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    In the Light of the Full Moon: Dispersions, Glimpses, and Reflections
    In the Light of the Full Moon: Dispersions, Glimpses, and Reflections
    In the Light of the Full Moon: Dispersions, Glimpses, and Reflections
    Ebook130 pages54 minutes

    In the Light of the Full Moon: Dispersions, Glimpses, and Reflections

    By Don Langford and TBD

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    About this ebook

    Don Langford's poetry is inseparable from self exploration. Here, the poet examines impermanence, patience, and interconnectedness with a seeker's longing for equanimity and meaning. With keen observations and strands of wit and humor, In the Light of the Full Moon is a meditation on fi

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherD S Langford Publishing
    Release dateDec 16, 2022
    ISBN9798986754611
    Author

    Don Langford

    Don Langford was born in Ontario, Canada, grew up in Southern California, and has lived and studied in Oregon and Ohio. His previous poetry collections include In the Light of the Full Moon: Dispersions, Glimpses, and Reflections; Songs from Deep Time; Dwelling in the Twilight Realm; Water Rock Time, and Fragrant Blossoms, Fading Light. These days he spends his time writing poems, hiking, and traveling with his wife, Marlene.

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      Book preview

      In the Light of the Full Moon - Don Langford

      The Landlord Next Door

      Patching a crack in the walkway,

      filling a small hole in his house

      with cement, returning a cup of soil

      to a hole left in the ground by squirrels,

      the old man, my landlord, works

      patiently.

      The world’s calamities can wait;

      he harvests the tomatoes that he planted

      from seed, waters the impatiens that grow

      in fullest bright color by his porch,

      turns the earth and worms in his garbage can of rich

      dark soil.

      He will disappear some days with his fishing pole

      and box of floaters and sinkers, and a lunchbox;

      he will disappear with the squirrel cage that he uses

      to relocate squirrels to other wooded places,

      perpetually moving each generation that moves into our

      neighborhood.

      He will disappear

      and the world that never knew he was here

      will be smaller because of his disappearance.

      He will leave no big mark that he was here;

      he tends to his lawn, removing the weeds

      each spring and fall,

      the humblest of souls

      taking the littlest portions from this world

      and returning them back to the earth,

      working deliberately and slowly,

      keeping his little part of the world from falling apart.

      The Monorail

      There is no monorail conductor.

      People enter the car to find others are already there.

      Some get off, others get on, and the car moves along with precision.

      There’s no way to know where and when the ride originated.

      A few people on the car remember someone

      who had remembered someone else farther back along the rail

      who speculated about a group of wise folks who

      devoted their discourses to the importance of the monorail ride,

      but they weren’t especially concerned about where the ride started.

      Others said they think they know where the ride began

      and where it will end, even though we’ll all have to depart

      before the monorail reaches the end.

      Some of the earlier travelers recorded a few of their ideas

      and left them in the car,

      others wrote books about what previous riders had said.

      I’ve read a few of the books left in the car,

      and occasionally I converse with other passengers to see

      if they will offer any clues about where we’ve been

      and where we’re going.

      A few people are saying that the destination is real

      but the journey isn’t.

      Others say that all of the experience in the monorail is an illusion.

      When I sit quietly it seems that there is nothing outside of the mind.

      Seismic Vertical

      — the point upon the earth’s surface

      vertically over the center of effort

      or focal point, whence the earthquake’s impulse proceeds,

      or the vertical line connecting these two points—

      Could we have known there were signs

      in the motion of birds,

      the dog’s ears,

      and the crickets’ silence—

      that beneath the calm surface of things

      our lives were trembling—

      breaking up—

      rolling out of control?

      Directly over the blind and silent fury

      we lived our lives

      as if these gentle contours of hill and valley

      were something constant—

      like unchanging friend, always there

      to measure our shifting temperament,

      youthful folly,

      mid-life anxieties . . .

      always there to give the illusion

      that our disbelief in the solid

      unity and wholeness of things

      was itself an illusion.

      For as long as these mountains and ravines

      through which we have walked

      these many years

      remain still

      amid the

      seasonal

      changes,

      there would be for us

      an ordered world

      restrained by some logic to prevent it

      from whirling into unexplained chaos.

      But today, the winter trees might well have

      sprouted wings and flown south

      like late arboreal geese;

      the streams and pools that cooled us in summer

      might just as well have boiled away

      into blue mist, leaving

      only a faint taste on our lips

      of ever having been here.

      We did not read the signs;

      there were no dung beetles to raise their antennae

      to the charge of buffalo;

      no noticeable formation of ice cracks

      in the standing water

      that would alert us to impending

      violent earth shake.

      We were talking about the drives we once made

      along the winding California coastline,

      ferns and foxglove in dew-laden summer mornings,

      along the steep ravines that dropped to the sea.

      That’s how blood vessels burst

      in one’s brain

      they say,—or in one’s heart—

      waiting quietly, then exploding

      in the moment of calm,

      as when you and I were caught in that green reminiscence,

      the quiet nostalgia

      of comfort in our own time,

      not really thinking that this would last forever,

      but not believing

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