Lunacy of the Cosmos: An Ode to the Twelve Moons

Lunacy of the Cosmos: A Moonlit Poem

In the January frost where wolves howl in chorus,
Echoes of the hunt pierce the darkness,
Fur like shadows, teeth glistening like stars,
The Wolf Moon rises,
Howls tethered to the hollow bones of winter.
Skin splits, air bites;
The lunar witness hangs silent—
Every growl a hymn to survival.

Snow Moon in February, white suffocation,
The earth shivers beneath its alabaster tomb.
Pillows of frost choke roots,
The horizon an infinite blank stare.
Ice-veined rivers halt their songs—
The moon dances above in crystalline indifference,
Casting its glow on frozen prayers,
Cold hallelujahs that bloom too late.

March shudders, the Worm Moon awakens,
The soil quakes with the writhing of rebirth,
Brown-bellied serpents churning earth into a hymn.
Death and rot turn into life—
A symphony of decomposition and resurrection.
Mud births the march of crows,
Their wings cut arcs against a drunken moon
That lurches toward spring like a fevered dream.

April unfurls with a Pink Moon blooming,
Not pink, but the idea of pink,
The hue of nostalgia trapped in dew-soaked petals.
Phlox dreams in pastel whispers,
Lungs filling with floral breath,
The moon a faded blush on the cheek of the cosmos,
Pale and fragile as a memory misplaced.
It waits. Always it waits.

May—Flower Moon bursts forth like chaos
In Technicolor. Blossoms riot against the green.
Perfumed explosions fill the void.
The moon swells with botanical secrets,
Its light dapples fields in unruly patterns,
A garden grown feral under silver watch.
Somewhere, petals drop into rivers,
Carried like forgotten words.

June, strawberry stains smear the sky,
The Strawberry Moon dangles sweet and ripe.
Fields hum with the memory of sugar,
Fingers stained with berry blood,
The red orb whispers to farmers,
Harvest now, devour, indulge.
The air smells of crushed fruit and fleeting summers—
A moment suspended, sticky, fleeting.

Antlers scrape the stars in July,
The Buck Moon crowns the night in velvet ambition.
Stags in darkened woods practice their soliloquies,
Each rack a cathedral of becoming.
The moon watches, patient,
As bone erupts from skull,
Each growth a poem,
Each shadow a stanza in the forest’s verse.

August pulls fish from the depths—
The Sturgeon Moon gleams,
Its body a sleek predator.
Hooks dangle from men’s dreams,
The lake swallows bait and reflection alike.
Scale-woven myths rise to the surface,
Glinting in the moonlight,
Silver stories gasping for breath.
The water remembers everything we forget.

September's Harvest Moon burns gold
Like fields ablaze in gratitude.
Scythes slice the air, and the earth sighs.
The moon wears its work-heavy glow,
Guiding hands as they pluck
Life from stems and branches.
Lanterns hang from the heavens,
And even the smallest grain
Tastes of labor and legacy.

October’s Hunter's Moon stalks the night,
Amber-eyed and cunning.
The forest whispers to sharpened arrows,
To boots pressing leaves into silence.
Blood pools beneath stars,
As the moon feasts on the hunt.
Its face reflects primal hunger,
Shadows carve the faces of the hunted—
Time halts before the kill.

November quivers, the Beaver Moon rises,
A dam-builder’s dreamscape.
Hands frozen to the bone lay traps,
Metal teeth snapping where water still breathes.
The moon nods as fur-covered engineers
Fortify their kingdoms,
While man, ever envious,
Steals warmth from their labor.
Winter waits in the moon's reflection,
Sharp as a predator's claw.

December is cruel with its Cold Moon glare,
The longest nights cradle a brittle stillness.
Trees wear ice as armor; the earth exhales mist.
Every crack of the ground is a symphony of surrender.
The moon looms, indifferent and pale—
A king on a throne of frost,
Overseeing a court of withered things.
It whispers to the void,
Each breath a shiver we feel in our bones.

And the rarest of moons, the Blue Moon,
A trickster in the celestial deck,
Plays its double role with cosmic flair.
Twice in a month it gleams,
An overachiever in a sky of regulars.
Its light, tinted with the color of impossibility,
Throws the night into disarray,
A glitch in time,
A dance with the improbable.

Blood Moon screams during the eclipse,
Red as the rage of forgotten gods.
The moon becomes a wound,
Leaking stories of fire and shadow.
Earth’s shadow swallows the light,
The heavens turn feral,
And the night trembles with ancestral fears.
The stars blink in shock.
The moon holds its breath,
Draped in its scarlet shroud.

The Supermoon swells like a boastful king,
Its face larger, its light louder.
A luminous braggart,
It pulls tides and hearts alike.
Each crater magnified,
Each flaw a monument.
It looms closer,
A celestial narcissist,
Casting its oversized shadow over our lives.

The moon, in all its forms,
Is an architect of dreams,
A silent witness to humanity's rituals,
To love confessed under its glow,
To lives taken in its name.
Every phase, a stanza;
Every shadow, a secret;
Every light, a promise.

In the churn of its cycles,
It remains constant yet ever-changing,
A paradox hung in the heavens,
Its many faces stitching stories
Across the tapestry of night.
We look up, searching,
And find ourselves reflected
In its cold, unblinking gaze.

#LunarPoetry #FullMoonMagic #WolfMoon #HarvestMoon #CosmicReflections #NaturePoetry