‘Hints from the Moon (Monday)’ and Other Poetry by E.P. Fisher

Hints from the Moon

(Monday)

Beginning with zero, hints from the moon
Going through phases, ripe in the womb;
Time out of nothing, pared in the night,
Planet of sorrow tilting to light;
Retrograde motion, surf pushed & pulled,
Full moon to crescent, new moon to full…

Lifting & lowering tides in the dark,
Waxing & waning waves in the heart
Breaking & whispering, rhymed in a dream,
Mouth like a river, scenes from the sea;
Emptiness mints its circumference in space,
Coin of the realm, stamped with love’s face…

Talisman, amulet, symbol of change,
Harvest of shadows bathing the brain;
Matrix of shape-shifting primitive forms
Curving to crisis—tusk, tooth & horn—
Mimic the rhythm, occult, in eclipse
Image, enigma of time on my lips…

Mirror of madness, omen of blood,
Cycle of heroes, moods of the gods;
Ides interregnum, isle of dead kings,
Midwife to poetry, horses with wings;
Woman of mystery’s embryo curled,
Unconscious, cosmic egg of the world.

No Trespassing

Beyond the forgotten orchard
And the “No Trespassing” sign,
My neighbor’s house lies hidden
At the end of a private drive;
From barrier barbed-wire tortured,
An abandoned track, and beyond
The stone-strewn path, overgrown with grass,
I pass by his posted pond.

The ground unbroken, choked with weeds,
Apple-cores crushed underfoot,
Half-round, bruised brown and rotten,
Trodden beneath my boots—
Upon my soles, cares gone to seed,
Staining me heel-to-toe:
Mere applesauce and dew-turned frost,
More mirth than earth bestows.

My full heart bulges over-ripe,
Unshaken by the wind:
Emblem of worlds unfallen
On naked, aching limbs…
My ghost goes out: my veins fill up
And leave bare bones behind;
His harvest glimpsed, blood-red against
A blue, breath-taking sky.

But Indian Summers come and gone
Echo ancestral shame—
Whispers of sunsets stolen
Murmur mysterious names…
A history lost, a haunted dawn,
Longs to belong somewhere;
Soft sighs repeat, as eardrums beat:
Not his, not mine, but theirs.

Touching Bottom

Just heard an apple
In the half dark
Go thump for autumn:
Plump the sound
Of ground and round fruit
Touching bottom

The falling planet
Tumbling down
Eavesdrops on Eden,
As insect legions
Drum the ear, and deer
Invade my garden.

The rabbit’s bramble
Underground
Sanctum-sanctorum;
The raven’s mock
Refrain and age-old
Raucous anthem.

Etched out in shadow
Phantom limbs
Bruise moons worm-eaten:
My elbow ghost
Whose taproots plumb
A lost Elysium.

Just heard the wind blow
Through the rain
And gain momentum;
One grief to go,
One leaf remains,
One frantic pattern.

E.P. Fisher has published three books, including Conversation with a Skeleton and Out of the Eggs of Ants. He taught high school English in Uganda as a Peace Corps volunteer and worked for 30 years as a play therapist and adventure-based counselor with special needs children. He holds a bachelor’s degree in Literature and a doctorate in Psychology.

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