The moon is a lover, and she ain't got no curfew
Swamp poetry.
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Welcome.
Stomp readers, every day I set a timer for 15 minutes and I write what I can. Sometimes it’s 30 minutes, sometimes it’s 60. Sometimes it’s 94 words.
When I’m not writing, I miss making you laugh and feel things. When I am writing, and I’m pacing around with a full pot of coffee, barking at cars and hissing at cats, chittering at mice to stay away from my Ritz crackers, I miss making you laugh and feel things.
I miss you, and I hope you’re all well.
Here’s a sliver—the daintiest sliver—of spontaneous night poetry, for each of you who wish you spent your nights upon lily pads.
A swamp blows breath and pines exhale,
and in the darkened quiet gale,
The night toads watch the ripples.
Warm nest hollows line their ribs with needle straw.
Barren branches toss themselves in fits.
A fire flickers in a hollow
and the curtains come up.
Jazz crickets exhale sound from wings.
Frogs in skirts serve drinks on lilies.
A newt in dark glasses smokes a hand-rolled cigarette.
The muskrat opens beers with teeth.
Bodies move
and the owls dance with the mice.
The turtle sits alone away from the music
because his heartbreak is too fresh
but he still feels warmth from the notes.
The moon is a lover
And she ain’t got no curfew.
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For a feature length tale of a heartbroke plow ‘squatch hired to solve a frosty mystery, read Stomp Bigfoot Drives Plow and Solves Murder in a February Nor’easter, a blizzardly murder mystery set around a mysterious designer drug called “Outrage” luring bakers to their deaths.
Nice, Jon.