Moments of Time in Rhyme

Moments of Time in Rhyme I am a retired therapist exploring my life in verse. My nomme de plume is
C.M. Reeves.

# 84 An On the Air original...Sull'ariaGrounded leaves take to flight, in small billows,As it moves,stealthilyalongthe...
05/01/2026

# 84 An On the Air original...

Sull'aria

Grounded leaves
take to flight,
in small billows,
As it moves,
stealthily
along
the garden path.
Curtains greet it
in wave like ripples,
In its silent entry
through
an open window.
A slight whisper,
like fingertips
brushing
against skin,
glides secretly
past,
Followed,
by,
the sudden
surprise,
of
a soft,
tinkling
response,
From the
patio's
windchimes.

Then,
swirling
and
spiraling,
with unseen
mischief,
It arrives,
into the
afternoon,
and
Unexpectedly,
skirts start
lifting
and,
then,
are
franticly
clinging
to legs.
Hats
fly
off
heads
and
float
away,
and
Hair
moves
uncontrollably,
covering
the
occasional
odd
face...

While,
all around,
leaves
dance,
in the trees,
To a hidden
music,
like laughter,
Set,
in a three
quarter
time
piece.

Then,
in the blink
of an eye,
It is slowly creeping
among the garden flowers,
Making them
quiver,
in small bursts
of
color.
Then,
in an instant,
All action
stops
and
just
disappears,
As if,
its fickle
presence
had
never,
really,
been there.

Now,
leaves stay
flattened,
without motion,
on the ground.
The curtains
are
still,
though
The window remains open,
and
Skins feel warm and sticky,
in this
stubborn absence of movement.
Both the trees
and the
windchimes
Have forgotten their music.

In the streets,
sweat drips
off
hatless
brows,
Clothes
cling
to damp
bodies,
Hair is
so wet,
there's no
traveling
unbound.
Everything
is at a
stand still,
within
this
withdrawal,
even
sound.

No birds sing.
No crickets chirp.
No one is really speaking,
Throats
are
dry,
and
Lungs
feel
empty,
and
Breathing
is
suffocating.

When,
gently,
without
commotion,
A field of
sunflowers
begins,
slowly
and
languidly
waltzing,
As small
notes,
individually,
start to form
a melody,
That whirls
arround,
expanding,
into the
evening,
Cooling bodies,
Soothing breathing
and
Returning a soft music,
in common time,
to
the
trees
and windchimes.

And,
then...
Wham!
It is
twisting,
into a funnel,
of
explosive,
repressed,
motion,
Roaring
like a
freight train,
down a track,
To the sound
of rolling thunder,
It gobbles up
everything,
in its path,
with an
uncontrolled
and
angry
hunger.

Raging
through
trees,
ripping off
leaves,
That scatter,
wildly,
In all directions,
Branches
crack,
As a
tree
uproots
and
is swallowed
up,
into the black,
swirling
tunnel.

On the streets,
lamposts
are yanked,
from the ground.
Glass is shattering,
on every corner,
like cymbals crashing,
Objects
zig zag
through
the sky,
striking
buildings
and
each
other,
Like bullets
exploding.

Arms
push against
the immovable
force,
Heads
bowed,
jackets
and
hair
flying,
knees,
on the verge,
of buckling,
While,
desperately
seeking shelter,
from this murderous,
whirling
monster,
and
its
deafening
cacophony.

Sunflowers ripped from the ground.
House walls come crashing down.
Window glass is breaking,
Curtains are tearing.
Everything,
is being smashed
to pieces,
on the inside,
and,
In its final,
uncontained,
act
of destruction,
Crushes
and
tramples
the
windchimes...

Then,
in the end,
when
the moving
horror
has passed
through,
and
Repair
begins
to be
found,
There
comes
a small,
quiet
coda
of
birdsong,
and
A tiny
swirl
of dust
can be
seen
rising,
from the ground...

And,
then,
as it happens,
I find
myself
awakening,
from
witnessing,
These ever changing
attitudes...
Seductive,
Mischievous,
and
Playful,
Stubborn withdrawal,
Absence,
and
Destructively,
repressed
anger.

