Poems for the Strawberry Moon

Dandelion Scribes presents a selection of 13 poems to celebrate the rise of the Strawberry Moon on June 21, 2024. Read on to walk with us through our poetic reverie as we serenade the full June moon—seeking guidance, offering wisdom, confessing secrets, and standing in our power. Featured poets:

Olivia Gilreath
Frances Denise, @francesdenisepoetry
Dane Osborne, @daneosborne.85
Cheyanne Leonardo, @dithyrambler
Seneca Basoalto, @senecabasoalto
Laura Jean Henebry, @betweenthelinesandspaces
Cari Lynne King, @inkstainedmemoirs
*S. Lee

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

SILVER SERENADE: ODE TO THE MOON

Oh, the moon so bright, a gentle nightlight,
In the sky, it shines, a mesmerizing sight,
Silver beams dance, in the dark expanse,
A celestial wonder, a cosmic romance.
Earthlings, the moon so high,
In the velvet sky it does lie,
A beacon of silver, a guide in the night,
Casting its glow, a tranquil light.
Oh, Earthlings, the moon above,
In the night sky, shining with love,
A celestial pearl, glowing so bright,
Guiding us through the dark of night.

–Olivia Gilreath

⚘

SINCE THE STRAWBERRY MOON

The cycles of you mark time 
And since the Strawberry Moon 
I pay more attention 
To how the spiral shines 
Against the backdrop of the linear 
How long have you been 
Illuminating the visions we weave in sleep?
When did you try to tell me 
That in total darkness 
I can see three steps forward 
With borrowed light?

–Frances Denise

⚘

MOONCHILD

Moonchild, 
she dances in the dark
and talks to herself about outer space rays
that emit through the atmosphere.
She always swore to me that if not for
cosmic arrangements within the zodiac
we would not know the deranged language
                                             of lost love.

Moonchild,
she never sleeps and can never die
while dancing in the dark.
She whispers to herself like mad
about children who were never born
but who live in a dimension of the unborn
                            and how they stay clean.

Moonchild, never lies, no.
She just sees what we don’t see
and whispers to herself alone in the dark.

–Dane Osborne

⚘

WISDOM

in the waxing and the waning
of dear grandmother moon
i see a stony shadow roll
away from the old tomb
revealing for a moment
the fullness of the light –
swollen, glowing, lovely womb
against the cloak of night
heralding insanity,
divining deeper dreams:
celestial symbols – abc’s
spell out what it means
to live a life from sphere to sphere
from soil back to sky
(vocabulary opens
when mouths sound out the why)
but just before the answer falls
to fill our haunted hearts
that stony shadow reappears
to set the light apart
from wisdom gained by looking up
and watching how it fades
one silver sliver at a time
we mimic how we’re made.

–Cheyanne Leonardo

⚘

THE SKY IS NOT WRONG

The crimson night shine interrupted by same ageless moon
that I’ve seen in my dream is no longer a sky, no.
It has become an eye made of starlight
and the giant eye tells stories to my soul when it stares
back into me here as I think to myself holding an unlit cuban
cigar lost on my green veranda somewhere out there
in the universe.

“THE ENIGMA OF NOW IS A LANGUAGE WRITTEN ONLY WITH WORDS SPOKE BY
OUR STARCHILD OF SMOOTH MEMORY’S HAZE WHICH LIGHTS THE SPARK OF
NEW DAY AND THIS BECOMES THE ORIGINAL FUTURE” … are the words I
hear spoke inside my head with a voice that sounds like my voice.

The giant crimson eye (which used to be the sky)
is speaking those words to me by means of intergalactic telepathy
and who the hell am I?
What on Earth am I?
To tell the sky it’s wrong?

The sky is not wrong, now
as it speaks to me while I hold an unlit cuban cigar
lost on my green veranda
somewhere out there in the universe.

–Dane Osborne

⚘

STILL A THIEF

Later in spring it steals shape
— the waxing birthmark parallel to your iris
on the lowest hung part of vastness, both bony knees
scrape ocotillo until the buds bunch up with the
blood that shares our hands // all the sand and dirt 
in dimension, four hours digging, a foursome with me
and your stare and the truth and the moon

still a thief,
but so are we, and so we no longer count the ways

I’m not mad at your blonde and martyr, 
a back whipped saddle with 3 moles soaked in sweat
and I swear when I blinked I witness our minutes
collapsing into a singular bead // lip twitch of my
corner deformation, how it wants you, and you bend,
it raises the hilarity of all events, your unfounded tongue click
and my several spines against the tree, still a thief, 
—woman says punch, and man says the juices are fertile
and there is nothing closer to romance than me 
and your stare and the truth and the moon

–Seneca Basoalto

⚘

THE A-FRAME YOU BUILT FOR ME IN YOUR SECRET VALHEIM WORLD IS SO BEAUTIFUL I COULD CRY

it isn’t the reaction you were expecting, but once you walked in on me sobbing while watching reels of meticulous sand art being swept up in the foamy tongue of the sea.

you know I am this sentimental being!

I chase you to the edge of the meadow through swaths of dandelions.

deer dart past our avatars. grass laughs and shifts against our viking ankles.

in the distance, honey hives fill our living room with the buzz of I love yous, &

what wasn’t clear comes into view as we grow closer.

lead me past the arch of your wooden gate.

in a tilled field, carrot and turnip plants shake from the ease of a virtual breeze. chickens peck at the dirt in their coop. every hen’s name is Bea.

the crackling of the hearth invites us both inside. above us lanterns float in a ring suspended from a wooden beam.

a Christmas tree with odds and ends for presents brings light and warmth to a far corner.

