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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: moon imagery

  • When the Veil Is Thin | A Confessional Poem About 4 AM Thoughts, Longing & Sleepless Truth

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There seems to be something about four in the morning.

    Not because it’s magical in any supernatural sense, but because it’s quiet enough that there’s nowhere left for your thoughts to hide.

    I’ve written several poems that begin around that hour, and they all seem to share the same quality: honesty arrives before I have time to edit it.

    This poem came from one of those mornings.

    I wasn’t trying to write a love poem.

    I was trying to understand why certain thoughts become louder when the rest of the world falls silent.

    The title, When the Veil Is Thin, can be read a lot of ways. Some people hear something mystical in it. For me, it’s more psychological.

    The veil is simply the distance between what I feel and what I’m willing to admit.

    During the day, that veil is thick.

    By four in the morning…

    it becomes almost transparent.

    This poem isn’t really about insomnia.

    It’s about the moments when the truth finally stops whispering and starts speaking clearly enough that you can no longer pretend not to hear it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A sleepless writer sits beside an open notebook as moonlight fades into the first light of dawn through a bedroom window.
    Some truths wait until the world is quiet enough to be heard.

    When the Veil Is Thin
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s after four AM
    and the veil is thin—
    I should be asleep
    but my mind won’t
    cease to speak.

    It won’t stop the talk—
    I try to write, just anything—
    because this is when the truth
    seems to sing,
    it rings through the ink—

    It’s you in every thought—
    and I can’t seem to shake
    this feeling in my chest.

    It’s not a weight, just an ache—
    sometimes it keeps me awake.

    And I try—I try so hard
    to just say the things,
    but I bite my tongue
    and my mouth snaps shut.

    It’s got me screaming—
    what the…

    Why am I still up?

    I’m still awake,
    with thoughts I can’t shake.
    With dreams just out of reach
    of shores I’m longing for—

    I just need to be clear.
    It’s not the thought
    of your hand in mine.

    It’s the thought of our time,
    together, intertwined—

    maybe when dawn breaks
    this feeling will ease—
    but for now, it lingers,
    soft as the moon on my skin.

    The veil thins again—
    and in the hush before morning,
    your name is the only truth
    that doesn’t fade.

    The sky begins to pale—
    and I let the thought of you
    carry me into sleep.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where Intimacy Begins]
    For some, attraction begins with appearance. For others, it begins with conversation. Where Intimacy Begins explores the beauty of curiosity, deep listening, and the quiet connection that forms when two minds truly meet.

    [The Life of a Witness Poet]
    What does it mean to love someone when the greatest act of care is simply witnessing their life? This poem explores quiet devotion, distance, and the compassionate heart of a witness poet.

    [What I’m Trying to Say]
    What begins as an exaggerated promise of love slowly strips itself back until only one simple truth remains: real devotion isn’t found in grand gestures—it’s found in consistently showing up.

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Pointing Me Home (No Metaphor Left Behind) | A Poem About Dreams, Hope & Finding Home

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem became the quiet conclusion to a trilogy I never intended to write.

    Crossing the Sea was about direction.

    Only Waiting was about the reason I needed that direction in the first place.

    This piece asks a different question:

    How do you keep moving when you haven’t arrived yet?

    For me, the answer has always been dreams.

    Not because I confuse them with reality, but because they remind me that another reality is possible.

    I’ve written about dreams for years. They rarely feel random to me. They often feel like rehearsals—small glimpses of a life my mind already believes exists somewhere beyond the horizon.

    The city in this poem isn’t a specific city.

    The moon isn’t really the moon.

    Even after spending two poems trying to strip away metaphor, I found myself sitting beside it again.

    I think that’s because hope has always spoken to me symbolically.

    When I’m awake, I know where I am.

    When I’m asleep, I remember where I’m going.

    The dream doesn’t replace reality.

    It sustains me until reality catches up.

    The final image—a dream folded into my chest like a map—is probably the clearest way I’ve ever described hope.

    Hope isn’t certainty.

    It isn’t arrival.

    It’s carrying the direction with you, even when you’re still standing at the beginning of the journey.

    And maybe that’s what this trilogy has been trying to say all along.

    Sometimes home begins as a place.

    Sometimes it becomes an ache.

    Sometimes…

    it’s simply the direction you’re already walking.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure sits beneath a full moon where an ocean shoreline transitions into quiet city streets, holding a folded map while reflecting on hope, dreams, and the journey toward home.
    “Sometimes home isn’t where you’re standing—it’s the direction you’re already walking.” 🌙🗺️

    Pointing Me Home (No Metaphor Left Behind)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Tick tock, tick tock—
    that’s the sound of the clock.
    I listen as I wait for the escape,
    a simple trip, brought on by sleep.
    Because I only feel at home
    in my dreams.

