Rose Mary Boehm

A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and two poetry collections, her work has been widely published in US poetry journals (online and print). She was three times winner of the monthly Goodreads competition. Her third poetry collection has just been published by Kelsay Books.


Somewhere, Moon Time

Wolves howling, snows drifting,
blizzards covering field and brush. A muzzle
opens, fangs glistening in the white light,
an echo in the woods. Fine droplets arc
from the flews. It’s almost upon you.
Wolf Moon.

Cabins, pathways, bushes indistinct,
flowing into each other under thick
eiderdowns of heavy whiteness.
No animals stirs, the hunter asleep,
the children dream of food.
Hunger Moon.

The tinkle of water on ice, slush
and suction on muddy fields,
crusts on refrozen snow, crows
alighting, leaving their intoeing
spoors. Hope for bird song.
Crow Moon.

Cowslip, hyacinth, lilac, bluet.
First spring greens unfolding
from naked branches, blackened earth.
Tadpoles socialize in the shallow pond,
Sudden frost only threatens.
Pink Moon.

Shadbush, catalpa and dogwood,
bees hum between branches
of rhododendrons and the first
mountain laurel, buzz in and out
of pink azaleas. Time for planting.
Flower Moon.

Nights are sweet. Thieves abound.
Birds, slugs, snails move in to harvest
young leaves. Strawberries
fail to hide undercover of green.
Picked for midsummer’s day.
Strawberry Moon.

Prussian, indigo, midnight blue,
black. July storms, racing clouds
slashed, flattened wheat fields.
Raindrops the size of humming bird eggs.
Deer retreat into the woods.
Thunder Moon.

The white sturgeon take the bait,
the horizons glow crimson, August hazes
drift across water. The winds
of the end of summer.
Make haste.
Red Moon.

Bring in the corn. Store squash,
pumpkins, beans and rice, work late
by the light of the moon. Shoulder
the burden of obligation, prepare
for the earth’s big sleep.
Harvest Moon.

Stalk patiently, the deer are fat.
Light the smoke stack. Your mount
takes the hedges in pursuit of the fox,
the dachshund follows the badger.
The end of fall is unforgiving.
Hunter’s Moon.

The beavers are making sure their lodges
are secured, check on their dams,
add one or two. Set your trap.
A beaver hat will see you through
the worst of winter.
Beaver Moon.

Longest nights, the big sleep.
Light the fire, cut the wood,
protect your stores from furry robbers,
sit with a mulled wine, leaf through
a book of poetry.
Cold Moon.

© 2018 Rose Mary Boehm