But
while I am contemplating
the effects,
Of all the
shape shifting,
on my insides,
Suddenly,
he arrives,
amidst a swirling
spiral,
Like a musical zephyr,
made of air and wind,
and
I know,
immediately,
as see him,
like the breeze passing by,
in that instant,
I never could,
I never would,
I never can,
Hold onto him.

# 83 A schedule driven original...Behind The DialShe looks out between the ever wheeling machinery andThe clock hands...
04/29/2026

# 83 A schedule driven original...

Behind The Dial

She looks out between
the ever
wheeling machinery
and
The clock
hands
that continue moving,
With their constant
ticking,
like a movie soundtrack
to her life,
Even when she's sleeping.

She has been
here,
for awhile,
Although,
how long
is uncertain.
She was placed
in this prison
of
pieces,
continuously,
grinding
together
by
How this world works
and
How others'
see her,
and
That
has decided,
where
she should be positioned,
in relation,
To everything
else
out there.

So,
this
is
why
she finds
herself,
Behind this
glass curtain,
to wait
until,
Time allows
for her questions,
Space opens,
for her presence,
or
Usefulness has made her pertinent.

She is,
always,
so lonely,
With only schedules
and
turning
wheels
To keep her company,
that
She often
feels like
simply
a cog,
in the
on going
machinery.

And
all she can see
from her,
small,
circular
window,
Always,
somewhat,
obscured
by
endless
obligations,
inside
time's
ever ticking
clocks,
Is a collection
of long lines
going everywhere,
That,
even
free,
she would be
at the end of,
and,
thus,
going
nowhere.

In truth,
she has been
here,
so long,
She has
forgotten
what
love,
companionship,
inclusion,
Must
be like,
outside,
What it might
feel like
to belong.

For,
it
often
seems
It is friendship's
definition
That has
trapped
her in this place,
Where the world outside,
rarely,
ever
sees her face...

Yet
beyond
the
Endlessly,
ticking
clocks,
The noisy
wheels,
rusting
from her
often
shed
tears,
the
Calenders,
Appointment
delays,
Red tape,
Social engagements,
and
Life's,
always busy,
trials,
Not to mention
the
"You will have
to wait,
again,"
non committal
smile...

There
exists a
singular,
solitary
girl,
Lost
in the land
of
time's
trap,
For what
seems
like miles,
Who
if you
look
closely,
you will
see her,
Alone
and,
still,
Breathing,
in hope,
Behind
the dial.

#82 A potential poetry contest prompt original...Counting The SecondsHe heard them whispering Sweet nothings,in each o...
04/29/2026

#82 A potential poetry contest prompt original...

Counting The Seconds

He heard them whispering
Sweet nothings,
in each other's
ear,
and
Moved down further,
on the seaside bench,
So
he could pretend not to hear,
yet,
He,
still heard
their breathing,
Between their kisses,
soft,
but,
clear,
and
Found himself counting the seconds
Till he could
quietly
disappear.

He turned his head
to the side,
as if,
He were watching
the beach crowd walking by.
The day had started,
as a reunion,
For a group of old friends,
That,
for
him,
Carried a surprise,
he could not,
possibly
Have
expected
to happen.


He remembered
as he sat there,
trying
not to listen,
How her body felt in his arms,
The taste of her lips,
How her body curved
so
perfectly
to fit his own form,
How his hand felt,
in her hair,
and,
Around his fingers curled,
Because,
for
a few,
uncounted
seconds,
back when,
She was his girl.

He felt,
in someway,
happy for them both,
When
he first
saw them,
on the beach,
and
They ended up on this bench
to discover what,
in their lives,
Had transpired
in the years between.

But,
now,
sitting here,
he recalls,
the second,
he saw her,
walking
toward
him,
through the sand,
With a warm
smile
of greeting,
That he,
suddenly,
felt
set on fire,
by,
Every
single
one
of
his feelings.

His memory returned
instantly,
to their very first meeting,
and,
Then,
he began
to remember
everything
That ever,
between them,
had happened...
the joy
the laughter,
and
the intensity
of the passion,
and,
Also,
the sorrow,
the pain
that he
caused,
without amends,
When
he was
counting the seconds,
Until leaving her,
because,
He could not commit.

