Full Moon Fools

Full Moon Fools Where the Judges Can't See

Who are you at the hour when everyone stops performing?

This poem happened in a field, under a full moon, with people who'd stopped pretending hours before. But I think everyone has their own version of that field, their own hour, their own people, their own place where the judges can't see.

Where the Judges Can't See

Full Moon Fools playing musical bar stools.

Gathering the necessary souls for a Full Moon Fools intervention.

Close the bars. It's 2 a.m.

Perfect timing in a field by the forest under full moon light.

Grass, dirt, and mystical trees. Moonshine, dry herbs, bare feet, Full Moon Fools dance and sing.

Wading far out in the depth we share, pain, addictions, laughter, proof of our scars.

Color-soaked details we whisper of love and humiliation, all the ways we've tangled with Venus and Mars.

In daylight, judges would torture us, burn us, or let us drown.

Only Full Moon Fools understand why communication is best after sundown.

I think about that field often. Not so much the moonshine, it would surely take me out now. I'm talking about the honesty, when our guard went down. I don't think you need a full moon or a forest to find it.

I imagine everyone has a night like that, somewhere. Could it still be waiting for you to write it down?