🌕 Tonight’s Poem: Harvest Blood Moon 🌕
There’s something unsettling about the night when the moon refuses to stay distant—when it swells, burns, and feels like it’s leaning just a little too close to Earth.
Inspired by the eerie, dreamlike tone of The Flying Nightdress by Mandakranta Sen, this piece explores a quiet world asleep while something vast and strange unfolds overhead. The Harvest Blood Moon becomes more than a celestial event—it becomes a presence. Heavy. Watching. Unnoticed.
This poem leans into sensory imagery—color, weight, stillness—to create that tension between beauty and unease. It’s not about telling you the moon is close… it’s about making you feel like you could almost reach up and touch it.
✨ Read slowly. Let the atmosphere settle in. This is a night no one witnesses—but something still changes.
Harvest Blood Moon
It rises when the world has folded itself quiet—
porch lights dimmed to embers,
fields breathing out the last warmth of day.
Low—too low—
as if the sky has loosened its grip
and let something ancient slip closer.
The moon hangs swollen on the horizon,
a burnished weight pressing against the dark,
its edges trembling in the thin haze of night.
It should be distant—
it isn’t.
Light drags through the air
like slow-moving honey,
thickened by dust and unseen breath,
reddened the way sunsets bleed
when the world exhales its heat .
And there—
on its surface—
not just gray,
but bruised maroons and rusted golds,
veins of shadow threading through
like cracks in cooling iron.
Crater rims glow softly,
rounded and swollen,
as if they might spill over—
as if the moon is not stone
but something pulsing,
something watching.
The fields do not notice.
Corn leaves whisper to themselves,
silvered at the edges,
bowing to a gravity they cannot name.
A barn roof catches the color—
holds it—
then lets it slide away.
Somewhere, a window reflects it,
briefly,
like an eye opening and closing again.
No one wakes.
And still it descends closer—
not in distance,
but in feeling—
pressing its red hush into the land,
painting the sleeping world
in shades it will not remember
by morning.
I love the use of colour in this poem, Richard, when it is hinted at, for example, ‘porch lights dimmed to embers,’ and ‘a burnished weight pressing against the dark’, and explicit as in ‘reddened the way sunsets bleed when the world exhales its heat’ and ‘ bruised maroons and rusted golds’.