Rocking Moon

Rocking Moon

A Poem by TheStubbornPen

For everyone who has to grow old.


Grandma is rocking in her chair,

like a goddess on the crescent moon

sprinkling down Autumn

for a harvest.


And he comes;

with October in one hand

and a pocket watch in the other.

"I'm early," he says

and sets his hat on the coffee table.

The Universe is hiding inside his fedora

 but Grandma is careful not to look.


"The kettle is on the stove,"

she tells him  from her rocking moon,

"if you'd like a quick cup." 

The gray-white wisps of her hair

wrap up the stars of the window behind her

into beds of cumulonimbus.


He folds up Grandma in his eyes,

 a shade just darker than Forever,

and holds her there

like she hasn't been held in years:

With a warm, patient love

that understands the inconvenience of age,

and gives up the egoism of beauty

to get the names of every laugh and tear or shout

that carved those "ugly" wrinkles

into her face.


When he moves across the carpet,

kicking up the dust of  mountains

and the sand of deserts,

he goes slowly

because, really, he's older than she is.


Long fingered artists

at the end of his arms,

pick up the teapot.

They are calloused and burned,

with black and silver comet flakes

trapped under the fingernails,

because he works nine hours a day

reshaping creation

so that it still fits into it's cradle.


He pours two cups

and flavors them with the breeze of his breath.

Grandma sips the tea from underneath the reflection

of his handsome face and asks

"Is there time?"

He answers,

"If there isn't, I'll make a little extra."


A skein of black wool in Grandma's lap,

pierced with silver needles,

weighs her down with the graceful lump of an unfinished sock.

Isn't that like life? she thinks.

Unfinished Socks.  


They drink together

and listen to the silence of a king sized mattress

 that is always cold on one side

and a patient telephone

 that rings once a week  on Fridays at two-thirty.

Outside the mailbox stands sentinel at the end

of the driveway. Empty mouth wide open,

like a scream, or a challenge;

an argument, that the postman gave up on long ago.

And the rose bushes, which don't bloom anymore,

stand at the mailbox's back.


"I'm done." Grandma's voice is

crackled leaves and knuckles,

Fall wind.

She puts her feet flat against the rug

and stops the moon from rocking.


He stands up and puts his hat back on

so the Universe trickles around his ears

like a busted egg.

Grandma smiles toothlessly at him

when he embraces her out of the world.

He makes her all the promises she's heard before

and puts her to sleep in the brim of his fedora.


He leaves her bag of bones

and the empty tea cups



At two thirty the phone yells itself hoarse

and feels rejected when the dead don't answer.

The bed turns over, cold.

The roses gave up the summer no one came to trim.

The mailbox keeps shouting though,

having no way of knowing what has happened



Grandma's children come.

They don't have the presence of mind to wonder

whom she was having tea with.  

And the cups catch the salty water

of their hysteria;

which only proves that they didn't understand her.

He'll come back for that later,

use it to refill the sea.

© 2010 TheStubbornPen

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I've never read anything like this. You told a story here, effortlessly weaving poetics and narrative into one shining flowing piece. You have so many memorable lines and images that it's impossible to pick out one. This is going in my library so I can read it again... I think there's multiple angles to interpret this from. Well done.

Posted 10 Years Ago

2 of 2 people found this review constructive.


This is so well written... I really enjoyed this, fantastic write!

Posted 10 Years Ago

I am speechless u have a talent to give fine details in a story like manner and that also in a poem. A total win , win win it is a pleasure to read such a masterpiece,
keep it up.

Posted 10 Years Ago

This was one of the most beautiful things, if not the most beautiful, that I've ever read on this board. Truly. You've not just told a story, not just evoked emotion with poetry, but - in my opinion - you've done what the true purpose of poetry and prose is: You've touched on myth. You've touched something that makes us all human. Perfect. This is going in my library.

Posted 10 Years Ago

This is one of the amazing poems I read for long long time :) ... Thank you , its so good . Bravooo Yossi

Posted 10 Years Ago

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You know what? This is great. Just great. I ♥ this!!!!!!!!!!!

Posted 10 Years Ago

Absolutely terrific. You just gave it life.

Posted 10 Years Ago



Posted 10 Years Ago

I think this is superb! It is unique and told in a manner that is storylike:) A beautifully moving poem love:)
The aging process, thoughts that you think will never enter your mind, lost memories, this is so emotive!

Posted 10 Years Ago

So intense, beautiful and insightful. A lovely and lyrical portrait of a soul in transit.

Posted 10 Years Ago

This is a truly grand write that burns and hurts our eyes down to our hearts. Yes this is the mirror of the inevitable truth that no-one seems to like, because yes, there's no veil to hide the ugly here..., we all see our own selfishness ... and future in it.
Awesome and loud wake up call dressed in stunning imagery and lines.
Brilliant piece.

Posted 10 Years Ago

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31 Reviews
Shelved in 10 Libraries
Added on July 8, 2010
Last Updated on July 8, 2010
Tags: age, death, God



For all you know I could be an extra-terrestrial. more..

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A Poem by TheStubbornPen

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