    So as I close my eyes
    and my head hits the pillow—
    I follow the moon
    to the ocean’s edge,
    I listen to the tide—
    I follow it in stride
    until I find where it’s pulling me.

    With every step,
    I move deeper in.
    Slowly sand turns to concrete
    beneath my feet,
    as the beach transitions
    into city streets.

    Streetlights flicker
    like they’re remembering
    they used to be stars.

    The hum of the city
    folds into the sound of waves,
    each echo a reminder
    of where I started
    and where I’m going.

    I walk until the moon
    hangs between buildings
    like it’s lost too—

    like it’s looking for someone to talk to.

    So I sit and conversate,
    I tell the moon all about the quiet ache—
    the feeling that I need to change
    my environment to one that aligns
    more with what I feel inside.

    And the moon sits with me,
    just listening—so I talk some more.
    Out of my heart, the words just pour.
    I spill every secret, I hold nothing back
    until I feel like I might collapse.

    The moon listens,
    patient as ever,
    its light softening
    the edges of my thoughts.

    And when I finally fall silent,
    breath trembling,
    chest heavy—

    it tilts itself
    just enough
    to remind me
    I’m not alone
    in the places I wander.

    Tick tock, tick tock.

    A return to the rhythm of the clock,
    interrupting the talk—
    the moon’s light gives way
    to the sun’s rays,
    I’m still stuck in this place—

    but I’m only waiting
    until I can cross the sea,
    Pacific and the Philippine.

    Until then,
    I carry the dream like a map,
    folded in my chest—

    pointing me home.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Crossing the Sea (No Metaphor Left Behind)]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [Only Waiting (No Metaphor Left Behind)]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Returning to My Bones | A Poem About Dreams, Waking, and Quiet Grief

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve written a lot of poems about dreams.

    At this point, it’s probably one of the most consistent threads running through my work.

    The reason is simple:

    Dreams don’t feel imaginary to me.

    They feel remembered.

    Not while I’m fully awake. Not after I’ve had time to process them. But in those first moments between sleeping and waking, there’s often a strange overlap where the emotions arrive before reality does.

    For a brief moment, everything feels true.

    The conversation happened. The place existed. The person was there.

    Then awareness returns.

    The room comes back. The walls come back. The weight of the body comes back.

    And with it comes the realization that none of it happened.

    That’s the feeling this poem is trying to capture.

    Not the dream itself, but the return from it.

    The title became the key.

    Because waking up doesn’t feel like opening my eyes.

    It feels like returning to my bones.

    Returning to gravity. Returning to limitation. Returning to the version of reality that can be touched and verified.

    The strange thing is that the emotions don’t disappear when the dream does.

    The dream fades.

    The feelings stay.

    And sometimes that lingering feeling creates a kind of grief that is difficult to explain to people who don’t experience dreams this way.

    A quiet grief.

    Not because something real was lost.

    But because, for a moment, it felt real enough to matter.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure sits beside a moonlit bay as the dreamlike shoreline gradually fades into a quiet bedroom, symbolizing the emotional transition from dreaming to waking.
    Some dreams disappear with the sunrise. Others stay with us long after we’ve returned to our bones.

    Returning to My Bones
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The moon shimmers over the bay,
    suspended in the sky—
    the way I feel suspended in her eyes.

    And it makes me feel crazy,
    because she’s never looked at me—
    not really, not in reality.

    It’s only happened in dreams.

    That’s when I drift
    between awake—
    and asleep.

    This is when
    my mind
    starts to
    wander.

    Then it snaps.

    I’m back in my room again.

    The moon loses its shimmer,
    the bay fades from view.
    My body tenses as I become
    aware again,
    of the mattress beneath me—

    of the walls that enclose me.

    I feel the weight pressing in.
    The reality of returning
    to my bones.
    It’s a quiet grief—
    realizing that the emotions
    will linger,
    but the truth is
    it never happened.

    And somehow,
    that hurts the most.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Maybe You’ll Want Me Too]
    A poem about the subtle shift from knowing someone to constantly thinking about them. Through humor, metaphor, and confession, Maybe You’ll Want Me Too explores affection, attachment, and the fragile hope that being wanted might matter more than being needed.

    [Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
    What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Before Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) | A Love Poem About Humor, Vulnerability & Hidden Confessions

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began as a collection of bad jokes.

    Or at least that was the excuse.

    Sometimes I start writing with no destination in mind. A phrase appears. Then a pun. Then another. A moon becomes a metaphor. Ducks end up in a rowboat. A piggybank loses all its cents.

    And somewhere in the middle of all that nonsense, something honest sneaks in.

    I’ve noticed that humor often works like a side door.

