#poem, «Little Blue Moons»

LITTLE BLUE MOONS

(Written while listening to The Seasons by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky)

We see what we want, and yet nothing is real.
What we think we are seeing are mere fragments
extracted from our dreams.
We have burned reality with the flames of our repressed desires,
and seasoned it it with slag,
and filled it with the nonsense we are fed,
like when they told us bananas are pedantic,
and robots romantic,
and sugar-filled beaches with dunes
and a man on the moon…

I think we have conjured little blue moons in a universe someone’s invented.

We live surrounded by strangers we fancy and think we know well.
But you don’t really know all these friends and these neighbours,
so let me explain.
There are wounds that won’t heal,
though we mend them throughout an eternity.
While thinking we’re doing the best that we can,
we neglect our dear elders,
forgetting the years that they’ve given us,
forgetting the love they’ve unconditionally given us.
Utility comes first in the minds of abusers,
and when they judge you’re no longer of use,
those vile, heartless users,
they cast you aside,
to a lonely exile,
in dark, scary corners.

And still, though you may not see them, there are little blue moons that surround us…

Look…
Touch…
Taste…
Smell…
Feel the wind that circles around you and that keeps eagles soaring,
you don’t know where it came from or where it’s going.
Dip your feet in the sea that is weeping;
have a drink from a river that’s roaring,
while the world,
steered by the will of the voting majority,
spins round in circles in a space that’s imagined
by the experts of science and the masters of tales,
who have jointly devised a scheme filled with lies
to deceive us,
to control us they’re trying,
though I know,
without a doubt,
they are lying…

They say there is one, but I know there are more little blue moons on this grey, stony plane.

We rush and we fret as we try to arrive
to a bland nowhere land barely alive,
where there’s nothing to say and nothing to do,
where there’s nothing to see,
where nothing is true,
where nothing’s of import,
not me and not you,
Where they’re always constructing,
where other’s have built,
Cannot we decide to coexist?

No, such thing!
Quite impossible!
For us, we right,
and we stand tall and strong,
and all others, sans doute, are obviously wrong!

So take all your moons,
blue or little or large,
and shove them quite deep,
yes, quite deep up your arse!

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23 SEP 2025 – Francisco Bravo Cabrera – Izmir, Türkiye

CHEERS