By now, you might or might not have noticed the medium for the basis of most of my poetry. The moon and stars seem to have this effect over my imagination that I have never been able to control. The Hunter's Moon this year was begging me for days to write something about my most favorite constellation in the winter sky, Orion.
Mediums for writing seem to be the hardest things for most writers to find. When you slowly make that discovery that you are a "Writer" then you start to realize that it's very easy to say you're a writer, but it's also another thing to sit with a pen and paper all day or to sit in front of a computer screen and write for hours on end. It's easier said than done. Then to top it all off, you might not even like what you're writing. I've been writing since I was thirteen and let me tell you, it never gets any easier. The writer who tells you that it gets easier after you've written so much, is pretty much full of it. The muse of your life changes and sometimes the biggest thing that you need in order to write some of the greatest pieces of your life, support, is never there. I guess that would explain why I've never actually completed a novel and in my heart I would love to.
The moon has become my muse as of late. It's a constant friend that I know will always be in the sky to guide my mind at night into a new poem or some new urge to get something down on paper. Writers are not born in the mind, they are born on paper. Although, anyone who has been writing as long as I have will tell you that without a mind, you can just forget about writing entirely. And then again, a few of us writers lost our marbles a long time ago. Hell, we take the chance of writing something everyday that might not ever get read by even the every day Joe or Jane like you reading now. Doesn't that tell you something?
Me on the other hand, I don't really care. Writers and artists are one in the same. We try so hard to create something that we hope others will flock to and stand, or in this case read, in awe and we will earn the admiration of millions. For a select few of us that actually happens. The majority of us stand back and just write what we know.
Perhaps one of these days I'll write the greatest novel of the twentieth century. Hey, I'm young, it could happen. But I won't spend the rest of my days thinking about it. I know that eventually I'll finish the novel I started three years ago about a reality that I really wanted and now I know will never happen. I guess that's why we have those little things that are part of us that give us hope. The reasons that we move on from the evils that conquer our spirits and help us to see that there is more beyond this one point. Tonight, I look to the stars one more time. This time, I look to the moon to wonder if a friend is still watching it with me.
He opens the back door
to his home and steps
into the veranda
The chill in the air
raises each hair on his arm
as sentinels standing guard
He wraps his blanket tightly,
his only protection
from sensation of the dead
moving in the night
The roof
made of crystal clear glass
to let in the sun, moon, and stars
and to proudly show
his favorite constellation
He waits for this moment
every year, through every season,
through every cover of clouds,
he's waited for his return
In all his glory,
there in the winter sky,
is Orion the Hunter
How proudly he stands
with the belt we know so well
and his arm stretched
brandishing his sword
How mythology has forgotten you
oh great Orion
but the stars make you shine
more brightly than the rest
in my favorite time of the year.
The Hunter's Moon
beckons your return
and all those who would be you,
but those who remember you
know there will always
only be one Orion.
Until next time.
Mediums for writing seem to be the hardest things for most writers to find. When you slowly make that discovery that you are a "Writer" then you start to realize that it's very easy to say you're a writer, but it's also another thing to sit with a pen and paper all day or to sit in front of a computer screen and write for hours on end. It's easier said than done. Then to top it all off, you might not even like what you're writing. I've been writing since I was thirteen and let me tell you, it never gets any easier. The writer who tells you that it gets easier after you've written so much, is pretty much full of it. The muse of your life changes and sometimes the biggest thing that you need in order to write some of the greatest pieces of your life, support, is never there. I guess that would explain why I've never actually completed a novel and in my heart I would love to.
The moon has become my muse as of late. It's a constant friend that I know will always be in the sky to guide my mind at night into a new poem or some new urge to get something down on paper. Writers are not born in the mind, they are born on paper. Although, anyone who has been writing as long as I have will tell you that without a mind, you can just forget about writing entirely. And then again, a few of us writers lost our marbles a long time ago. Hell, we take the chance of writing something everyday that might not ever get read by even the every day Joe or Jane like you reading now. Doesn't that tell you something?
Me on the other hand, I don't really care. Writers and artists are one in the same. We try so hard to create something that we hope others will flock to and stand, or in this case read, in awe and we will earn the admiration of millions. For a select few of us that actually happens. The majority of us stand back and just write what we know.
Perhaps one of these days I'll write the greatest novel of the twentieth century. Hey, I'm young, it could happen. But I won't spend the rest of my days thinking about it. I know that eventually I'll finish the novel I started three years ago about a reality that I really wanted and now I know will never happen. I guess that's why we have those little things that are part of us that give us hope. The reasons that we move on from the evils that conquer our spirits and help us to see that there is more beyond this one point. Tonight, I look to the stars one more time. This time, I look to the moon to wonder if a friend is still watching it with me.
He opens the back door
to his home and steps
into the veranda
The chill in the air
raises each hair on his arm
as sentinels standing guard
He wraps his blanket tightly,
his only protection
from sensation of the dead
moving in the night
The roof
made of crystal clear glass
to let in the sun, moon, and stars
and to proudly show
his favorite constellation
He waits for this moment
every year, through every season,
through every cover of clouds,
he's waited for his return
In all his glory,
there in the winter sky,
is Orion the Hunter
How proudly he stands
with the belt we know so well
and his arm stretched
brandishing his sword
How mythology has forgotten you
oh great Orion
but the stars make you shine
more brightly than the rest
in my favorite time of the year.
The Hunter's Moon
beckons your return
and all those who would be you,
but those who remember you
know there will always
only be one Orion.
Until next time.
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