    There are things I can say directly. There are things I can say through poetry. And then there are things that feel easier to approach sideways, hidden beneath wordplay, jokes, and absurd little detours.

    This piece lives in that space.

    The speaker keeps drifting away from the point, circling it rather than naming it. Every joke becomes a delay tactic. Every pun buys another moment before the truth has to be spoken aloud.

    Because sometimes vulnerability isn’t difficult because you don’t know what you feel.

    Sometimes it’s difficult because you know exactly what you feel.

    And saying it out loud makes it real.

    The title’s parenthetical reference, “1, 4, 3,” comes from an old numerical shorthand for a phrase many people know by heart. I liked the idea of building an entire poem around avoiding a confession, only to hide it in plain sight.

    In the end, the poem says exactly what it means.

    It just takes the scenic route to get there.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands on a moonlit beach beside gentle ocean waves while silver moonlight reflects across the water beneath a glowing night sky.
    Sometimes the longest journey to the truth is the scenic route—through moonlight, wordplay, ocean waves, and all the jokes we tell before we finally say what we mean.

    Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand on the shore
    giving ocean waves—
    begging the tide
    to take me away.

    I trace the moon
    across the sky,
    I map it in rhyme.
    Line after—
    silver-lined metaphor.

    I got my ducks in a row
    boat—is that what the paddles for?
    I know the direction,
    what would I panic for?

    You might be confused—
    I know that made no sense,
    like an empty piggybank.
    No cents, thoughts scattered
    like loose change.

    I use jokes
    to mask the truth sometimes.

    It makes what I want to say,
    an easier pill to swallow—

    1 letter
    followed by 4
    then 3—

    Together, they mean
    you mean the most to me.
    By your side—

    is where I’m supposed to be.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [1-4-3]
    A poem about love that isn’t rooted in need, but in choice. About finding safety not as a cage, but as a place where fear finally stops running—and stays.

    [1-4-3 (Tongue Tied)]
    A vulnerable poem about holding back the words that matter most. 1-4-3 (Tongue Tied) explores fear, emotional suppression, and the quiet ache of wanting to say “I love you.”

    [What I Want to Say]
    Sometimes the hardest words to say are the simplest ones. What I Want to Say explores love, hesitation, and the fear of what might change if you finally speak.

    [No Parachute]
    A poetic reflection on falling in love without hesitation—raw, uncertain, and without a safety net.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Twin Suns, Sister Moons | A Poem About Distance, Longing, and Shared Skies

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece began with distance.

    Not just physical distance, but the strange emotional distance that forms when two people exist beneath different skies, different suns, different versions of the same moon.

    I found myself thinking about how science fiction—especially something like Star Wars—often uses planets and galaxies to talk about deeply human feelings: isolation, longing, escape, hope, belonging.

    That became the emotional framework for this poem.

    Tatooine and Coruscant aren’t just locations here. They represent emotional states. One is harsh survival. The other feels alive with possibility. The movement between them became a way of talking about wanting closeness badly enough that even entire worlds begin to feel traversable.

    The twin suns imagery mattered to me especially because it captures contradiction so well: existing in two emotional spaces at once, living beneath one sky while mentally reaching toward another.

    There’s also a quiet tension running through the piece between time and distance. The longer you care about someone far away, the more those concepts start blending together. Waiting becomes geography. Time zones become emotional landscapes. Even sunrise and moonrise begin carrying emotional weight.

    At its core, this poem is about gravitational pull.

    About the people who make “elsewhere” start feeling more like home than the place you currently stand.

    And about the quiet ache of wanting to bridge impossible distances anyway.

    — Rowan Evans

    A desert landscape beneath twin suns with a distant city glowing under a rising moon.
    Between your sky and mine, my heart keeps searching for the distance between us.

    Twin Suns, Sister Moons
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Sun lit skies—

    it’s sunrise,
    and I open my eyes
    already lost in thought.
    Believe it or not,
    it’s you I’m thinking of.

    Time—
    the quiet ticking
    of the clock.
    Seconds turn to minutes,
    minutes to hours—
    but time is also distance.

    The distance between
    my sun and yours,
    between two versions
    of the moon.

    And I’m stuck
    living between both.
    Under my sky,
    and by yours—

    Tatooine days
    under twin suns
    and sister moons—

    You make me
    want to escape this place,
    outer rim to the core worlds—
    desert to the city,
    Tatooine to Coruscant.

    I want to make
    your sky mine—

    share in your sun’s shine,
    make your moon
    the centerpiece
    for our nights.

    Moon lit skies—

    the moon rises,
    quiet and patient,
    and I feel it again—
    that pull toward you,
    toward elsewhere,
    toward the place
    my heart keeps trying to reach.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]