Author: Deb

Teacher, Writer, Interfaith Minister

The Middle Age

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
I have a predilection for melancholy,
a generous bent toward nostalgia,
and I surrender completely to 
isolated flashes of memory 
in the gloaming. 

I’ve spent hours in meditation,
bending toward the present,
then settling into a place
of peaceful nothingness
in the moment.

I’ve loved so many ways,
the love of blood, and the
love of heart, and the love
of so much more and 
so much less.

I’ve aged into a life I like,
a daily rhythm that fits
a soul like mine, that craves 
both experience and time 
to write it.

I am middle-aged, no longer
a tree climber or a speed demon,
no longer willing to play fast
and loose with your heart
or mine.  

I have learned the lessons of
my time, and I have become
less of what I wanted and 
more of what I needed, 
and I’m happy.

But sometimes in the half-light
of dusk (one can’t meditate
every moment) I think of 
days long gone, and I 
remember you.  

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved

The Moment

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
I’m reading a book about communists
(poet’s disclaimer: I am not a communist,
though I’m not sure if it says more

about me or our society that I feel
I must disclaim; I don’t dislike 
communists, and in fact, I could almost

be one if push came to shove,
but I’m not, you see, just a plain
old run-of-the-mill Democrat

and proud of it, though I have 
good friends who are conservative
Republicans, and they are, generally,

quite lovely people) and in this book
so many of the people profiled
speak about THE MOMENT,

the moment when they saw
clearly and heard the clarion 
call of the ideal and felt 

connected to those who also
believed, and it was beautiful,
and it was life-changing, and

they never forgot it, and nothing
since has ever come close,
and I thought how very much like

religion it sounded, like a 
Damascus road experience, 
blinded by the light and all,

and then I thought about today
and how we’ve all become
evangelists for something, and I’m 

not saying that we shouldn’t stick
to our convictions, but maybe,
just maybe we could consider

how fully we ate of the
flesh and drank from the cup
of our personal gospel. 

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved

The Marigolds

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
Brick wall whitewashed to look 
new old. Worn floors refinished, 
wood polished, shining. Mats 
a safe six feet apart in this, our 
first class in the yoga studio 
since being forced into solitary 
practice seven weeks ago. 
Faint acoustic music from the 
Bluetooth. Benign renditions of a 
change to come and my sweet
lord. Diffused patchouli mist 
tussles with the alcohol in 
homemade hand sanitizer. 
The instructor tells us when 
to breathe.

I was in India when the pandemic
took over the world.  One day
Holi, slapping powdered color on
friends and strangers alike, rubbing
it into their hair, more intimate in the
playfulness than we would be
otherwise. Bollywood bass lines 
thumping the speakers. Colors running
in rivers of sweat. The next day, 
weighing options. Can we get back 
into the States? I don’t want to
leave a thousand kindnesses. The 
drumming of the Shiva temple in the 
morning.  An entire nation of 
incense and marigolds.  Breathing, 
rhythmic, human yoga.  

Inhale, she says, arms above 
your head. Exhale, fall into forward 
bend, and we comply, an army 
of six following field commands in 
unison.  The tips of my fingers 
feel the hardness of the thin-matted 
floor.  In the position’s hold I 
think of the flower market in Jaipur, 
mounds of marigolds, like walking 
through the clouds of a Hindu heaven, 
fighting the urge to jump into one, 
the petals cushioning 
the fall.

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved

The Rapids

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
The rubber raft bounces through the rapids.
My knees 
                         squeeze 
               the side of the boat 
               that I ride like a saddle
as we slip down in a trough 
                                                       and then rocket up 
and over, like a roller coaster.  
I’m on the New River in West Virginia.  
I heard a claim that these were the only 
               class V rapids 
               east of the Mississippi, 
though I think there are others.  
It’s like most claims, 
               felt to be more valid if an 
                         only or best or highest or fastest.            
Yes, I’m sure there are others, 
               but not in this moment as I 
                         squeeze 
                         and paddle 
               and adjust my weight
                         in split seconds,   
Feet behind me then 
                                                  pushed forward,
               like bull-riding a river.

When the river calms, I think about the rapids and the claim and the Mississippi.  
I’ve been on her, too, though it was a much gentler ride.  
What she lacks in excitement, she makes up for in size.  
You can’t move consumer goods through the New River Gorge, so there’s that.  
Sure, the Mississippi floods, sometimes in tragic ways, but the flood 
is still the producer of some of the best farmland in the world, bar none. 

At a    w i d e     s p o t, 
our guide tells us we can get out and
                         float.  
We can even climb 
               out of the river 
                              and up that 
                                             big rock, 
                                                            15 feet high 
                                                                           at least, 
and jump from there.  
               It’s safe.  
I roll 
               off the edge and onto my back,
               my life jacket keeping me afloat.  
I lazily push 
                              and kick my
                                                            way to the bank.  
As I step on solid ground, 
I feel 
               woozy
For a moment, 
unaccustomed to firmness.  
I stand still as I get my bearings, 
and I think about how the Mississippi 
               and the New 
               are more different 
               when you’re in them 
than when you’re out.  
               The bank feels the same
               in West Virginia
               and Missouri.  

               And then I think about 
               the observer self, 
               the untouched
               unmoved 
          watcher of experience 
               who sees both the rapids
               and the flood 
               but stands still 
               on the shore,
               unchanged,
               unaffected.  

Then I 
               climb 
                              the 
                                             rock 
and jump back in. 

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved