The Perigean Theatre

Chimera Poetry

moon

The sun sinks below the horizon

dropping into the water with a hiss and the sky swirls in hot colored celebration

of a completed day 

the clock turns and quietly

without audience

the moon rises with a mysterious haze

cool and pale and inscrutable 

and on this night steps forward and throws herself at the spinning blue orb

uncovers her luminous face

in all its moonstruck roundness

 and swells

expands

until the craters loom like open sea above our heads

and we gaze in wonder and surprise

as if a shy, clumsy girl always hiding in the back row suddenly stood up and sang like Florence

and suddenly we remember why we worshipped her

why the stones were set to catch her glow

why we wish 

and cast spells in her light

until the slashing rays of dawn call her back 

and she fades from sight

for a few beads…

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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