Maybe

Maybe mercy, after all,
is to be dead, like the moon,
unfeeling to one’s freefall
and the cold night—needful boon
to not feel the creeping rot
as it eats your pockmarked face
while the hollowed heart feels not
the cold void of lifeless space.
Yes, the dead may be at peace
like the moon chained to earth’s side—
the living long for release
while tears swell at high tide.

Dreamful Moon

Stillborn fetus
cradled in the aloof orbit
of its birthmother
after its
hit-it-and-quit-it father
flew away
to parts unknown;
moribund infant
scarred by cosmic whim
and barren of life,
engendered as the tombstone
to your own aborted existence;
yet, like true tragedy inspiring
life,
you pull at your mother’s
oceanic emotions,
inciting her defiant fertile frenzy for
offspring
as the tides of her
amniotic seas
ebb and flow with
a yearning increscent
against formless oblivion.
Waxen child,
though denied life
your dreams teem
innumerable upon the earth.

To Be Raised High

He was born low among the high green hills,
with high ambitions, pride, and a desire
for a life beyond the fields and the mills,
above the summit of Benbulben—even higher.

He wished to be as an ancient Celtic king
and sought those who would thus crown him
among a sacred Druid copse ring,
his brow entwined in leaf, petal, and stem.

Maidens and priestesses sang him songs
and served him wine, honey, cheese,
and danced to lutes in twirling throngs
as flowers flavored the throbbing breeze.

For a night he was revered, beloved, praised
and taken at last to a bower bed—
but, hearken, a sacrifice was thereby raised
toward the Moon, to whom he shall be wed.

And so the goddess descended from aloft
with a coronet of stars, a gossamer gown,
making love to him, her caresses soft
and the sickle blade sharp as it came down.

The Moon then rose once more, dark red
with the flush of her groom, his love
having filled her full, with child and well-fed,
as she returned to the higher realms above.