The Man and the Moon

O Moon!
I barely made an impact on

Your pearl dress hung with dust
silica smooth
hardly quivered to touch.

Cold skin barely
trembled or shook
though you grumbled, once or twice

with fracturing precision
from the cold seismic rumbles that
flared from your lips.

Breathed out words
misshapen as hymns,
nicked out
chambers like candlestick tombs;

those echoic rooms of rust
striatic and sounding,
weeping stalactites like hours,

the steady accretion
of years of tears
crystallizing sadness into psalms.

No one loved or inhaled stillness more,
suckling cyclic air
damp as dreams,

the impenetrable gloom
unbreathable as flint
the starry, starry night as milky as cancer.

And you,
O Heavenly orb, waxing so
waning by degrees

heart as impenetrable as Kevlar,
sunburnt plains, drop-less and dry,
you are no place for this man.

Were you once a part of me?
A Colossus calved from the whole
billions of years ago?

An Athenean bird carved from ice,
freed from a boney rib cage
limbed out, to become the distal curve
sprung from a dying elm?

Barn owls sing your name
as whispers of falling snow
or breath on frosted glass.

O Moon!
you are so far out now
I will never reach you.

But when I sheep my head to sleep
and you hawk over the window sill

will you dream of me?

~ Rob K. Omura

Rob K. Omura lives in Calgary, Alberta, where he lives from oil plumes, surrounded by vistas and all the trappings of modern living. He prefers to spend his days hopping mountain ridges in the Rockies, where there is nothing else to consider by the next step and the majestic views, and sometimes he even dabs the wet ink and ties words on to lines. His fiction and poetry appears or is forthcoming in numerous literary journals, ezines, and anthologies including the New York Quarterly. His poetry aired on CBC Radio for National Poetry Month in April, 2008. He was a 2009 Pushcart nominee. Sometimes he works on his novel, and at other times, he drinks coffee, sighs and wonders when he’ll get back to work on his novel.
“Writing poems is like carving stone; although you often see what the stone wants to be, it takes a sharp chisel and a little blood and sweat to bring it forth. You don’t create the stone; you merely give it the shape it wants to be.”

Read more of Rob K. Omura’s poetry here:

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