Reach Me Down The Moon

Ron's website

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REACH ME DOWN THE MOON

Bottled beer reflects the light
of moons upon the Arborite
and empty bowls of barley broth
leave rings upon the table cloth.
The dishes vanish one by one,
the phonograph plays Mendelssohn
while in the kitchen, out of time,
the kettle sings Sweet Adeline.
Evening is the morning of the night
and outside, where slain leaves gather
along the low-tide curbs,
mustered groups in loops of lunacy
are exchanging rolls and herbal teas
for paper cups of vinegar and peas
or trading radishes and red wax lips
for liquorice pipes and bags of chips.
A cadaver drives a Cadillac hearse,
a man in high-heels has a dog in his purse,
the sheep’s in the meadow,
the cow’s in the corn,
the gillygaloo lays an egg on the lawn.
When madness permeates the soul,
when elbows argue self-control,
when the dish runs away without the spoon,
it’s time to reach me down the moon.

SOLDIER’S SONG (B45816)

He had no kisses burning on his lips
when he went off to war,
he had no lover promising her heart
and greeting by the door.
He had no neighbors grieving as he left
and waving at the train,
he had no voices ringing in his ears
the words ‘we’ll meet again.’
He had no schoolgirl praying in the night
that fate might guide him well,
he had no dream to take him back in time
the timeless day he fell.
He had no honor-guard to justify
his patriotic will,
he had no angels kneeling at his side
when last the guns were still.
Yet when it was his time to die
so many ghosts marched slowly by.

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