A Poem a Day (740): Silver and 3 other poems (written on the move)

 
Silver
 
The Man in the Moon moved.
One day he simply stepped down,
left his silver boa behind,
took the world’s spotlight down.
A torch blew out on every town
and all their inhabitants wondered why,
lit lanterns to mimic his expression,
but found nothing bright enough.
Without his gaze the night sky grieved,
ships lost their direction out to sea,
out of rhythm, not out of sympathy.
 
The dark heavens roared his name,
but the Man in the Moon never looked back.
Rainbows and waterfalls called out to him,
and he wandered every realm unseen,
learning anew the world he’d only viewed by night,
places once so lost to him in darkness
because he never saw them shine.
 
 
Biscuit man
 
Biscuit man with his biscuit tin
waits in the wings, sees the Earth grow thin,
runs rings around state-grown rules, feels spent,
wonders why every ruler now seems bent,
feels the bitterness in the dawn of each new day,
acts like a mirror in every distant way.
 
Paint a river of new awakenings,
learn a law that never points the finger,
recall every moment you didn’t have to try.
 
It’s a distant word that’s never said,
a world you never wanted to tread.
You feel the echo, the remembering,
an alternate reality you placed him in.
 
 
Wild winds
 
Try to decipher a life,
a page, a sentence in planning,
an anecdote you chose to forget,
a number you never wanted to lose.
 
We are as the wild winds breathe,
wandering free in the embrace of choice,
this while, this order, this syllable.
We dispel. We wait a while. And forget.
 
Our echoes linger precious,
cut our souls into shreds.
Piece the pieces together like cake.
Feel the split.
Linger in the vision,
this fluid energy we call hope.
 
There is distance,
there is remembrance.
He blew it all away,
let it settle on the wind.
A little light heart.
It never died.
 
 
Matchboxes
 
We match in the box.
They didn’t give us enough space,
wanting to be a witness.
 
We wish to be different
something other,
neither compared nor imitated.
 
There is taste
and there is tasteless.
And we celebrate ourselves.
 
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, October 22, 2025