The Third Full Moon in a Season of Four

The gathering storm eats

this true blue moon,


a dry wafer, soft hazy red


against the tin horizon.






It slips like a shining quarter


into a jukebox of cloud,


lingers gleaming in the dark coin slot


while the sad song plays.






We walk on bundled and


stiff like scarecrows into


the blustery November dusk.


We came to watch the full moon rise,






but what seems more pertinent now


is how this diaphanous disk


of sanguine floats pale


and quiet as milkweed seed






on the edge of the wind


and then is gone. There is


something rare yet relevant


in the way it disappears top first






into ambiguous lips of gray,


like the way you pull me


into your love from whatever


sorry spin my mind puts me in.

We tread our rambling path


calling owl and raven,


dizzy from the hordes


of squawking geese






hurtling above our heads.


The leaves crisp from their fall


crackle under our feet.


We have become deeply familiar






with how the rippled lake


smooths itself into evening,


how the shadowed land stretches and


yawns as the sleep of winter nears.






We wonder if the glowing gold eyes


of coyote will follow us into the dark.


There is something amazing,


something intimate and perhaps enduring






in how our footprints freeze in mud.


We have been this way a hundred times


through blistering summer heat and sudden


spring rains. Nothing ever remains,






yet this sunken moment


of our meandering, frosted in


the last blood of sunset,


glimmers as night closes in.

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.

Rerun

I watch myself


(someone has to)


an endless rerun


of a canceled sitcom.


(There is nothing better on.)


With each episode the laugh track builds,


until snickers echo guffaw.


I long for the theme music,


the predictable end, a chance to begin


again. I have seen it all before.


I want a commercial to tell me


what I need to be happy.






Everything I say is misunderstood,


as if I am talking in igpay atinlay.


If someone bothers to reply,


it’s like white noise, radio static,


the high buzz of the test pattern,


punctuated by screeching


brakes, the breaking of glass.


On my birthday, I go off


by myself, howl through


the empty night until


there is nothing left


but a mournful wail.






Yesterday was not like this,


it was quiet and made


of silly putty. The sun


was a lemony lollipop.


Cars jostled joyfully along


like bright balloons,


bouncing refugees


from the happy party,


and your face, pressed


warmly against mine,


picked up the colors


of my cartoon.

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.

The Moon

- autumnal musings on the Four Mile Canyon Fire, 2010

The moon is the moon


whether pale as pumpkin seed


or smoke red. The moon swells,


a plum, it ripens blushing


with sunset or dark as a bruise.






Why bemoan what changes, what spins


the stars into unending darkness? Only what passes


endures, what we hold will be lost.


Flames on wind shriek through trees,


ashes all we possess, and still we go on.


 
 

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.

I Came Here

in a ninth century
sports car formerly
owned by Ivar the Boneless.


It runs on ice water
and has a Viking horn
hood ornament.


I drove through words,
my tires hissing words
over hills of words.


The ribbon of asphalt
snapped me to you
like a whip.


I flew over mountains in a toy
airplane losing my hair
on the bald peaks,


it’s rubber band engine
whirring like cicadas after
a twelve year nap,


revved up and hungry,
a spinning dervish
dizzy for your love.


I climbed without fear
the hollow blue of loneliness
into inner space.


My mind sucked
into a vacuum, my eyes
smoldering like falling stars.


I put my breath
behind me
to move on.


I rode the Titanic through
iceberg after iceberg
each the size of a hundred


Manhattans to find you.
I stayed mostly underwater,
held my breath for centuries,


floated face down
cold as a splintered reed
in the icy heart


of a saxophone.
Now I open like fog
in the sunlight,


with your hand
warm on my shoulder
I turn to meet your lips.


Each day all is new.
The ancient sax
howls outside my sun


splashed window
thick and golden as honey,
brings me to hear again.

Copyright 2010 by M. D. Friedman.
Please visit www.mdfriedman.com to see more of M. D. Friedman’s work.