Sleep, she will not linger:
She turns her moon-cold shoulder.
With no ring on her finger,
You cannot hope to hold her.
Another Lullaby for Insomniacs, AE Stallings
Last night’s super cold moon rose to its highest point in the northern hemisphere. The 18.6 year cycle called the Major Lunar Standstill allows us more viewing time. The moon is also in perigree which puts it somewhere around 226,000 miles away — so close that it feels like we can drive over the next hill and touch the glowing surface. During such a celestial event, coastal folks expect king tides and some of us will feel the fill (moon-drunk) and then the ebb of gravitational force — a tide of emotions. There is a reason that luna is embedded in lunatic.
This summer, we read AE Stallings poem as an example of the pantoum poetry form in workshop, we challenged participants to give writing one a shot (we have published a few in the past few weeks.) The day we read this poem at Oregon State Pen, we decided to turn our pens on Stallings’s evocative phrase moon-cold shoulder.
My Moon’s Memory by Le’Var Howard
Moon — Cold shoulder. Funny, I always found a warmth in the moon on nights alone roaming or on my way to a friend’s house.
The Moon’s Own Mediocrity by Yeyin Chin
There you are moon. There you just are. Just being. Just there. Neither passive nor aggressive, you float; a big balloon of dusty rock, enshrouded in empty space.
A Cold Shoulder by R. Miranda
Moon-Cold Shoulder
Indeed, moon’s cold shoulder
So distant yet inviting —
Becoming with her alabaster glow
As if offering a place to cry upon.
A few pieces from Eastern Oregon that reach to the heavens.
Dreaming by MDKS:
Together under the midnight stars,
Away from the city light.
The quiet makes the world seem so far,
Surrounded by nature, wrapped in night.
Floating High by Andrew Morrow:
I dream of floating high, then falling from the sky
I don’t hit cement, but the waves are like pavement to my decent
A shallow grave, crashing down.
Her Name is Truth by OH!
I love you far beyond my imagination. I’m at the point where I can’t tell the difference between wanting to love you or not being able to stop loving you. No matter what you think, feel or whom you listen to, I confess to the heavens that you were perfect for my life.
OH!’s letter to displaced love, a kind of love that is felt most profoundly as moonlight creeps across the pillow provides a poignant end. | TDS
More great writing. OH!s piece was not available, but the lede was good. Lots of talent, different perspectives, good insight. Thanks.