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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Moonlight poetry

  • When the Moon Answered the Ravens | A Gothic Dream Poem About Healing and Belonging by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some dreams begin in darkness, but not all darkness is empty. Sometimes, the things we recognize by instinct—ravens calling, roses blooming, the pull of the tide, the quiet presence of the moon—become the only landmarks we need.

    This poem wanders through an abyss where absence becomes invitation, where questions lead deeper than answers, and where the familiar waits beyond the silence. It is a journey through the spaces between fear and comfort, memory and discovery, nothingness and belonging.

    And perhaps the moon was never truly missing. Perhaps some forms of light simply require us to keep walking until we’re ready to see them.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet kneels beside moonlit crimson roses in a dark abyss as ravens circle beneath a returning moon and distant ocean waves.
    Even in the deepest abyss, some light knows how to find you.

    When the Moon Answered the Ravens
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—

    a line I’ve written too many times,
    but this one was different—

    there was no moon, no tide—
    no shoreline—it was pitch black,
    an abyss—just me and nothingness.

    Then I heard the raven’s calls—
    and it didn’t feel bizarre at all.

    It felt oddly—

    calming—

    I stumbled further into the dark,
    listening to raven after raven call—
    it was weird, this unkindness
    didn’t feel very unkind at all—
    I tripped on something,
    which was odd—
    because there was nothing
    to trip on.

    I fell—

    hit the ground—

    the ravens didn’t make a sound.

    Slowly, I rose to my feet—
    surprised to see, a rose at my feet.
    Illuminated by a single sliver
    of silver light—
    it caught my eye,
    so I knelt down—

    as my eyes scanned
    the surrounding abyss—

    I saw them.

    Roses,
    a dozen of them—
    each lit by its own sliver
    of dedicated lunar light—
    which told me,
    it was night—

    but something didn’t feel right—
    where was the moon at?

    What was the source of this light?

    The questions didn’t stop me—
    I kept walking—moving further,
    deeper into the abyss—
    when suddenly the taste of salt
    hit my lips—
    and the ground begin to shift,
    it moved like waves—

    now I couldn’t stop,
    something was pulling me—
    something I couldn’t see,
    but could feel it—
    a thread tied to my heart,
    pulling me along.

    It was guiding me—
    but at the same time,
    there was something
    pushing me—
    and I dropped a hint
    five lines back—

    what could that be?

    And as I let the thread
    pull me along—
    I began to notice
    the light—

    an image trembling—

    it was shimmering,
    across the top of the abyss—
    eyes lifted, I saw it,
    the thing I missed—
    hanging high above,
    it was my favorite witness—
    the one I could always sit with.

    Finally—

    after what felt like
    an eternity of silence—
    the ravens started
    to speak again—

    and the moon
    answered them—

    that’s when the world came alive.
    I could hear the ocean waves,
    feel the mist on my face—
    taste the salt on my lips,
    ocean kissed—

    the smell of roses
    perfumed the air—
    it’s like the world
    suddenly became aware
    that I was even there—

    I was on my knees,
    watching the waves—

    smile on my face—

    because in the back of my mind,
    I knew…

    the moon would never abandon—
    the tide would never
    refuse to guide—
    the ravens
    would never leave my side,
    while everything I feel—

    an ocean deep, an ocean wide—

    the roses grow in a garden shaped by
    all the beauty and pain in my life.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [You Still Pop Into My Brain]
    Sometimes, someone from your past still wanders into your thoughts—not because you want them back, but because they once held a place in your everyday life. A reflective poem about disappointment, growth, and the strange persistence of memory after moving on.

    [Louder Than the Rain]
    A short confessional poem about the overwhelming noise of anxious thoughts, the strange silence of feeling alone in a crowded room, and finding a way to translate pain into words.

    [Let Me Be Pacific]
    A lyrical poem about sitting beside the Pacific Ocean and discovering that an enormous body of water can become a bridge between distant hearts. Through ocean imagery, wordplay, and reflections on California and the Philippines, Let Me Be Pacific explores how love and poetry can cross even the greatest distances.

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

  • 13 Riddles for the Starborn Child — Roo the Poet’s Whimsical Wonder-Spells

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Roo the Poet is the child of my mythos—the barefoot wanderer of dreamscapes, the star-gatherer, the one who hums lullabies to the moon. Through Roo, I allow myself to write softer, lighter, and more whimsical pieces, to let the shadows lift just enough for starlight to spill in.