His old friend,
then approached him,
on the beach,
and
shook his hand,
in earnest,
Put his arm around the girl,
and
Things became clear,
in that instant.

And,
that,
is how,
later,
They ended up here,
on this bench,
Where
memory
and
regret,
Have now met
and
become,
unbearably,
clear.
He felt
like he was
falling,
With
no visible
safety net,
anywhere
near.

For,
now,
he sits,
in a mix of feelings,
Remembering
moments,
of a love,
He had truly felt,
inside.
Thus,
as tears well up,
unwillingly,
in his eyes,
He can hear,
again,
at the other
end of the
bench,
Their soft breathing
and
sighs,
As he
continues
staring,
blindly,
at those,
unknowing,
passers by.

In this
moment,
he,
now
finds himself
Wishing,
he had not
given up,
on their
connection,
so
early.
He had
really
loved her,
but,
felt trapped,
back
then,
counting the seconds,
Before,
he could go,
in a hurry,
leaving
behind,
only
vague
reasons
and
shattered
feelings.

Yes...
That was
the decision
That has led him
to
this
point of realization,
in his,
current
lonely life,
Where
he,
now,
sits,
his face
set
tensely,
While
sadly
and
awkwardly
waiting...

Because,
now,
he is just
counting the seconds,
Until the moment
becomes right,
and,
He can,
this time,
with
conscious
regret,
say goodbye.

# 81 A never quite alone original...My Constant CompanionEvery morning,as I awaken,In the twilight of dawn,I sense the...
04/27/2026

# 81 A never quite alone original...

My Constant Companion

Every morning,
as I awaken,
In the twilight of dawn,
I sense the chill in the air,
While I stretch
a bit
and
yawn.

I check my phone.
No messages are there.
My body
slightly slumps,
In a brief consult
with despair,
When,
in a moment,
that
comes,
filled,
with no surprise,
I feel
a familiar hand
touch
My shoulder,
in,
this,
His
comforting guise.

His hand is soft
and warm,
yet
Cold as ice,
at the same time.
He has come to
spend the day with me,
To be by my side,
in order,
to insure,
I won't feel lonely,
on the inside.

He walks with me through the
Spring Saturday,
outside,
Experiencing,
with me,
the bright,
green leaves,
and
colorful flowers
That,
somehow,
make me want to cry.
We do shopping,
together,
In an empty feeling trance,
and
We sit and drink our afternoon tea,
while
He gives me
a chilly
but
reassuring
glance.

Then,
There is the stroll back home,
through the darkening streets.
He walks beside me,
step by step,
Stopping,
occasionally,
to lean against
a lamp post,
With bodiless arms,
crossed,
and,
With only a mouth,
in the dark,
smiling,
at me,
Both
lovingly
and
menacingly.

Always there.
Always present.
Always,
seemingly,
supportive,
and
Also,
very often
cruel.
still,
Always,
beside me,
He anticipates
my every move.

He flies
beside me,
in meditation,
Through the cosmos,
giving counsel as we go,
That is
sometimes,
enlightening
and
soothing,
and
sometimes,
Utterly,
and
sImply
confusing.

In my conversation with another person,
He is the sustained absence,
in the presence,
Of my clearly stated need,
and
He is
also,
the one,
who holds my hand,
In a fond,
but,
sterile,
grip,
as I grieve.

He can guide my pen
as I create my poetry,
To lands full of wonder,
that
make
my heart
sing,
or
Stand still,
with nothing to offer,
While
I write,
with tears,
about
its
breaking.

He is a most peculiar friend,
Sometimes,
this,
sometimes,
that,
but
He assumes
His most frightening pose,
Upon
the night's approach.

In the dark,
He is invisible,
Lost,
in blackness,
not to be found,
Leaving,
only,
questions,
without answers,
Which,
like echoes,
resound,
where
only
Terrifying uncertainty
abounds.

And,
I find myself
veiling my head for protection,
while,
Trying to hold my tongue,
in
His
currently
fearful,
unseen
presence...

