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Felon Moon
by Michael M. Marks
The felon moon sat round above his night
Of fallen snow and gazed whole dumbly proud,
His face flamboyant, skydark nil a cloud.
His eyes were sewn upon my shape, eyes bright
And blinding, inventing walking light
For dicey city streets he disavowed.
I sought my peace of mind, but met my shroud –
I left my lifemate with no hope tonight.
I lumbered lonely listless, my face
On fire freezing, footsteps sluggish pace
Bounded by the sleeping slush, but soon
I know, I will be as numb as that mad moon,
As bare, as yellow as the roads below
He burned and buried with his slippery snow.TO COMMENT ON THIS POEM CLICK HERE
© Marks, 2007
Michael is a baby-boomer, the middle child of five born in a six-year span. His mom escaped to teach horseback riding full-time, obviously overwhelmed by her progeny. His dad was a traveling shoe salesman. Gwendolyn Brooks became his mentor in 1967. He is riding his poetry horse somewhere between Dylan Thomas and Bob Dylan. Anita and he had their own five children, while he operated an art gallery for thirty years. The children are gone, but the poetry stays.