Luna Hoehn
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thecrowstongue.bsky.social
Luna Hoehn
@thecrowstongue.bsky.social
200 followers 370 following 25 posts
Just another poet. She/her. PNW.

POETRY, MUSINGS, RELIGIONS, MOTHERS, FATHERS, DREAMS, DEATH, LIFE, WORDS, FEAR, FEAR, FEAR, AND LOVE. ENDLESS LOVE.
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thecrowstongue.bsky.social
Guiding lights can be anything, so long as the beacon is bright enough to bring you home. #poetry #poem
aerodynamics I can understand how easy it is to put a halo on the people around you To deify those which permeate your life Almost as important as you To the one shot you've been given Copilots, crew and company Never have I prayed That we do not hit the ground A broken bird Luna Hoehn
September 10, 2025 at 6:30 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
#poem #poetry
lust under open fire thick like cum in the mouth of love a filthy altar to pedestrian needs that slot themselves irrevocably amidst the acts of earthly devotion. Weep for true intentions. You do not find them in the light of day. Luna Hoehn
May 13, 2025 at 3:08 AM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
The difficulty of knowing who you come from.

#poetry #poem #writing #poet
echo of silences I don’t talk to my mom anymore and she never lets me forget it her blocked number like a flickering star an incommunicable satellite defeated purpose Theres no space where she should be no space where she was yet when I birth my first daughter another burning ball of gas unfathomable as she will be small I will talk to my mom again and she will wail from within her swaddle Luna Hoehn
May 13, 2025 at 3:04 AM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
This is a little poem from something I'm working on titled 'The Mother Collection'

#poetry #poems #poem
she is woven into the golden strands of my hair though it is not hers. she is shaking in the tremble of my hands though they belong to me. she is in my teary eyes my raw anger, my sweet petty revenge, my milk, sugar, butter, flour recipe for disaster she is in me. I do not strive to tear her free, unweave her from every fraught, oversensitive nerve or pull her like gnarled roots from within the depths of my muddy lungs I want her there. A reminder. The uneasy knowledge of knowing where I come from, the things I’m genetically coded to be, and the things that I pick up off the floor in the dark
December 22, 2024 at 6:55 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
if life is a bone, then I am a feral dog.
I will die with it between my teeth.

#poetry #poem
Locked jaw I feel it I feel it I feel it The worn out papery bits of myself Stuck in your teeth and the recesses of your gums Chewed up and chewed up and tongue bitten Pennies on taste buds Pennies in pockets Jingling around and around Repentant and desperate Beg for more beg for me I feel it Dirt in a shoe tread Dead leaves in a drain I am a dog at the ankles of life I cannot be outrun I will die emaciated, ribs counted by eye Before I lose a single yellow tooth to the meat of it all. Luna Hoehn
November 21, 2024 at 11:44 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
May it bloom in my bones forever, this blood red anger of mine.

#poetry #poem
Embryo There is an anger Soft like precious egos It resides within the iron walls of me Prisoner and warden we make Friends at dinner Enemies at sunrise Should it leave me released from its manacles By force or by the gentle hands of betrayal I would chase it to the ends of the earth For I've never loved something The way I love that which was born within Luna Hoehn
November 19, 2024 at 3:05 AM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
Something something something about sailors and seamen....

#poem #poetry
The break of a swell Neck arched against the pillows like a cresting wave Lips parted and mouth curved like the bow of a boat Fingers sliding achey through seafoam soaked coasts Coasts that bordered on too much and not enough too little and too far Forehead and valleys between limbs and cheeks all damp and dwelling like tide pools Breath heaving from lungs like fluttering sails Hot and heavy beneath a blanket like an unrelenting sun A sticky, lazy mess on deck and a quenched ocean below. Luna Hoehn
November 16, 2024 at 12:56 AM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
My dog, to brighten up your timeline!
Her name is Babe, like the pig.
November 14, 2024 at 8:40 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
Fruits of labour, fruits of love, and fruitless attempts. Nonethless, all ripe for the picking.