When all I want to do,
is,
let go,
my silent scream,
and
Shout,
freely,
"Why
have you
forsaken
me?"
to the heavens,
and
"Why
must
Silence
be
My Constant Companion?"

# 80 A, yet again, poetry prompt original...In The Moment The World Stopped MovingIn the moment the world stopped movi...
04/26/2026

# 80 A, yet again, poetry prompt original...

In The Moment The World Stopped Moving

In the moment the world stopped moving,
She had just woken from sleep,
and
A dream that was soothing.
She put her feet
in her slippers
and
Went to the kitchen,
To make coffee,
Eat breakfast,
and
Prepare for the day's direction.

She turned on the faucet to put water in the coffee pot.
Nothing came out.
No water flowed,
And,
gradually,
She began to discover,
As she turned on all the appliances,
One at a time,
in a row,
Nothing was working,
Not the microwave,
Not the toaster,
Not the stove.

There was no electricity,
No phone
service,
No TV.
No internet.
And,
When she looked out the window,
thinking there must be a
power outage.
Nothing was stirring.
No cars on the street.
No wind in the trees...

Then,
she noticed the man,
her neighbor,
Who appeared to be walking his dog,
But,
on closer viewing,
He was not really moving.
He looked like he was frozen
in mid step,
Both he and the dog,
Captured in time,
like a photograph.

At this point,
she began to feel,
in her body,
Some genuine distress.
Her heart was beating out of rhythm.
Her breathing was fast.
Her stomach was
clenched,
in a twisted knot,
Her mind was racing...
What is going on?
What's this all about?
She reached for her cell,
but,
in frustration,
remembered,
It's not working.
She slumped into a kitchen chair,
and,
Started crying.
Never had she felt such a chill in the air,
Seeping into her bones.
Never before had she felt so alone.

Then,
With all her will power,
She took a deep breath,
Stood up,
and
walked,
with renewed purpose,
To her bedroom to get dressed.
She put on
jeans and a sweater,
and stepping into her Nikes,
grabbed
a light jacket.
It was early Spring
and
still cold in the morning.
She wasn't sure where she was going,
but she did know this,
She had to find out what was happening,
In the world,
outside her immediate view of it.

She picked up her keys,
out of habit,
Knowing her car
will probably
be useless,
just the same
As everything,
else is.
But,
she went to the garage and tried,
anyway,
Then chose to take her bicycle,
which,
Fortunately,
did cooperate.

So,
Off she went,
out the side garage door.
Her first stop would be her neighbor,
Phil,
and his dog,
Thor.

She walked her bike up beside them,
and
Greeted them friendly and polite,
Called them by name,
watching for any sign of life.
Yet,
there was no response.
They were flesh that stood like stone.
She shouted loudly in Phil's ear,
and,
Furiously petted Thor.
Nothing changed

And,
once again,
She felt that chill in her bones,
and
Her blood run cold in her veins,
Still,
she took a breath
and
discovered
more courage,
Not sure how it was ever found,
As she
decided,
to travel further into town.

It was a small burrow,
the main thoroughfare
only
a few
miles.
And,
as she rode along,
she noticed
There was no air moving,
no breeze,
and
Cars were stranded in the middle of the street,
With people behind their wheels,
Completely
still,
as if
asleep.

And,
When she reached
Main Street,
out of breath
and
thirsty,
She headed for the coffee shop,
Where the scene
was horrifyingly
consistent.
People ordering coffee,
stopped,
in mid stream.
People caught,
in the middle of conversations,
Mouths agape,
in mid explanation.

She stole
a few bottles of water,
After all,
who was going to mind?
She walked out on the street
To the sight of people,
once walking,
To their morning destinations,
now frozen in time.
She tried talking to some,
but
none seemed to hear her,
Arousing a familiar feeling inside.
So,
She headed
toward
the family home
To see
what
there,
might be,
equally,
aligned.

On her way,
she passed by some friends on the street,
Lucy and Kate,
and,
again,
She tried to communicate,
but
They were like gossiping stone people,
Stuck forever in place,
and,
She rode on, amused,
by
the scene's accuracy.
It was almost absurd,
but
It only increased her gut's dread,
Over not being heard.

