‘Hints from the Moon (Monday)’ and Other Poetry by E.P. Fisher The Society December 21, 2015 Beauty, Culture, Poetry 1 Comment 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. Views expressed by individual poets and writers on this website and by commenters do not represent the views of the entire Society. The comments section on regular posts is meant to be a place for civil and fruitful discussion. Pseudonyms are discouraged. The individual poet or writer featured in a post has the ability to remove any or all comments by emailing submissions@ classicalpoets.org with the details and under the subject title “Remove Comment.” Share this:Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window) Related One Response Mike ellwood December 22, 2015 Excellent. There is real sophistication in the fashioning of these pieces: unobtrusive rhymes, skilfully.maintained rhythm and impressive imagery. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.