Luky Likes Poetry About The Moon

Luky gets lonely when the Moon is new. He can't wait for the 17th. I tried to explain that, to me at least, the Moon looks a lot lonelier when he's full.

Luky wanted to argue that point but I reminded him I had once put my notion into a poem. Of course, none of Luky's favorite astronomy or cosmology mags would ever publish it, but I liked. And since he likes the Moon so much he decided he would reconsider his position. Then he asked me to put it into his blog.

Neither of us are poets, of course, but we're both more excited to see tonight's Episode 3 of COSMOS.

I Thought I Was Lonely Until I Spoke To The Moon
copyright 2002

I thought I was lonely last night . . .
but I wasn't.
I stepped outside, away from the light,
and looked up.
A black, cold, cloudless, Winter night
invited me to try - to try to see to the end,
discover the edge . . .
and barring that, to find a friend.

That's when I first saw his tears . . .
a lonely moon in universal night.

For a moment I was confused . . .
Moon - my friend?
. . . beacon to romance, to love,
for love's hearts to find one another . . .
and beat together.

That's when I saw him crying . . .
. . . perhaps for the first time,
I saw the depths of his loneliness.

"But isn't this the price one pays," I asked . . .
"for living? for trying? for not giving in?"

He motioned over his shoulder
and I was exhausted with the vision . . .
scenes of joy and sharing . . .
families, love, hopes, plans, and futures . . .

There was Mars,
spreading his bright red blanket
for a party of three.
Deimos and Phobos spilled their wine
and kissed each other's shadows,
scratching the ground in reckless desire . . .
while Mars would only brighten
to show off the lovers.

Jupiter was in celebration . . .
four, 16, 47, 63 . . .
kids and cousins darting and dodging,
playing hide and seek from the bloodshot eye
above the blue and white cotton.

Saturn was a circus . . .
where the merry-go-round was full in flight,
and 30 or more screaming friends
shouted and played, and ran along side.

Uranus reserved a private field . . .
a family reunion of 20 or 21 . . .
and all of the children stood on their heads,
turning cartwheels - end over end over end.

While Neptune was quiet . . .
maybe not as social,
he was not angry - only blue . . .
and tucked beneath his icy breast

twirled his own collected brood

of eleven - safe this side of the nearing darkness.

And the rebellious youngster, Pluto . . .
. . . whose child is this, anyway?
. . . poking sticks into the perimeter fence,
beyond which there is only the stillness,
without citizens,
without porchlights and welcomes.
He is a toddler,
testing the edge of mom's apron lace . . .
too scared to crawl a step further out,
too proud to return to the hearth's embrace!
And even he plays chase with friend, Charon,
from a suburban neighborhood.

I looked back at Moon . . .
"Oh my, I had no idea . . .
I thought I was a lonely one . . ."

My thoughts of pity would not help . . .
never again . . .
my old friend,
loneliest sentry of the night . . .

No wonder I never catch him smiling.