The moon, ah yes. Dangling slightly
with its unnoticeable swaying nightly
competing in illumination with stars,
also painted mobile pieces. Mars
a mere red dot with swirling brushstrokes.
Then constellations. The sight evokes
some warm nostalgia of warmer nights,
a comfortable hill by Southern Lights,
a feeling both meagre and vain –
and with a fiddle of knobs – they blur again.
Flaccid lights quiver in fantastical forms,
somehow, somewhere: suns and storms
swaying not men of magic in the moon
and their starry animals. But very soon
day will rise. For the moment, just lights,
maybe later ascension to such heights
of scientific speculation of a lunar solution
then disputes, debates, before resolution.
But morn rises, so wait some horoscope,
and nights yet to be with my telescope.
This poem was awarded the Rex Prize (Secondary) for Poetry Object 2019
'You had us hooked from the first line – a sigh of lunar recognition. This poet's unusual use of end-rhyme involves enjambment and unique word choices; surprising the reader and adding momentum to this fantastical piece. The imagery is specific, concrete, and striking. This poem reads with the grace of aphorism and yet is entirely 'new' in its feeling. Congratulations!'
~ Red Room Poetry and Regional Express Airlines