The moon’s energy has the power to control the ebb and flow of the ocean and can even impact human behaviors. To honor each phase is a spiritual practice that can greatly impact your life and your healing journey. Each phase holds a special meaning, representing the regrowth and renewal we seek. As the first phase of the moon cycle, the new moon phase holds special meaning for cultures around the world. It is often viewed as a symbol of new beginnings. During the new moon phase, the moon, the sun, and Earth are all on the same longitude line, resulting in the moon’s orbit being invisible from the Earth.
New moon rituals often consist of meditation on personal desires, dreams, and intentions. The energy of the new moon helps people grow spiritually as they seek out the moon’s healing energy. The new moon represents a time of great self-awareness where hopes and visions for the future can be manifested. Below are five poems that honor this time of renewal and pay homage to this scared moon phase.
Sitting with the child of the moon
I saw how much I have been avoiding her stare
Her restless stories of being alone
I find them old and gross
The hole in her chest
I turn away
She’s a big mess
Her tears that fall for reasons she cannot accurately recall
When my mask falls, when the leaves fall
The sadness in her eyes
I turn away
She’s a burden at best
Sitting with her
I am itching to leave
Back out there, a world full of thieves
In her cell, she waits for me as her only friend
With the same patience and faith
I am her person
I am her only person
I am her world
I am her
She is me
Sitting with her I choose not to leave
And the hole in her chest heals
I hold her close
Her warm tears melt my walls
She looks up and sees there is no roof to her jail
She can finally soar away
said the moon
and the new day came
the show must go on said the sun
life does not stop for anybody
it drags you by the legs
whether you want to move forward or not
that is the gift
life will force you to forget how you long for them
your skin will shed till there is not
a single part of you left they’ve touched
your eyes finally just your eyes
not the eyes which held them
you will make it to the end
of what is only the beginning
go on open the door to the rest of it
– Rupi Kaur
If you must hear the story
of my turbulent gaze after waking,
the march of my hours to hermit
into a higher body, it is that
whatever you put into the Universe
In our oneness of gift,
we are eyes together,
nerves together, affected together.
If I’ve never told you
how madly we share in the stars,
how it was all founded for you,
then let the longing for Arcturus
be the gilding of our sleep.
I know when your time was in its
making, I was left to sing alone,
unfed to trample through a hundred
layers of night without a heart
to hold my guard.
If I had known all those days
to listen deep into myself so that you
would begin to hear me, I’d sooner
soak the decibels of your cells
into the exhale of my embrace.
A scorning within is within
coming back to scorn.
A rose quartz promise lifted into
the world is the world coming back
to surrender its love.
Even after I took my health
into a vineyard of hawks,
I could not break myself from caring
but only to seek you, find you,
whisper into your palm:
you are not lost, you won’t be lost.
— Mai Der Vang
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago—
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below—
Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde—
Her Cheek—a Beryl hewn—
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known—
Her Lips of Amber never part—
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will—
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star—
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door—
Her Bonnet is the Firmament—
The Universe—Her Shoe—
The Stars—the Trinkets at Her Belt—
Her Dimities—of Blue—
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky —
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.