Doctor Grandma

Eclipse of the Moon 2

The Earth,

slowly turning,

places herself

directly between the Sun

and the Moon,

She stands there,

hands on her hips,

refusing to move,

her beauty mirrored

in a shadow

for all in the world to see,

Slowly, she reaches her arms across

the cheesy Man in the Moon,

wiping that silly smile

right off his face! 

But the Moon

makes the Earth

step aside once more,

for He has work to do,

He pulls the deep waters

of the mighty Oceans

to and fro,

to and fro,

The tides rock us

Back to  sleep,

like a baby,

while Wynken, Blynken and Nod

set sail,

off in their wooden shoe,
onto a river of crystal light,
onto a sea of dew.

–CF Black

as a child, I loved hearing the poem of Winken, Blynken and Nod. I wanted to sail away with them in their magic ship, onto the sea of dew.

Eclipse of the Moon

The moon rises,

bright and full,

over the cold and Wintry night,

Snow had fallen earlier,

covering the frozen pond,

We watch, in awe,

as the darker shadow

creeps across the Bright Orb’s light,

The shape of the Earth,

a larger circle,

slowly stretches across the moon,

It is as if

the Hand of God

-erases-

what was there before,

Contemplates

leaving us in the dark,

forever without Light,

We go about our busy lives

without a thought to where we are,

Then, the movement of the heavens

becomes a play before our eyes,

We are at the mercy

of the movement of the planets,

6 billion souls, dependent

on the light of a single Star,

6 billion souls share the space

of one medium-sized planet

that just happens to have the right combination

of water, and of air,

We would do well to remember

our insignificance,

this movement, this dance of planets,

will continue for eons

without us watching.

–CF Black, 02-20-08

I am starting a new category of poetry. Some will be ones that I like, others some that I have written. I am starting with these words of the Indian poet, Tagore, in a children’s book from a set of picture books I am now analyzing. The words are rather strange sounding, rather haunting.

Moon, for what do you wait?

The night opens the flower in secret, and allows the day to give thanks.

Thoughts pass in my mind like flocks of ducks in the sky. I hear the voice of their wings.

The night’s silence, like a deep lamp, is burning with the light of the Milky Way.

The hills are like shouts of children who raise their arms, trying to catch stars.

“Moon, for what do you wait?”

“To salute the sun, for whom I must make way.”

Night’s darkness is a bag that bursts with the gold of the dawn.

“I have lost my dewdrop,” cries the flower to the morning Sun who has lost all its stars.

“Are you too proud to kiss me?” the morning light asks the buttercup.

The trees come up to my window like the yearning of the dumb earth.

The bird-song is the echo of the morning light back from the earth.

The bird wishes it were a cloud, the Cloud wishes it were a bird.

Is not this mountain like a flower, with its petals of hills drinking the sunlight?

The cobweb pretends to catch dewdrops, and catches flies,

it is the tears of the earth that keeps her smiles in bloom.

Roots are the branches down in the earth. Branches are the roots in the air.

The infant flower opens its bud and cries, “Dear World, please do not fade.”

I sit at my window this morning where the world, like a passer-by, stops for a moment,

nods to me and goes.    — by Rabindranath Tagore.