OH THAT INSISTENT CRESCENT MOON! ~ New Poem

Fantasy Art Winter Moon, Public Domain, publicdomainpictures.net

Lunacy

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

The poem was waiting when I awoke

curtains reflecting the night's depth,

a beckoning glow through many folds

of lunar transit shifting soundlessly

from one to the other window.

What if I cast back the drapes, letting

the moonlight shine on my skin

as it drinks its way across the stars;

elixir of imagination, natural magic

conveyed in airborne beams.

What if I moved beyond the confines

of this definition, and that certitude;

allowing myself to drift without limits,

absorbing the languid enchantment of

a clear winter sky at three in the morning.

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SOMETIMES Poetry Becomes Real . . .

I've been trying to get out of the habit of commenting on my work - somehow explaining it in advance.  The work should speak for itself, yes?  But I do want to say that this poem was inspired by a real devil of a week, and a real late afternoon nap where I dreamed like I had not in well over a week. In that magical dreamworld, two dear friends came to me . . . 

Dream Therapy

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Dragging the week behind,

doubt, fear, sorrow, and pain

thudding at each labored stair,

an accumulation of fighting

weighting every step, till I drop.

Subsiding into dreams, expecting

more monotone wanderings -

tears unexplained, unshed and

more steps, more labors till

somehow the fog would clear.

POEM: The Inverse Laws of Nature

Inverse Laws of Nature

by Judith Cullen

© 2019

Nature is composed, we are taught

of immutable laws, immovable realities.

Change, challenge, departure are things

we impose using the tools of mortality:

desire, hubris, and occasionally need.

Limited options of docile acceptance,

or wrestling the universe into submission.

In our haste to control destiny, we miss

the perverse nature of the natural, choosing

to interpret bluntly, without nuance.

FIRST POEM OF THE NEW YEAR: "Welcome to the Light"

Come to the Light

by Judith Cullen

©2019            

"Come to the light," they implored.

While I, blackened fog, lurked uncertain,

wrapped in blankets of complacencies,

familiarities, and chilling sufficiency leading

to the same inexorable cycling.

Reaching out from beneath the comforter

hands touch mine, "Come to the light,"

they repeat in chorus, "We miss you, join us."

They cannot pull me bodily from my gloom,

the impulse must be my own.