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Writing

Moon Writes: smell the sea, smell the woods

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standing near the edge,
a place where
water and sand converge,
waves of melancholy gently kiss my feet.

they come to shore full of vibrancy,
trying to take the earth whole,
yet as they retreat reluctantly,
one can hear the sea cry.

me and the waves,
blow kisses to the wind
that playfully catches
in between my hair.
 
a whiff of you in my curls,
a spell unlocked by nature,
magic that sings a blessing
with the whisper of a curse.

blessings that filter through
treetops, as sunshine glows
in the woods of memories
while the river of our story flows

it gently carries the weight
of you, i and us.
tears and fears, awe and hope
it takes it all in, it takes it all

and a curse that whispers,
“you are alone, all alone,
lost in the woods,
without a place to call home”.

pour salt in my wounds;
roots that go deep,
ground me in this world,
and are made to seek

make a poultice for my soul,
from the garden that grows
inside that heart of yours,
shade that keeps it cool

i smell the sea,
it’s a blessing
i smell the woods,
reject the curse

take a breath 
catch your scent,
you hold me close,
and i am content…

I sometimes forget some of the things I wrote, this is one of those poems that has some lines I would like to work into something and then a lot of lines I am unsure about, but the pace is interesting and I love how it deals with blessings, magic and curses. Sometimes you know things before you know them. (This was written again in 2015/2016, old words)

Writing

Moon Writes: drowning in you

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Dip my toes into this current,
the one that flows from you,
whispering sweet nothings
and promising to never budge.

You insist it’s a big forever
in an ocean full of lies,
but now i know better
and i won’t consider you my lifesaver.

Treacherous waters up to my waist,
they reach and try to convince me
that i want to go for a swim
and join in this little whim.

How did i let them rise so quick?
why did you let your dam run free?
couldn’t you’ve waited until
i had my footing and was ready?

But you had to run and rush
let the waves of your feelings crash
against my lips and skin
trying to find your way in.

I’m drowning,
drowning in you.

Try to rise to the surface,
take a deep breath,
just to feel like myself again,
to remember i wasn’t ready for this.

Why, oh, why
couldn’t you wait,
and avoid this tragedy,
the death of us in your sea?

Shall i release the storm,
or still try to rise above?
i wonder if there’s a happy ending
to this catastrophe.

Will i be able to be me,
if i try to surf through it all
and learn to ride a hurricane,
navigating back to safety.

Washed ashore in the aftermath,
can’t help but wonder
if this was never meant to be,
for i was drowning in your sea.

A poem I wrote about someone who isn’t in my life anymore because I was definitely drowning in who they were and losing myself. But some parts of this poem feel a little too on point to life right now. Funny how words can mean many things…

Writing

Moon Writes: watch me disappear

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watch me disappear
as you claim to be,
do, know, see
more than me

(who cares that 
i shared my love for it, 
showed you a vulnerability)

watch me disappear
as you ignore my words
and blank my actions
i am invisible

(not worth your attention now
but if we rewind the film
it wasn’t that way before)

watch me disappear
you got what you needed
climbed the ladder up
above where i am

(go, be special, be famous
walk all over me,
who cares, right?)

watch me disappear
steal my victories
make them yours

watch me disappear
or rather, not,
since i don’t exist anymore

Sometimes out of bad things, good things happen and you get an interesting poem. At first, I re-read this poem and couldn’t remember the exact reason I wrote it and had a certain type of feelings, then shared it with a friend who did remember the original times exactly and then it was like seeing it in a whole new light. In my friend’s words: “it is a surprise what beauty can come out of the terrible things”. Not wrong, not wrong at all…

Writing

Moon Writes: come, come

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come, come,
look for me.
run, run,
you can find me.

stop,
don’t you know 
where
i am?

wait,
if you listen hard, 
if you glance this way,
you may catch me off guard.

A glimpse of a curl, 
pale paper skin peeking through my clothes,
the rise and fall of my chest,
hands holding breasts,
to protect the rhythm that hides.

A head full of dreams,
cradled in the sleep of the just,
’til it’s interrupted by screams…

oh wake me,
WAKE me! 
save me,
if you must…

here, here,
hold my head against your skin,
wrap your arms tight around me,
we’re free, we’re meant to be.

Little odd poem about many things, but mostly about panic attacks coming in the middle of the night and needing comfort and gentleness to deal with them. Again, something a little old since I haven’t written any new poetry in years, but I still like these little snippets of a time gone by that thankfully is now far away enough to look back to.

Writing

Moon Writes: forgive and forget

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The first to seek forgiveness
admitting wrongs
deeper vesting in love
can it be?

“I’m sorry!”

My existence, whispering apologies
shouldering responsibility
for all the wrongs
guilt-ridden, self admonished.

“It’s my fault! “

Just a way to show
my love for you
a way to let you know
you mean more than you know.
I don’t want you to think 
I’m always this wrong. 

“I’m so sorry!”

Caught in my own web,
guns backfiring inside my head.
piling up the failures
apologizing for things beyond my control, 
taking responsibility for others wrongs 

“Forgive me”

For I have loved the most…
loved everyone so much, that I forgot 
to love the one who needed it more.
Myself. 

“Sorry.”

For-give. 
what am I giving? 
For-get. 
what am I getting?

Forgiving.
Forgetting. 
To live, to love,
I am not alone in this,
not everything is my wrong.
And you can’t see I’ve grown.

Old poems come back again, apparently, I had a lot to say about self-love and apologies back in 2014. Which in all honesty was a tough period of time for me, but it helped me grow and we’re here for the better.

