Do Not Listen To The Moon

Do Not Listen To The Moon prose poem

Photo by andrew.napier

Do not listen to the moon, child
He’ll whisper only nonsense in your ear
And fill your head with silly notions
But not a word of substance, not one ounce of truth
So mind me, child and do not listen to the moon

And do not sail across the night of dreams
Or you may chance to meet him strolling down
That well-worn path he treads amongst the stars
For he’ll tell you how he knows so much
Indeed so much and none of it is so

He’ll take you by the arm and speak with silvery eloquence
Of things that never were or ever could be real
Pay no heed and do not answer if he calls your name
Because there’s nothing to him but this solemn oath he swears…
To be the Moon whatever face he may be phasing

For still he pulls the mighty oceans to and fro
Gleams a pearly smile at you while putting poetry
And love songs on your tongue
The wolves may howl at his command but you must never sing for him
Or you may vanish in his shadow as he passes by your window in your sleep

Then carried swift upon the currents of the Milky Way
Past the warm fires of the sun and far beyond
The friendly hosts of heaven
For he can pluck you like a downy feather
From your mother’s breast and cast you headlong

Down a black abyss of terrifying visions
Because the moon, I say, is full of lies
Oh, I should know
I’ve watched entranced beneath those sunlit mountains
Listened to fantastic tales as bright as blinding ice on dazzling peaks

That rise above the nether regions of the soul
Then higher still, yes, higher than the angels are allowed to go
And all the while the darkness creeping up behind
As stealthy as a serpent sliding through the grass to crush your heart
And swallow you, your hopes and dreams, and body whole

Then hurtling through a wizard’s maze
And down into a witch’s well as deep and dark
As lost and gone as evermore shall be
So trust me when I tell you, child
Do not listen to the moon

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Bill Peeler

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My wife, Noy and I are Protestant missionaries in Cambodia. We met in a border refugee camp in Thailand back in 1979 while I was a refugee relief worker. She was a refugee. I lived and worked in Mairut Refugee Camp for three years. We have three grown kids. I was drafted into the Army in 1969, served in Vietnam from 1970 to 1971 and honorably discharged at the end of my military obligation. Writing prose and poetry is how I document the life I'm living and how I map out the mental landscape inside my head.
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4 Comments on "Do Not Listen To The Moon"

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Bill a wonderful poem, yes the moon is sometimes eerie shall I say but what would we do without its glow and its pull on earth. It does indeed mesmorise if we stare at it too long.


Such an adventure brave man, wonderful life experience and a testing of yourself I would say.
My mother used to look after people with a mental affliction and she used to say, she learnt
it was no old wives tale that some of her patients became more difficult in a full moon.


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