Sunday, September 11, 2011


*2009 marked the 40th anniversary of the first man on the moon. This poem was my tribute to that milestone.

I hear their voices
all of them
calling from across years
like so many shooting stars
slipping in on 8millimeter film
the edges brown
burnt from flying too close
to the bulb
to the sun
with Icarus in a galaxy of milk

I hear them

in the whisper of brushing leaves
sand sifting in the dunes
rolling in the wake of a sleeping bear
giggle of the girl I used to be
toes in the surf
in the great saltless sea
I pick up a piece of smooth shale
see it skip

like the man on the moon
the black and white picture
lined with static
despite rabbit ears and foil
and all of us holding hands
skipping over generations
the gap forgotten
the hippies and Marine brush-cut men
and boys and women in kerchiefs
and me

a tow-headed little girl in thrall
to a TV with bad reception
skipping over images
like a needle across vinyl
the record warped
from a flood of great saltless tears
when heaven wept
and I slept
dreaming dreams of Martian san

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