“The moving moon went up the sky, and nowhere did abide. Softly she was going up, and a star or two beside.” -Samuel Taylor Coleridge

“The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky are all asleep tonight.” -William C. Bryant

“The moon will guide you through the night with her brightness, but she will always dwell in the darkness, in order to be seen.” -Shannon L. Alder

“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” – Oscar Wilde

“She used to tell me that a full moon was when mysterious things happen and wishes come true.” – Shannon A. Thompson

“The faults of a superior person are like the sun and moon. They have their faults, and everyone sees them; they change and everyone looks up to them.” – Confucius

Hello everyone and welcome to another exciting week at Prompt Nights. Perhaps no celestial object has inspired more myth and legend other than the moon. Pale and mysterious it serves as inspiration to millions of people around the world. It is also said that the full moon tends to affect our mood and behaviour. Tonight I want you guys to write a poem or prose piece regarding the moon. Feel free to take the subject in whichever direction that you desire. Previously written work is more than welcome. For further inspiration please refer to the three amazing poems below:

To The Moon

by Count Giacomo Leopardi

O lovely moon, how well do I recall
The time,–’tis just a year–when up this hill
I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:
And thou suspended wast o’er yonder grove,
As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.
But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared
Thy countenance to me, because my eyes
Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;
For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,
And _is_ so still, unchanged, belovèd moon!
And yet this recollection pleases me,
This computation of my sorrow’s age.
How pleasant is it, in the days of youth,
When hope a long career before it hath,
And memories are few, upon the past
To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!

The Moon Song

by Robert William Service

A child saw in the morning skies
The dissipated-looking moon,
And opened wide her big blue eyes,
And cried: “Look, look, my lost balloon!”
And clapped her rosy hands with glee:
“Quick, mother! Bring it back to me.”

A poet in a lilied pond
Espied the moon’s reflected charms,
And ravished by that beauty blonde,
Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.
And as he’d never learnt to swim,
Poor fool! that was the end of him.

A rustic glimpsed amid the trees
The bluff moon caught as in a snare.
“They say it do be made of cheese,”
Said Giles, “and that a chap bides there. . . .
That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow —
The lad’s a-winkin’ at me now.”

Two lovers watched the new moon hold
The old moon in her bright embrace.
Said she: “There’s mother, pale and old,
And drawing near her resting place.”
Said he: “Be mine, and with me wed,”
Moon-high she stared . . . she shook her head.

A soldier saw with dying eyes
The bleared moon like a ball of blood,
And thought of how in other skies,
So pearly bright on leaf and bud
Like peace its soft white beams had lain;
Like Peace! . . . He closed his eyes again.

Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown,
Ah yes, old Moon, what things you’ve seen!
I marvel now, as you look down,
How can your face be so serene?
And tranquil still you’ll make your round,
Old Moon, when we are underground.

The Harvest Moon

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

So pick up a pen and lets begin! As always the prompt will remain open the entire week so that everyone can write according to their own pace and time. Please click on the blue widget below. When it opens be sure to click on “add your link.” Now skip the blanks and proceed directly to “try here” written at the end in small font. It will direct you on how to link your poem. Please visit other Poets and do comment on their poems. Have fun ❤️