Above the island the moon is fully round these nights,
dripping light,
succulent, impossibly
perfect.
But it’s not the wolves that howl here;
it is the waves.
At the curl just offshore comes the low siren of them,
an eerie organic sound building as they cascade on shore.
Controlled, commandeered by the moon
just as the wolves are.
She, all powerful in her sphere,
they, powerless,
mere tools so far below
for her bidding.
Always be a poet. Even in prose.
— Charles Baudelaire.
In essence I am a storyteller who writes poems. Put simply, I write the poems I want to read.[…]
A sequence of my poems has been published in a hardcover book entitled The Music of Leaving Poems by Tricia McCallum
More info…
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