Moonstruck

The moon opens

his laughing Buddha mouth,

pumps me full

of tides and sky.

Dreams from a cratered bowl,

gold and overgrown,

swim circles

of unrequited sleep.

I paddle tree-lined,

camera-shy ―

desirous of secret rivers,

ungrounded culverts.

At dawn, he holds a up a mirror.

I look just like him ―

round-faced,

crescent-eyed.

tk/July 2013

This poem was expertly read by R.A.D. Stainforth. 

Supermoon 2013, Julio Cortez, AP 

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Baptism

Thank you R.A.D. Stainforth, for bringing my words to life ...

I draw a bath,

an extra holy one ―

listen to Gould

play Moonlight Sonata;

realize it's sometimes good

to conjure new rhythms,

modulate the time-scale.

Embedded bruises rinse pale,

trickle along transitory lines

to the sanctity of the river.

I come downstairs,

steeped smooth and soft,

to find you, anticipant on the sofa.

Christen me with your best icky,

your most sophisticated stuff.

tk/September 2012

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image: Summer Night, 1913, Albert Bloch