An Easter Moon

   The moon looks so much different
   as I sit, alone and quiet;
   it comforts me as never before.
   It's almost white bright,
   casting shadows as I lean against
   this building.

   Never noticed a moon shadow
   in the swamps of Louisiana,
   guess I was too busy to see.
   The stillness around me is creepy,
   I can't look at the stars
   they seem to be falling.

   It's this beautiful moon, man,
   I conjure up odd thoughts
   of where, when, and why.
   You ever been in a place
   where everything smelled
   unfamiliar, strange and, well, strange?

   On this Easter morning,
   this place makes me think of
   The Garden of Gethsemane.
   The old song,
   I Come To The Garden Alone,
   sorta wells up my eyes, don't know why.

   Ah, but the Easter Moon
   is not a sad sight, no,
   brings to mind lively Easter Bonnets.
   Houses have a soft glow
   beneath dangling stars,
   look, there, a shooting one.

   Far away a dog barks timidly,
   don't see many dogs here,
   I don't think they like them.
   I bring my hands in front of my face,
   stare as though
   I see a mirror reflection.

   A strange face, a strange land,
   hands calloused, bloody,
   what happened?
   My body clenches, desires
   woman,
   I have not loved yet.

   Sitting beneath the stars,
   virginal in amour,
   knowing not woman's flesh.
   If I close my eyes, will I awake
   more God-like,
   without blemish, pure?

   I sigh,
   loudly, remembering
   the melody of an oldie but a goodie.
   I'm very tired, wish it
   would rain, wash away the stench
   of rotting meat; theirs and ours.

   I watch the Easter Moon,
   oh, there!  Again!  Another shooting star,
   or is it the enemy's mortar shells?

   ©April 9, 2004 / Jerry Pat Bolton