Midnight tickles your turned up toes,

dawn scrapes your knees

but your head is already in daylight

kissing the setting Sun and not me.

The scent of musk and the north woods

spark a scene, an arsonist’s rush…

don’t believe everything whispered

under a sage moon.

Memory is the landscape,

longing the river that meanders

like a lost child in dream.

Currents lead to dried riverbeds

and forgotten photographs, flotsam

on the once raging river.

Suddenly I find myself nowhere,

making sunshine out of oranges,

searching for roses on the moon.


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Writing poetry for 50 years has culminated in the publishing of my first book called "Roses on the Moon". Segments will appear from time to time on this site or go to for more.

2 thoughts on “ROSES ON THE MOON”

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