Category: Poetry

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

Symbiosis

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

I was stirring
honey in my tea
when through the
kitchen window
I spied the bright red
cardinal who had
established himself
Chief of the Yard.
He flight-paced
between the empty feeder
and a mimosa limb.
When he paused,
he looked right at me.
I swear he did.

His angry cardinal
glare and fiery
feathers, all ruffled
and fluffed, set
my priorities.
Tea down,
I went out to the shed
for the bucket of
seed and walked
toward the feeder,
unnoticed,
then noticed,
a flash of red diving into
the honeysuckle.

Alone at the tree,
still, I felt watched.
Watched, as I reached
for the feeder,
set it on the ground,
fed it scoopfuls
of black oil
sunflower seeds,
and returned it,
full, to its limb
in the mimosa.

Back at shed distance,
I saw Chief
return and perch,
his beak stabbing,
shells flying,
a black hailstorm
summoning
the female cardinal
and the finches
and the wrens
and the chickadees
who must have been
watching from places
unseen.

We watch each other
for different reasons,
Chief and I.
He watches for food.
I watch for beauty and
flight and poetry.
Reciprocal stalkers
in search of sustenance.
I feed, he eats,
and we are
both filled,
sated with
magnesium and
purpose. 

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved