Then & Now: Verses for the Dark Moon

Image: astronomyonline.org

My tongue-in-cheek personal tag-line (yes, everyone should have one) is EQUALLY TWEE AND EVIL. And for all it's cheekiness, it's mostly true.

On this blog I'm usually silly, twee, whimsy-girl, which is my preferred state.  But I do possess a full range of being-ness, and this includes The Dark Side.  In honor of today's dark moon I bring you two poems. The first is from my lost days as a punk rocker. Be nice, I was nineteen, and this was before I had my sense of humor transplant. (Oh, and shhh, that's a secret.) A couple days ago I was unpacking boxes, shelving books, and came across my old diary, uncovering this gem. When I stopped laughing so hard I cried, I knew I had to share this goodness with the world. There are more gems in there. They're gonna stay in the vault.

The second poem, written today on the fly and not nearly as unintentionally funny as the first one, deals with a recent sojourn wherein my creative work was put aside for an important calling. This is why I haven't been around. And that last, long-ago post wasn't exactly sweetness and light either. But like the moon, my life has entered a new phase. I am in a new house in the big city, and I am BACK, baby!

And now I curtsy and show you the dark side of the mirror, past and present. In a few days, I'll post something really super-twee as a chaser. I promise.

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Then: 1981                                         Now: 

Four Inches From the Floor


Does anyone breathe
behind those black windows?
If anyone does,
they're sleeping,
four inches from the floor.

You don't have any money.
Pretend you're a writer.
Studio apartment.
Make believe you're an artist.
Paint your radiator with mushrooms.

Four inches from the floor.
Ain't it arty to be poor.
Dye the bedsheets black.
Hang in the window with a tack.

Does anyone think
behind that black brick?
Old rice in the refrigerator.
Plastic dishes in the sink.
You can't leave the mattress.
Don't have any money.
Lay on the floor.
Think about writing.
It's so arty to be poor.
Studio apartment.
Paint your nails black.

Four inches from the floor.
Ain't it arty to be poor.
Dye the bedsheets black.
Hang in the window with a tack.

Go back to sleep.

I Know What You're Trying to Do, Jane

The dark moon remembers death, 
with your turtle-beak gasping breath.
Whimsy dances, further and further,
growing up, growing away,
blown by my fetid depression-breath,
which reminds me of your infection,
and how it filled the room.

Lifted, shoved, you through the door;
what was mortal clung for more.
Purpose fell, deeper and deeper,
fading slow, fading to light,
called by those on that far shore,
who remind me I am your guide;
you told me they were rude.

The new moon rekindles fire,
sparks my dreamy life's desire.
Horror rots, weaker and weaker,
growing up, growing into,
fed by the beauty of the light-briar,
which reminds me we are so much more,
and many more at once.

As I stow the lantern, take up the pen, 
I hear your voice.
You didn't know you would be this happy.