I know I’m the one who writes poetry — but you cut down an entire forest and reseeded it for me, and that’s a certain kind of poem.

stacking log by log, plank by plank. bury acorns under dirt.

every window faces the sea. the sun rises to swallow our bed of feather and troll hide.

come crowd your shoulders with mine to watch the roll of the tide. when we stand like this our hands glitch into one.

–Laura Jean Henebry

⚘

A FRIDAY LETTER TO THE FULL MOON

One year. I’ll never forget how you peeked through the thick clouds that night. Pale pink. It surprised me because I had forgotten which phase you were in. Full. I had also forgotten which month it was. June. You see, I did something brave that night – something that changed everything. Well, actually… more accurately, my fears once again were lifted off of me, and I felt free. And honestly, there has been a string of these seemingly-crazy activities. Unfortunately for my surroundings, I am not one to give much warning. Many would say you had something to do with it. People on Earth like to blame brazen actions and truthful tongues to astrological forces, and pretty much anything else other than themselves. I like to think you do not affect me as so. I feel you smiling like the Cheshire Cat as I speak of sovereignty while being fully aware of our interconnectedness. You’ve never announced yourself so loudly as today, as you nonchalantly waltz into the Solstice ten years after I became a mother. I wonder how the sky made you look that evening; I was too busy looking at little fingers and little toes. This time, though, I will take the hand of my not-so-little boy, and together we will make sure to find you among the stars and ships. I expect you’d look spectacular.

–Frances Denise

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PALE MOON AND THE LANGUAGE OF FIRE

“A white pale moon never lies" 
A poet cries beneath the melting Sun.

I tried to warn you of the vicious brazen indolence
Of Vulture Heart Citizens who wear nice looking masks
When they greet you with Valentine cards
Long Before you escaped to the Big Blue World
To run away from evil things
Which only existed in your violet hazed mind.
You seemed immune to reason
And now you are lost in the Big Blue World
Until you find the abstract reasons of Spirit.

Ice cold beasts who have money to buy armies own the days.
Perhaps when you escape back?
You can tell all about ever kind invisible people
Who protected you in daring moments of grace under danger.
Perhaps.

A white pale moon never tells lies
And I'll never forget the kindness of your eyes.
Eyes which did not know the language of fire.

–Dane Osborne

⚘

REFUGE

was i better off under the spell?
i ask as i drink
from a poisoned well –

refuge
         found
not even in the forest.

beating broken wings, the luna moth
tries to fly up and up to greet the face
of the full moon
                         but resolves to rise
only as high as the palm of your hand.

and so you kneel before you stand –

carry the creature back
to the beginning of the path
and wish its shaking body
a kindly goodbye.

where was it we used to hide? before
we lost the spot
forgot the thought –

should i surrender to the rot
reclaiming the map of my brain?

i spend all day in rooms where they
prioritize my pain.

–Cheyanne Leonardo

⚘

THE EQUINOX ENTERS LIKE

acacias moon of his hollowing acnestis
—that one stretch between blades where I've burrowed my forehead
trying to read the thoughts of a single stray freckle

it tells me how you've snugly stuck your vigilant hands into damp earth 
to excavate the bones of your former self, sallow and hardened
by clay in cocoon, and all this time you expect me to suckle milkweed
as it slips from your eyelids (to you, it’s something for me to hold)

can't you just see it in the sky now?
this is what happens when we make direct eye contact:
the gravels distance of smoking semolina prowls through
meridian breath whenever we stand too close together,
your groveling knee swinging outward into my thigh,
all of this naked rye flour unburdened by stasis as your
willowed fingers fold and knead, watching our reflections
in the glowing window above the tomatoes arranged in the sink

unbeknownst to me, beneath our flattened bare feet
are half a dozen different lifetimes mislaid from love
as they slowly spoil beneath the squeaking walnut planks

once again you know something that I don't, and
once again I will let the moon wash it away

that all those unmarked graves are iterations of us, food for the fruit
once harvested from an equinox we could never win,
and you built our house above them so you could keep death
as a souvenir

–Seneca Basoalto

⚘

LANTERNS

“I am out with lanterns looking for myself."
–Emily Dickinson

I am out with lanterns
looking for myself.
With the fall of night
parts of me fell away
scattered into the shadows
lost and wavering

Step out into the void
to search for any glimpse
of my missing pieces
Leave no stone
left upright
Get my hands dirty
digging deep beneath the surface
Use the glow of these lanterns
to Illuminate the darkest parts of me
until the sun comes up again

While I search
for my lost soul
please leave on
the porch light of home
for when I am found

–Cari Lynne King

⚘

JUNE MOON

Remember back,
far away to another time
when the lights
on poles would call us home.

From thriving
with fresh food, air & sunshine
family & friends close by
places to go and explore.

The freedom of summer
felt like swimming pool splashes,
riding to school on bikes
for the last day.

–*S. Lee

Want to see your poetry published on the Scribes?

Head on over to our submissions page and send us your words! It’s free, and we are always looking to get in touch with fellow poets, near and far.

In the meantime– go revel in that full moonlight! ⚘

With endless love & gratitude,

the Dandelion Scribes