Discussing Weather

Someday, we’ll all have nurses hanging over our heads
Young men and women, in patterned smocks and patent, patient smiles
Feeding us things we don’t want to eat and scolding us for our impertinence

And we’ll look beyond the foot of the bed toward the natural light
Remembering the things we thought we’d never remember
When our days were too long, or not long enough, and the weather was too hot

Or too cold, as the snow came down weeks before Christmas, too early to be beautiful
And the work-a-day sapped our time so that we came home with no will to play
Though we played anyway, some days, when it occurred to us that time was getting away

How some of us let go of love in those days, letting distance move into the middle of our beds
Though not all of us, no! Some of us still made love during those years of pained familiarity
Made love with the same passion we fought with, though less than when we were young

And not all was bad, though we clenched our stiff jaws when the kids were older
Holding our breath and letting it go awkwardly, at awkward moments, out of fear
Because our youth had sprouted legs and minds, independence, and threatened to leave

Open doors turned into voids, each one a threat, a gap through which we began to slip
Before the rhythms picked us up in new measures, smooth or jagged, to further unknown
Before we realized that the unknown is a substitute for ennui
That the unknown is a blessing

© T. James Moore, 2013

May not be reproduced without permission


Not for machismo
After all “machismo” is not even a Japanese word.
And not really out of infatuation
Though the thought of it is an obsession.
This thing alone is not the thing at all
But the discipline of controlling
An extension of my body
In grace and power and poise,
Menace and inherent cruelty.
These are just some conceits of the essence
Of the art I wish to draw
And not the wicked razor stroke
If indeed I draw at all.

© T. James Moore, 2013
May not be reproduced without permission

Discovered Altar

I watched as several sparrows gathered on the window ledge, today
Each rapping lightly at the pane, pick-plucking at the screen.
A gathering of birds, brown, their beaks agape, gasping for air.
They appeared to be looking for a way through the glass,
Their heads tilted up, gazing at something on the other side.
On the inside ledge there was an arrangement of dried flowers.
A dozen dark red roses stood bound by a gray and fraying cord, the old leaves
Gold but not shimmering, distinguished in their brittle, textured death.
A small bowl, handmade and glazed, lazed at the foot of the bound corner roses
Cradling crumbled buds of maroon with accents of yellow-gold, like incense,
Like potpourri with no scent.
And in a jar, filled nearly to the curve of the neck and capped in black,
Bits and pieces of how many more roses I could not guess.
These, it appeared, were what the birds were after, fluttering up the glass,
Hopping along the outer ledge, knocking to be let in.
I counted five birds at once, alive and kicking at my window,
And then suddenly they were gone, though your arrangement stayed stock still,
Like the image of your smile, impressed in my memory.
Like the echo of something I hadn’t quite heard.

© T. James Moore, 2013
May not be reproduced without permission


Small spaces have become the most
Regular distances to move in.
Small spaces are sad because
There is only here to there.
No room, no expanse to build up
To a gallop, or a headlong stumble.
There is something about wide open places:
That living there allows one to think
The world is a wonderful place,
And the one who does not to believe
There is no place more terrible.

© T. James Moore, 2013
May not be reproduced without permission


2 comments on “Poetry

  1. R.L. Myers says:

    “Bliss” really touched me, Ty. Beautiful poetry, as always.

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