Moon Poem by Alex Lacey
6.7.26
I lift my cup to the ceiling
to Claude Debussy, really
and the rolling keys
beneath his fingers
bone pushing ivory
shimmer, awake and renew
a bottle of wine and a dime piece
that make me joyful because
both surpass my birth
I find hope in things that last
though the bottle and dime piece
are no longer with me
I praise the moon, de lune,
for it's well-rounded contrast
of how small I sit and write
I find rest in things
that keep me balanced
to wine, dime and the moon
I rest and hope through you
when overcome with a head rush
listening to his piano notes with
a whitewashed wall
in the background of my vision
my eyesight is getting poorer with age
will it stretch to fit all
that grows too large to hold?
I fold my hand to know the end result
before I witness it at all
in the dark side of my days
when I fall to the wayside
again and again I sleep
in fields of freshly cut hay
dressed in holy blue jeans so holy
they make goosebumps
rise from the skin
like the sun from the horizon's
dawn that brings
me back to you