It is truly unfair, sucks really, that proximity has cast me as nameless, yet I am forced to wear all manner of terms that fit their mood at any given moment, and even then they can’t seem to agree.
You can say it is petty, but I am jealous of Titan, and hell even Phobos and Deimos have proper names, and they are a misshapen, dim pair. Maybe I should blame my companion who rejected a host of names, wanting to be called earth, but why do all the major planets have names while I am tagged with, nothing more than moon.
The quieter you become the more you can hear. — Baba Ram Dass
Orion lies over the wharf staring at the moon, dangling like an unyielding eye, barring sleep while below the waves wash onto the shore, licking the pilings and tasting the sand, a calming roar broken only by the barking of the harbor seals. It is not a night for hunting the bear has fled over the horizon preparing for the coming winter and the hunter tires from the chase. A gull nips at his heels, and plunges back into the swells, he must be content with the odd fish and scraps from the strange ones who mass on the wharf each day and retreat by night until there is only the hunter and the goddess and two young men curled into the sand. I stand on the balcony and stare at the hunter wishing that sleep would come, that the white eye would blink, but the waves wash in and the harbor seals bark and the stars beat a slow retreat.
We sat on our lanai last night in our twin rockers, the cat curled close by but carefully removed from the rockers and stared into the sky hoping meteors would grace us with their fleeting presence.
The moon did appear, shrouded in thin clouds, spectral ghost waxing slowly in hiding, but the stars had fled this night, fearing the rain that the cloud mantle promised.
We never did see a meteor but we know they will return next year and the cat says it is hardly worth interrupting a good nap for a momentary flash of light, and we just touched hands and retreated to bed.
Even as a child I was reasonably certain that the moon wasn’t made of green cheese as some of my friends said, because even if it was cheese, I was sure it would be either Roquefort or Gorgonzola.
No one had been to the moon back then, nothing had marred its surface, so we took the scientists on faith that it was something other than cheese.
Now looking back we must consider our naivete, for it was scientists in the employ of companies who assured us that tobacco might actually be good for us, although we never saw them smoking come to think of it now.
Perhaps it is waiting for the moon to draw our attention, but the moon is periodically irascible, as tonight, and has chosen to abandon Mars to the stellar firmament.
Mars has risen in the western sky.
I wander into the dark in search of the peace that only night affords, but the horizon is war and disquiet and I stumble and repeatedly fall, and the ground holds me denying me the sky.
Mars has risen in the western sky.
The plants that have reached for the sun, and borne fruit for months now shrink and wither under his unrepentant eye, and I know a cold foreboding wind will still blow and I will mourn the passing of summer, the season on peace.
Mars has risen in the western sky and Jupiter watches jealously.
First Published in Cerasus Magazine (UK), Issue 3, 2021
They say that some of the rings of Saturn are braided. They also say that Rapunzel’s hair was braided. I am a skeptic for when I stare at Saturn through the old binoculars I see two fuzzy astigmatic spots of light and Rapunzel has gone punk, and I see only an oversized nose ring. The sad thing is that Jupiter’s red spot is showing signs of becoming a melanoma.