When she arrived at the homestead,
and
Walked
through
the door,
She found her parents,
at the kitchen table,
Caught in the middle of eating breakfast.
Her dad was reading the paper,
Her mom was on the phone.
She tried to get their attention,
but
no one budged.

She removed the phone from her mother's hand,
and
Spoke directly,
in her ear.
There was no response,
and
That
felt
absolutely,
all too familiar.
So,
She returned the phone to her mother's hand,
and
Walked back out the front door,
the same way she came in

Now,
She moved toward her place of work,
and,
Straight
in
her
boss's
office
appeared.
He was dictating
a letter
To his computer assistant,
and
Was,
in this case, stopped in mid sentence.
She decided,
just for fun
To repeat a previous conversation,
where she asked for a promotion,
and
He responded,
pretty much,
exactly like this.
Frozen or not,
he never hears her,
Not a bit.

And,
Thus,
She goes,
to confront,
her last attempt,
at conversation.
She will go to her lover,
her last hope for consolation.
She finds him sitting on the end of his bed,
In the midst of,
putting on a shirt,
With one arm outstretched to fit it in the sleeve,
The other holding onto the garment,
Over the back of his shoulder.
"Nick!" she cried as she rushed toward him.
He did not look up, or,
in anyway,
answer.
She sat next to him trying to nestle,
inside his outstretched arm.
He did not move or flinch,
but
She began talking to him,
as if,
he did.

She said
she loved him,
despite his recent distance,
and
They could
work through anything,
With a little
consistency
and
presence.
But,
When she looked up at his face,
That was
unable to move
in that instant,
She realized his expression
was the same,
As the last time she had said this,
long before this time standing still moment.

She stood up,
and
backed away,
Wiping tears from her eyes,
so swift,
As if doing so would make that vision leave,
Make it no longer exist.
But,
as she jumped on her bike,
All she could hear in her head was,
He doesn't hear me.
He never heard me.
No one ever really has.

Then,
she felt
that chill,
once again,
in her bones.
This time
it was telling her
it would soon be getting dark.
She had seen enough for now,
and
She should return home.

And,
As she peddled up
to her front door,
She realized she would need some candles
To light the dark
and
a fire
To keep warm.
So,
she brought some stored firewood inside,
and
Put it in the fireplace.
She found an old book of matches,
in a
drawer,
That actually worked,
to her amazement.
Then she lit some candles from the fire,
and
Collapsed,
into the armchair.
She was so emotionally drained
and
Very,
very
tired.

And,
There,
surrounded
by
warmth,
After
her day,
of cold shoulders,
She drifted off,
into what seemed like sleep.
It was strange
and
fitful,
much more like a dream.
She found herself walking down a misty hall
Lined with mirrors,
showing scenes from her life,
Revealing her greatest fear,
a core one made manifest,
Throughout,
this
unusual
day,
So q***r...
"Nobody hears me!"
is reverberating, now,
In her ears.

Then,
suddenly,
everything, becomes
very still
around her.
And,
small,
quiet,
words,
Coming
at her,
from
all sides,
Are whispering,
so clear...
That she is right.
Nobody heard her,
and,
that was always the question
and
the answer.
She had interpreted others meaning,
In the correct manner,
but,
She had forgotten that their assessment of her,
Is not what matters.
That it is only her own voice that she need really listen to.
That thing in her gut that knows exactly how to lead her through.
What others think is mostly unimportant.
It is, merely,
Their own
point of view...

Then she smiled,
in that
in between sleep,
Because
she,
actually,
understood
What the whispers
were echoing,
and
Could,
feel her
spirit,
begin to
accept
herself,
After years
of not believing,
And,
she felt
a light
move
straight
through her,
and
Into her chilled bones,
giving
a renewed strength,
Much like a fever.

When out of the corner of her eye,
She saw a candle spark a curtain,
and
It blazed up the window till it caught the other side.
It did not take long before
the whole room was ablaze,
yet
She rose from her chair,
utterly,
unphased.
She moved through the room,
Untouched by the fire,
and,
By the time,
she reached the front door,
She felt the fire,
in her belly.
She was totally inspired.

And,
As she stepped onto the front porch,
She lifted her eyes to see,
Firefighters,
not frozen,
with,
their hoses,
Shouting orders,
at each other,
to get a move on,
and
Hurry...
And,
a crowd of
onlookers,
no longer
standing stone
still,
Were straining
to see
the flames,
That were
now
shooting
sparks,
everywhere,
With abandon,
at will.

Then,
The crowd gasped,
as they saw her,
Standing there unscorched.
Firemen rushed to assist her,
but
she brushed them off.
She was in no need of help.

Then,
She took a deep breath,
like one reborn,
and
Walked forward,
through
the
stunned crowd,
Into the night,
that,
with fire
was,
now,
warm.

For,
She has,
in this time,
most, certainly, become
The child
of
that moment
The world stopped moving...
She has
walked through
the cold,
like storm.
Her soul has been
set on
fire,
newly born,
and,
She has,
now,
been,
irrevocably,
transformed.

# 79 A for Jean, on her birthday, original... TodayToday, I grieve with my dear friend, who has been touched by death,...
04/24/2026

# 79 A for Jean, on her birthday, original...

Today

Today,
I grieve with my dear friend,
who has been touched by death,
Embodied by a loved one's end.
It made me feel a chill,
in my body,
Because they were so close,
and
it reminded me,
within
a deeply felt,
unresolved,
tension,
That
no matter,
how much time
you spend
with those you love,
No matter how attentive,
you never know,
When they will be taken.

And,
As
the end of things,
continues
to edge nearer to me,
I only want to bring those,
I love
closer
to me.
So,
for, as often,
as time will give,
somehow,
I can be with them,
in person,
by text,
a phone call,
Or
If necessary,
in the ethers,
If that is all
they will
allow.

Today,
hit my soul hard,
Like a hammer
to my gut,
that,
after impact,
Keeps ringing,
reverberating,
"Wake up!"
Even,
though,
I had thought,
I had already grasped
this message well enough.

But,
now,
It lives inside my body,
with an urgency,
That shakes me,
Screaming,
"Don't delay.
Do not procrastinate.
The angel of death approaches you,
approaches them,
It is everyone's fate."

Thus,
Time becomes
the enemy,
which,
with effort,
In the ensuing battle,
must be turned
to a friend,
Who embraces
your intention,
To dissolve
boundaries,
with love,
Until the end,
and,
in the after,
Will still have presence
for grief,
and
The spirit that will begin again.

So,
Act now.
You never know
when death
will come for you
or
someone you love,
and
Time cannot stop it.
There is no shield.
There is no defense
that can move around it.

Yet,
You can make use
of this,
right now,
moment.
Hug them
Kiss them.
Talk to them,
and,
let them do the same
For you.

Don't let yourself be just
" a poor player,
who struts and frets,
his hour upon the stage, "
Show up,
in love,
and make
Shakespeare write
a different play...
Today.

# 78 A love will survive original...The Only Real ResponseWhen you discover you will love them No matter what they do,...
04/22/2026

# 78 A love will survive original...

The Only Real Response

When you discover
you will love them
No matter what they do,
for
You love their soul,
and
its hidden gifts,
The thing,
they don't
even,
allow
themselves
To see,
in its full depth,
Yet,
you do.

But,
Here is where
the real question,
the test,
Enters the room...
Can you keep loving,
when
their very human self,
Appears
to be
forgetting you?

Yes.
For,
loving their soul
never ends.
That will never change,
no matter
what happens.
Because,
the bottom line is,
Love does not abandon.

Their soul is the truth
of who they are,
and
What binds you to them.
You would never
leave their soul,
or
The human that
contains it.
You love them both,
no matter what,
Always
and
regardless.

But,
How they interact with you,
within their human persona,
Can,
often,
sometimes
Tear you apart,
and
may need you to adjust
How you show up,
How you live inside it,
for,
Some behavior wounds,
no matter
It's intended result.

Thus,
you change love's position,
so
You can survive
behavior's
unacknowledged impact,
and
Continue loving,
even while,
your heart,
Sometimes,
feels like it's breaking.

Then,
though it may hurt,
you must choose
to
Step back,
without leaving,
to
a place
Where
your soul,
and their's
Can breathe,
more
truthfully.

Because,
To love,
in and of itself,
without conditions,
Is the ultimate goal.
But,
We are human.
It's a process,
and
love is very often hard.

Yet
It always moves toward connection,
for
Love,
in its essence,
desires to stay,
and
Will always,
even faced,
with a
seemingly
hopeless,
asymmetry,
Seek for a pathway,
toward preserving unity,
without,
You losing
yourself
or
Your integrity.

# 77 A moon revealed original...When The Moon Hits Your Eye"The moon is beautiful, isn't it?"My friend asked,as we str...
04/21/2026

# 77 A moon revealed original...

When The Moon Hits Your Eye

"The moon is beautiful, isn't it?"
My friend asked,
as we strolled through the lamplit, city streets,
On a crisp, clear spring night.
"It is, indeed."
I replied,
as I looked up at the sky.
For there,
the moon hung,
suspended,
nearly full,
A bright silver disc,
close to perfectly round.

But,
if you gazed long enough,
It appeared,
in contradiction,
To be absolutely still,
from the ground,
While
in the air, it was swirled in a misty cloud
That seemed
to be moondust,
breathing,
In and out,
of a crater,
That was grinning,
in the shape of a mouth.

And,
thus,
I returned home that night,
The grinning vision still with me,
and
With questions not quite, yet,
defined.
For,
I did not know then
that,
when the moon hits your eye,
She will rarely,
if ever,
Completely leave your mind.

She seems so unknowable
because,
She never appears the same.
Always changing form,
forever,
shape shifting,
in space.
She is clothed in different colors, that seem
To reflect her enigmatic style.
And,
She,
often,
displays,
A winking elusive smile,
she shares,
like it was fate,
With another famous beauty,
in a living mystery on her face.

Sometimes
silver,
Sometimes
gold,
Sometimes
pink in hue,
Sometimes
cloaked
in the color
of blood,
and,
Occasionally,
she is even called blue.

She is a symbol of the darkness,
but,
sometimes,
at sunrise,
She remains,
for a time,
in view,
During
the early dawn of day,
Holding her shape,
for awhile,
Dressed in faded gray.

She is the passage of time made visible,
In a most peculiar way.
Because,
even,
When she appears to disappear,
she is never really
gone away.
It is an illusion.
A sleight of hand.
For,
The moon always stays.

And,
Then,
A couple of weeks,
passed by,
and
I was on my porch one evening,
breathing in the fresh night air,
When
I gazed up into the starlit sky,
and,
Simply,
stared.
For,
She was very changed,
but,
still,
hanging there...

Only
now,
She was waning,
barely half as fair.
"She is dying."
I whispered, afraid she might hear.
Yet,
She was approaching death so,
bright and elegantly,
She made me
begin
to ponder
My own mortality.

For,
Although,
She seems to be shrinking,
into the darkness,
Like she was marble being chiseled,
By a sculpter,
bit by bit,
every night,
The smaller she becomes,
the brighter she shines,
As if,
when the time comes,
She will implode in the sky,
And,
That's why the stars have moved away
from her,
Like they were giving her space to cry.

And,
Then,
A lurking cloud moves toward her,
encroaching on what small sliver of her is left,
Surrounding,
as if,
suffocating
her,
Until she takes her
her last breath...

And,
Suddenly,
with that gasp of recognition
That comes with feeling bereft,
While,
also
Trying to soothe myself about what to expect,
I say to myself,
softly,
apprehensive,
and
upset,
"That must have been,
the angel of death."

And,
Now,
the sky is empty,
With none of her light.
It's,
as if,
She were swallowed up,
by the dark
of the night,
And,
even,
The stars don't twinkle as bright.
She is gone,
and,
in blackness,
the world mourns...