    If my other works speak in the voices of saints, witches, and ghosts, Roo is the child who runs between them—collecting stories in pockets, scattering questions like wildflower seeds. Roo writes not to answer, but to wonder. These 13 Riddles are not puzzles to solve, but spells to unravel you gently, reminding you of the magic you never truly lost.

    A barefoot child stands on a path of silver stardust, holding a jar of glowing stars under a deep indigo night sky.
    Roo the Poet—the child of my mythos—wanders the silver paths of wonder, carrying questions, and starlight in equal measure.

    Invocation

    Come closer, stardust child—
    bare feet on silver paths, pockets full of found things.
    We gather where the sky bends low to listen,
    where moonlight leans in to eavesdrop.
    Bring your questions, your quiet, your untamed dreams.
    Tonight, we trade riddles instead of answers,
    and let wonder do the rest.

    13 Riddles for the Starborn Child
    Poetry by Roo the Poet

    Goddess of Magic & Whimsy
    Witch of Wonder
    The Soul, The Child

    These riddles are soft spells, moonlit questions for the wild-hearted. They aren’t meant to be solved. They’re meant to unravel you gently.

    A tiny flower blooming in the palm of a sleeping hand, glowing faintly in dreamlight, watercolor style.
    Some seeds only bloom when the world isn’t watching.

    I

    Where do dreams go
    when we wake up crying—
    and who waters the flowers
    we only plant in sleep?

    A still lake under a dark sky, with one lone bright star glowing above, watercolor style.
    Some stars shine just for the ones who wait in silence.

    II

    If a heart breaks in silence,
    but the stars feel it—
    is it really alone?

    A girl made of flame softly blowing on a dandelion, its seeds drifting away unharmed, watercolor style.
    Even fire can make a wish without burning it.

    III

    Can a girl be made of fire
    and still blow wishes into dandelions
    without burning them?

    A laugh frozen in glass with fine cracks glowing from within, watercolor style.
    Sometimes joy hides its hurt in the smallest fractures.

    IV

    What do you call a laugh
    that hides a scream
    in the spaces between its syllables?

    Two shadows holding hands, their faces blurred like fading memories, watercolor style.
    We can forget the faces, but not the touch.

    V

    If I give you my name,
    but forget it tomorrow—
    does that mean we were ever strangers?

    A silver needle stitching a heart-shaped constellation with glitter thread, watercolor style.
    Some souls are mended with starlight and sorrow.

    VI

    How many poems does it take
    to stitch a soul back together
    with thread made of glitter and grief?

    A shadow with softly glowing eyes humming beside a child’s bed, watercolor style.
    Not all lullabies come from the light.

    VII

    If your shadow starts to hum lullabies,
    should you sing along—
    or run?

    A sword hidden beneath a pillow of white feathers, watercolor style.
    Even the gentlest hearts sleep armed.

    VIII

    Why do all the softest people
    sleep with swords under their pillows?

    The moon carving letters into beams of light, watercolor style.
    If the moon wrote your name, would you dare to read it?

    IX

    If the moon carved your name into light,
    would you recognize it—
    or look away?

    Two cupped hands cradling a whispered word like smoke, watercolor style.
    Every secret is a spell if you breathe it softly enough.

    X

    What’s the difference between
    a secret and a spell
    if both are whispered beneath your breath?

    A mirror streaked with tears while the person reflected smiles, watercolor style.
    Sometimes the reflection feels it first.

    XI

    If your reflection starts to cry
    before you do—
    who is comforting whom?

    A child’s hand reaching toward a monster’s clawed hand, watercolor style.
    Even monsters remember being held.

    XII

    Do monsters know
    they were children once?
    Do we?

    A wooden box spilling light, feathers, and broken toys, watercolor style.
    Magic never truly disappears—it just hides in the cracks.

    XII

    And if you find your magic again,
    buried deep in a box of broken things—
    will you call it yours,
    or will you pretend you never lost it?

    Benediction

    Go now, with your shadow softened by candlelight,
    with your pockets still jingling with small, strange truths.
    May you find your magic in the corners of ordinary days,
    and hold it without asking it to explain itself.
    The stars have written your name in secret places—
    when you find them,
    smile.

    If you enjoyed this piece, you can find more of my work in The Library of Ashes. I am sure that you will find more that you will enjoy.