Fist Of Moon

some things
can be felt,
touched, slow handed
but not held.

a flame,
a wave
Lennie’s mouse,
-a kiss, drawn and quartered .

a flame draws,
with its warmth, and slightly drunken dance
and it comforts
-but it burns

Lennie meant no harm,
not knowing love
is much larger than good sense.

Neil Armstrong
sailed to the moon
all tin foil gorilla
but he couldn’t
bring it back,
scratch and grunt.

and if he could,
and if he had,
who might own it?

how much would Disney
charge to ride it?

no,
better off where it is,
belonging
to us all,
and dreams to it.

ever held a wave,
all shimmering glisten
nursed by a tempest sea?

it has moods

it can tickle
it can soothe
it can whisper
-but it can scold

whoever holds the wave
holds the mood.

dare you?

some loves,
like kisses
of an evergreen
swooning to memory
are too big
for holding

they should flit,
free and gentle
grazing many
with evergreen kisses
like the shadow of a dove
released
not knowing a home.

a flame distant
just rightly so.

this love
that poets imagine only
should wade waist deep
into a cleansing wave,
a wash
that passes through and beyond
the unfiltered soul.

Lennie’s mouse
set free
of the tight clenched fist.

Neil tried to bring the moon back
in weightless pockets.
ebay says so

but even ebay
can’t barter the moon
-silly man.

~rick+