The landscape seems like a graveyard,
And,
She,
a disembodied soul.
"That's how we all must feel,"
I sighed,
and
shuddered,
As though,
death,
itself,
were,
Suddenly,
sitting on my shoulders.

Days pass by,
and,
soon,
In the dark,
a silver sliver, becomes visible
To my watchful eye,
and,
Then,
slowly,
Turns into a crescent shaped
smile in the night sky,
Grinning,
as if,
saying,
"I'm still alive."
But,
The truth is she never actually left.
She was always there,
just hidden
by a shadow,
But,
still,
somewhere,
out there.

There really was no death,
And,
Thus,
I watched her,
nightly,
in anticipation,
As she continued to grow,
in an ever increasing
expansion.
Her rebirth
was
shining,
and
reflecting
In her grinning mirror,
the continuing cycle of
life,
death,
rebirth,
and
return.

Because,
now,
for a world
so immensely grateful,
She has,
once again,
Reached her destiny,
and,
finally,
again,
become full...
She is so big,
so very near,
hanging there,
Like the victor,
in the arena,
Clothed in crystalline light,
With touches of a strange petina,
You can hear Rodolfo singing,
"E qui la luna, labbiamo vicina."

So,
My vision of the moon
has come
To land in a new position.
She has now become
a dear
and close
companion,
Who has taught me much about
life
and
death
and
Their ultimate turn about,
While she will,
forever,
remain for me
that
Mysterious,
grinning
face,
Breathing
moondust
from her mouth.

And,
then,
I remember that spring night's question,
About whether the moon has beauty, inherent.
And,
I know that my reply would,
now,
Be slightly different,
"It is indeed....
more beautiful than you can possibly imagine,"
Would be my new answer.

For
I have witnessed her journey,
with my own eyes,
and
experienced
That she contains,
in her
beauty
and
mystery,
The true cycle of life,
that has no real end.

So,
I would ask you,
now,
that famous question,
my friend,
In hopes
you too
might ponder
what she holds,
within
"The moon is beautiful,
isn't it?"

# 39 An unveiled original...The RevealerThat I seem to have becomeThe Revealer of my own story for the world to finall...
04/20/2026

# 39 An unveiled original...

The Revealer

That I seem to have become
The Revealer of my own story for the world to finally hear...
At least those chapters I have
Kept unspoken for so many years.

I have always known I held
Volumes within my soul.
I just always thought that
There was no one who wanted to listen,
So,
The tales were never told.

In childhood, the message was always clear,
Though by a young mind not so much understanding why,
my
Thoughts
Fears,
And
Feelings
Were a burden
to adults who
Were finding it hard, themselves, to emotionally survive.

So I kept it to myself inside,
all my feelings and facts.
While constantly on guard to keep
Everyone else intact.

And as adulthood came on,
that pattern stayed.
Being the rock for friends and lovers the same.
I didn't think anyone wanted to hear all the
Stored up things about me
I so longed to say

And, I continued through my life, other's support system to be.
I was good at it, and utterly sincere, absolutely,
While secretly searching for
that one who would truly want To know what was inside of me.

I made theatre,
Found opera,
And,
My spirituality.
They taught me to be more conscious of the world around me.
While secretly reflecting all the
mythic thoughts and feelings,
That very first pattern had taught me to believe:
That no one wanted to hear or see
What I so desired in my dreams.

And so, now,
In my cronehood,
I have still clung to that dream of old.
That someone would want to
listen to the song in my soul.
But, it has come to seem that my deepest yearning may not manifest,
Not before
I leave this dimension,
And, in my grief
over that painful recognition,
Lo and behold, something beautiful
Found ignition.

I cracked open and began to write,
Expressing my unsaid
feelings,
ideas,
And
imagination
Through moments of time
with rhyme.

So, now, I have come to realize
that others hearing my story
Was not what was important.
It was me telling it, whether they listen or not,
That makes my tale potent.

So, here, I stand sovereign, though,
I still have hope that another may yet want to know me.
Because my creations have helped me understand,
That whether my past secret thoughts are now being revealed or
I am revealing a still longed for future.
The only thing that really matters is that
I am the Revealer.

Address

Sacramento, CA

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