By JAMES BULLION.
The Cartoon Moon
IT BECAME SO hard to write.
As if the night without you
left no light in which
a cartoon bulb could spring to life
with the pull of a cord
a white orb
from above a spider-like craft
descends on a black line of thought
gingerly with a wide blinking eye
at the white of you.
You are an egg
with veins that swirl
to the slow swim of men
amongst the egg ropes
that centre them
where their hearts wait
for a spider’s clutch
through the bloom of dust
Apollo 17 # 1
IT WAS A false dawn.
Barbara took the phone off the hook,
took a bath and went to bed.
One of the ground crew, no matter who,
put in pictures of Miss December 1972 for the ride.
There is place where the Earth lets go
where the moon takes hold in a swap of power.
Feet first and face down they fell toward it.
The North Massif, Family Mountain, Frosty, Rudolf
Punk, Barjean and Poppie, Sherlock, and Camelot.
Camelot for America, and they are down, and still.
Not the song of a bird, not the bark of a dog
not a murmur of wind just machine breath.
Apollo 17 # 2
IT TAKES 9 seconds for the launch forces
cloud came to earth in a pitch-black night
bright fire raised the fish
who held still before dropping in a froth
on the moon cowboys herd rocks
one time a drill freezes in rock and he spins
in private they agree they are puppets and question why they came
they dream of returning
James Bullion lives and writes in Norwich. He studied Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia (Dip) and the National Writer’s Centre Norwich. His poetry has appeared in Ink Sweat and Tears and Spiked Magazine. He is working on a short collection of poems grouped around the time of the moon landings, of which these form a part. Twitter: @JamesBullion.