See the new moon up-slip
and flare its vicious whips of light
across the back of night.
The moon bears no delight, but brings
dull rays of hurts and stings
made yesterday. It sings cold songs
old songs that don’t belong
if we are to move on and make
a fresh and novel take
in the lake while baking a cake.
To hear this poem being read click HERE!
Apologies for poor audio – broken mic.
Weave a Web 
Sublime. I found the accompanying image added a certain panache to the experience.
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Thank you Craig. I find it hard at times to maintain a creative stance.
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I like cake.
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I thought you would, you peasant. You and Maria Antoinette.
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The woman had excellent taste, I do confess.
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That one set me thinking. I loved how moon’s angst is old and chilly. It is almost as if it is mourning its lost glory, and asserting that one must indulge in novel enterprises to renew the glitter.
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One day I just might finish the poem properly!
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The cake line is priceless…and you couldn’t get through it lol.
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I tried several times to be serious, but with a broken mic some things are not possible.
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You made me laugh when it came to it.
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I think I might start keeping a blob also, and write about academic stuff.
How long have you had your blob?
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Blobs are great. It’s fun to go blobbing with friends.
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Certainly, the last line is the stand-out line as in, “You, yes you, the last line. Stand outside!”
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We lost a lot when caning went out the window! (That and witch trials).
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