More Poetry by Robert R. Woods

Sunday, May 26, 2o13 (2)

Here's the second, longer poem:

 

 

 

Moon Lover

Hanging with the moon again tonight, taken her pic

when she’s not busy avoiding the bus load

of Paparazzi clouds the wind blew in;

they man handle her too much in my opinion

blushing her grey and white… then a brown-like yellow.

I guess I'm just jealous, never had a chance to get closer

than the extended lens setting on my camera… never close

enough to touch her the way those other strangers do. I can

only dream of running beer wet fingers along that sandy skin.

She's a bit of a flirt, a bit of a slut… sometimes.

Drawn to the wilder side of weather— thunderstorms,

lightning, flooding rains— I’ve even watched her dance

with hurricanes and the high and mighty, self-indulgent stars.

Once I caught her smoking weed with some low-life comet—

Man, I wish I had a hit right now.

She knows me will, and has (begrudgingly) for all the years

listened to my drunken songs, watched me making love—

On the seat of a motorcycle one time... my white ass

shinning up at her the same way she shines down on me.

And when I was too drunk to ride, she’d light the way home

for my wobbly feet.

Yeah, the Moon, she’s been nice to me, kinder to me

than all the other imaginary lovers I have known.

—rrw o5-26-13