Tag Archives: poem

Hunter’s Moon

She stepped from the gloom,
Into the light of the Hunter’s Moon.
Why a Hunter’s Moon she pondered,
As along the path she wandered.
The moonlit path littered with leaves,
And sounds of exhalations as she breathes.
The scraping of squeaking limb,
She begins to hum a hymn.
Crack! A small branch falls down.
She walks more rapidly towards town.
And instead of hymn starts to chant,
“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.”
The moon shine is not yet obscured
By the eclipse penumbral so rare.
She wanders on without a care,
As one to nature’s ways inured.
The eclipse, penumbral, was it not?
Yet at that moment darkness fell complete.
Hands cruel; breath hot.
Wrestled to her knees, then feet.
But are these human hands, she thought.
Or did she fail the gods of yore,
Who rose up from the earth’s hot core?
As she gasped, an eerie laugh,
And voice, not spoken, telepath,
Rang in her ears, as every year.
It’s time to come, Persephone.
Three months you’ll stay below with me.

Martha Wainwright, sister of Rufus Wainwright, sings a poignant mother’s lament about a lost daughter. This song was written by Martha’s late mother, Kate McGarrigle.

No November

November in New Jersey by Circespeaks

November in New Jersey by Circespeaks

My father read this poem to me from the Golden Book of Poetry when I was little. I remember not understanding it, not being properly horrified by the nothingness that Thomas Hood dreaded in November.


No sun – no moon!
No morn – no noon –
No dawn – no dusk – no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member –
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! –
Thomas Hood

November, the real November that we are supposed to have, with overcast skies, almost continuous drizzle, and the occasional whiff of snow borne south, has gone missing. I miss the real November. This impostor November has been cold enough to bring bright colors to the leaves, most of which are now fallen. The drought worries me. The sun is getting on my nerves.

Dear Sun,

Could you please tone it down a bit?

Thank you,


The drought, ongoing since mid-July, is a concern. We did not water as we should have done. Of course I watered plants and bushes in the heat of the summer, but by the time I thought of giving the very largest trees a deep soaking–which I started to do a couple of days ago–the nights dropped below freezing, and all water to the outdoors is turned off.

The Farmer’s Almanac predicts a snowy winter, but following hard upon a very hot and dry summer and fall, I fear losing more trees and worse when the snow falls on dry and brittle branches.

Besides which, I confess: I love rain. Sunny days are pleasant now and then, but there is nothing like a nice, rainy day to put me in a good mood. Unless of course it is a thunderstorm on a sweltering summer day. So off to the Northwest with me? Seattle? Portland?

I think I caught the one overcast moment (I exaggerate, but not much) of this entire fall last Sunday afternoon.

Do you miss the rain? Do you miss November?