#poem #poetry
empty baskets, full hands I will not allow the fruit of me to bitter The seed in my stomach sour as it may be is mine to cultivate I have poured too much upon it, iced water to parched roots, to allow it to wither under even the driest sun I will not allow the fruit of me to bitter Bundles of berries in the soft spots behind my ears Kissed to perfection Crisp pears hanging low and heavy within the embrace of my ribs Swaying with every breezy breath Ripe melons on the red of my tongue sweet with saliva and swollen with rivers of nectar To trail down my throat Firm cherries and soft peaches to roll together in my stomach Familiar pits that linger and mix with the pulp of ravenous hunger. Luna Hoehn
November 14, 2024 at 8:32 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
Nearly lost, painstakingly gained.

#poetry #poem
Violet Grief is baby names for the nonexistent. First, middle, and last; for nothing but dreams. Grief is finding love letters revolting, breaking picture frames and calling it healing. Grief hugged me when I cried about it, apologized for causing itself. Grief is a friend, a stranger who made itself so at home that I couldn’t bear to see it leave. Grief belongs to me. We share each other, visitation on weekends and every day ending in Y and when grief asks me a favor, I do it. With plenty of questions asked, of course, because grief knows I always need answers. Grief is not gone, yet is not lingering. Grief transformed, told me so many times to give it one more chance, promised everything would be okay, and grief was right. Grief no longer sleeps beside me but love sleeps just down the hall and grief let me keep her. Luna Hoehn
November 13, 2024 at 7:51 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
We must keep living, flickering, flaming, altogether inextinguishable.

#poetry #poem
Another lit candle, and another, and another. When my knuckles grace the skin of my collar I can feel the warmth within me There is a softness, a tender soul that aches to be free Into my palms in pours Jumping from finger to finger Alight like a flame and scared like one too. Flickering away from anything that may douse its beams of orange light, its trail of lingering smoke. There is warmth within me Burning low and slow A simmer of life Eager to become a bonfire. Luna Hoehn
November 11, 2024 at 11:10 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
Feeling just peachy.

#poetry
Peach Pit (Clingstone) The flesh giving, nurturing, soft, easy to look at. Bright like 9AM sunshine, warm like a midnight bath. The taste reminiscent, nostalgic, sour, too much to handle. Sharp like the catch of a thorn, sweet like a sip of sugar water. Today, I found her palatable. Tomorrow, perhaps unbearable again. Luna Hoehn
November 11, 2024 at 3:59 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
Kiss me animal, kiss me soft Dragging the backs of your hands over her heart shaped face The silken slide of affection on stone A touch soft as water To permeate the dehydrated layers of self Which wear away With every rhythmic tap of chapped lips to downy cheek
November 10, 2024 at 9:34 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
They won't take me quietly.
#poetry
Hounds of the heart The monsters of where they call Hell will come for me, one day. Their maws will be soft and downy with fur, silky like moonlight on water and stained with tears of grief They will whimper my name in sorrow apologies on hungry tongues Their wet teeth will glisten with regret and desire, slick licked chops and keen eyes , Ones that follow the smallest vein home to the heart. "There," they bark "That is what we come for." It is a sopping wet reward, drumming on toward its end, and I sense it will find rest in the bloodied earth. Shredded by envy and the desperate stink of starvation. Sung to sleep by the howls of an impending inferno.
November 10, 2024 at 6:34 PM
thecrowstongue.bsky.social
Hope It's a howling hound of a thing, A whimpering creature in the corner, The silent carcass in the garden; And it remains unkillable, Yet quick to die, A curse so self inflicted that it cannot garner true empathy. I fear if I do not tuck it into bed nightly With gentle hands and warm milk, I will awake to it gone.
November 10, 2024 at 6:13 PM