starving.

Ben Westlie holds an MFA in Poetry from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Publications: Time You Let Me In: 25 Poets Under 25 edited by Naomi Shihab Nye, The Fourth River, Third Coast, Atlas and Alice, the tiny journal, Trampset, ArLiJo, Otis Nebula, WhimsicalPoet, DASH, MUSE, Speckled Trout Review, and Superpresent.

red and yellow abstract painting
Photo by Merlin Lightpainting on Pexels.com

Sweet Moon

2 November 2022 /

Poetry by Ursula McCabe

This morning I sliced into a cantaloupe
with ripe musky aromas.
Orange flesh unfolds as I split
the pock marked rind.
Opening up this soft melon
releases an aria of river floating times.

Years ago I rafted down the Salmon River,
an Idaho primitive wilderness area.
We returned home in a panel van
with too many people and a leftover cantaloupe
that had gone uneaten.

Six of us had drifted down the old river
through canyons with 100 foot basalt walls.
Rainbow trout practically
jumped in the boat, pink membrane mouths
puckering up as we slipped barbless hooks
out with our slippery fingers.

After churning rapids tumbled rafts
we warmed ourselves around campfires.
Flickering orange sparks skipped up to the stars,
where a fat round moon looked down.
That moon was as sweet and soft
as the cantaloupe I’m eating right now.

Ursula McCabe lives in Portland Oregon. Poems can be found in Oregon Poetry Association’s Verseweavers Anthology, Piker Press, The Avocet and Academy of the Heart and Mind.

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