Dawn of the Purple Moon Dawn of the purple moon— poets and lovers swoon to glimpse her through black lines— tall shadows, eastern pines. With bright round coins for eyes, we stare as in surprise and watch her slow ascent into the firmament. The vestments she’s put on turn crimson, then saffron although she sheds such dyes concurrent with her rise. Apace, she fades her hue as Nature’s wont to do, turns pallid, wan and cold— a trifle to behold— and, too familiar, soon she’s nothing but the moon. Poets, no more to say, set pads and pens away, and lovers, lost of charms, slip from each other’s arms.
Riddled Heart Begun from sparks, a flame as high as seabirds painted on the sky was something that could never be, a lesson learned—unhappily because, for all the world, so few could solve my riddled heart as you. But our paths differ, and we knew sound hearts alone can’t see us through. Believe me, none feel bad as I to hold you once, then say goodbye.
Greg Hill is a poet and adjunct professor of English in West Hartford, Connecticut. His work has appeared in Pioneertown, Cheap Pop, Six Sentences, Atlas and Alice, and elsewhere and he has an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. In the free time afforded to a father of three young girls, he experiments with composing music for piano using cryptographic constraints. Twitter: @PrimeArepo. Website: https://www.gregjhill.com.