Over the Moon for International Women’s Month

It happens this way …

This morning the worm moon or wolf moon or sap moon or supermoon peeked into my bedroom window. She reminded me about who really lives on this beauty in the sky.

Moon Goddess: “No man in my house!”

A man in the moon?

Give me a break!


They see what they want.

Myopia is no excuse.


It’s a culture thing.

But what’s his name? His origins?


Yue-Laou? Fictional.

Cain, the fratricide?


The gatherer of dried-out sticks

breaking Sabbath rules?


Last time I looked,

moonlight wasn’t punitive.


And tell me this:

Has he earned devotees


like Isis, Ishtar, Hecate,

Diana, Venus, Artemis,


Ixchel, Frigga, Ursula,

and a dozen more?


Where are temples raised

to him by other men?


Call me what you will,

I appeal. Ask farmers, sailors,


healers, seekers of fertility,

believers in the magic of rebirth.


Him? He’s nothing more

than craters, shadows, crevices


or, if you go for the absurd,

the hurdle for ambitious cows.


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