Writing

Moon Writes: i raise the glass

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The Loss of the Self in Sickness and Pain by Moon Kestrel

to the ghosts of my illness,
who come and put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder,
reminding me of what it was like to have them
around in the flesh rather than just in glimpses.

to their randomness,
for they do as they please.
weather changes or tiredness
will draw them near with ease.
the thumping inside my head as they knock
to let me know i lived through it all.

to their humming in my ears,
recounting the past and the tears.

sometimes they make me cry,
taking advantage of my sensitivity,
but they’re not evil
they’re just ghosts.

here’s to the phantoms
that keep reminding me how bad it was
but instead, succeed at making me grateful.

i raise my glass,
to them all,
for i am alive
i survived.

A toast. Because sometimes old poems and pieces of artwork speak better than new words (this was written in May 2016), and the artwork is from 2013. Some ghosts are persistent, some are here to stay.

I hadn’t done a Moon Writes post in a while and given that I’ve had a small regression and remembering how bad the pain can be, this felt applicable, and hey, maybe it will speak to others, even if it is a toast made for my specific ghosts.

Writing

Moon Writes: i only said i love you…

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i only said i love you
at the end of us
but to me, it was the start
for i had not admitted
how i felt in my heart.

all the time we had together
i fought against falling for you
it was a scary thing to do
and i feared it’d
scare you away too.

now i’m looking
for a fresh new love
but every face i see
i’m hoping it’ll be
your own.

so i give up,
i can’t fight against love.
we both know that
you love me too

every time i find someone 
else, i feel as if
i was betraying us,
going behind your back,
yet you say it’s alright…

but then you get jealous
and gulp the nerves of loosing
me back, never show your fear 
or the hint of a tear,
you’re brave like that.

we play ping pong
never saying what we really mean
trying to live in-between
a hidden life from the rest of the world
that’s only for you and i.

but this can’t go on
for ever and without end
we’ll grow old, get bored
someone will love us more
or at least,  they won’t deny
the feeling is there.

A poem for an infatuation and desperation or annoyance, or maybe a mix of both. But I like the fact that it points to a lost opportunity by the undecisive person rather by the one that moved on and got tired of being on a “yes then no then yes” mode.

Writing

Moon Writes: careful with the match

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gunpowder issue is at nine,
a reenactor knows that,
I can be Bob, James,
or if I’m happy trodding on
my skirts, I can be Ann.
(neither is my real name)

but you, palpitating vessel,
tell me, who you are.

is your passion fueled,
by those gray particles that
explode when caressed by
a playful spark?

worn by use bandoliers,
made of wood for safety,
wait for it to be inside the musket,
set it off with the match lock,
pull the trigger, watch it burn,
here comes the B A N G.

are there clouds inside of you,
trying to peek out from your eyes?
Or maybe the rain waters your soul,
helping those seeds of words grow?

did you know that the sound
of the gunshot is not as loud,
when you’re the one behind it?

smile, explosions of delight,
coming from deep inside,
don’t be afraid,
it’s just life…

Wrote this for a friend that was (we fizzled each to our own world just because life happens).

Writing

Moon Writes: Four walls

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He’s coming,
frantically look for a way out,
but this room only has four walls,
and no door or windows in it.
(don’t ask me how he came in,
he’s a magician,
killing me is his best trick)

He’s here,
and there’s no escaping,
back then, there was numbness,
now, manage to struggle,
but screams fall on deaf ears.
(don’t walls have ears? can’t they hear?
but they lack mouths and can’t speak out for me.)

Open your eyes,
transposed with the darkness of
your room, is the nightmare,
can’t shake it away.
(be rational, dear brain,
your reality is safety.)

Deep breaths,
call on your to-go, knowing
the reply will come after dawn,
but you’ll be reassured, you’ll be heard.
(hey, hi, a reply!
heaven heard your silent plea)

“I’m here for you,
tired and sleepy.
it’s not real, your mind is just
sorting things, you’re just feeling
the effects.
(you know things will get
better, my love, you can do it)“

I think this one poem talks by itself. But it was written during times of distress and feeling trapped. Thankfulyl things are better, but I still like the words that came out of it.

Writing

Moon Writes: Indoctrination

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I wrote this poem three years ago. I can’t remember what made me write it, but I was annoyed at people insisting that being x religion or born in y country meant you were less human or didn’t know your own mind, so I ende up trying to sort through those feelings in this poem.

you who shout “indoctrination”
at others people’s beliefs,
beliefs you don’t like or agree with,
beliefs you don’t even understand or know about.

we don’t choose which country we’re born into,
nor how rich or poor our family is,
we don’t choose what religion,
culture and customs will reign the home we’re brought up into.

We don’t decide how much love or hate will surround us
and define who we are from the day we’re brought into this world.

You shout “indoctrination”,
but tell me…
if you were exactly in their situation,
wouldn’t you be who they are?

It is easy to say “no I wouldn’t”,
when you haven’t experienced anything like it.
And in a way, you are indoctrinated too.

the habits of your parents help define yours,
and maybe it wasn’t a conscious decision,
but you are shaped by the rules and beliefs 
that defined your family and your life.

Most countries define themselves by rules and “values”,
religions do too, culture does too (even inside countries).
Isn’t that in it’s own way, being indoctrinated?

Weren’t you brought up to love your country,
to feel proud of it and the achievements?
Weren’t you brought up to believe in good and bad
(regardless of what you define as good or bad)?

So don’t shout indoctrination,
just because you don’t like someone.
Because you might be John,
but if you had been born in a different setting,
could be Juan or Ian or maybe Yahya.