Category: Poetry

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

Sunday Morning

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

As a child, it was a fishbowl.
Any misdeeds in among the
second graders would
reach my mother’s ears
before the benediction
like a miracle.
After, at home, the
roastpotatoescarrots
were served with a side
dish of solemn reminders to
act like the example I
was ordained to be.

It has, at times, been a job
in my adulthood.
Greeter every first and third
or standing with the altos.
Season after season
of Easter musicals and
Thanksgivings and
Christmas carolings.
One stint on the board, oh
god, and that’s enough
to make the Apostle
Paul lose his religion.  

At times I actually believed it
all. Other times I’ve
seen the whole works
as a chalice filled with
snake oil. God loves me
could be replaced
the following week
with all the reasons
she might not. Even
still, I never felt
forsaken.

My heart still loves
the mystery, though
my sacrament is
usually now a biscuit
and a cup of tea.
What I believe is not
as small as what I know,
but close.
The uncertainty
and unknowing have
grown into the most
beautiful portions of this
holy journey.  

On a Sunday morning,
my face is not likely
to darken any door
unless brunch is being
served. But somehow I still
hold sacred the idea
that I am an example (I
think it’s why I teach). It
gleams as brightly in my
memory as the reflection of
stained glass morning light in
black patent leather shoes.
So I try to do what’s right,
and if they have it,
I’ll order the roast.  

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved

The Old Poet

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

The old poet
behind a desk
reading aloud
from Frost.
Behind him,
a bookcase
filled with
others’ poems
and a few of his own.

Above the bookcase,
a specimen drawing
of a bluegill.
On top of the bookcase,
between books stacked
and waiting for
a permanent home,
a large feather,
turkey or hawk,
in a mug for soup
long ago surrendered
to pens and feathers.

An Hermes 3000
to his left,
bought new in the sixties,
a well-traveled machine
that has seen Paris,
London, and an
entire season on the
Costa del Sol,
though mostly
untouched then
while the poet
pursued belleza
and drank.

And a shovel,
its handle
propped in the corner
made by the bookcase
and the wall,
waiting to spread
manure or dig
potatoes or take
a side gig as
walking stick
when the reading
ends and the work
of the land
carries on.

The old poet
looks up from
the worn book in
his worn hands
to push the final
words through his
soft stubbled lips.
He closes the book,
assigns reading,
and bids farewell.
A bent finger
clicks the mouse,
and his students
disappear.

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved