The Old Poet

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

© 2020 Deb Moore,  All Rights Reserved

Curriculum Vitae

My first job was selling shoes.

Sixteen years old.

Needed gas money.

Bought a cowboy hat with my first check.

Went to college.

Started part-time at a hotel.

Went to full-time when I quit college.


Thought I knew everything I needed to know.


Worked in fast food,

then as a bank teller,

then started waiting tables.

That lasted awhile.

Shifted into bartending.

More prestigious.

Did that through school.

(Realized I didn’t know everything I needed to know.)

Got a Masters degree.

Started teaching.

Part-time, then full.

Had more fun bartending, frankly.

Took a medical transcription job.

More money than teaching.

Got to work from home.

Scattered throughout were the odd jobs –

in a plant nursery,

in a wood-working shop,

in a music studio.

Gave real estate a go.

The mortgage business,

Sales, free-lance writing.

It got downright embarrassing.


Don’t think I’ll tell anyone

I think I might be a poet.

Poet At Work

Sunday morning sipping tea.

Different from past Sundays.

No newspaper. No black and white movie on t.v.

No coffee (too acidic, causes arthritis, gums up your joints).


Now I sit at the kitchen table

still in my robe at noon

laptop computer wirelessly surfing the net

from one website to the oddly connected next

like a cyber version of six degrees of Kevin Bacon.

From the blood type diet to the blood type of Jesus

to a blog about Ernest Angley to a Wiccan site (for balance)

to a chakra site to Shirley MacLaine’s site

which talked about her new book

and had the first chapter online

which mentioned the connection of musical tones to colors

and how that is evidenced in the chakra system

which made me think . . .


Connection.  Colors.  Tones.  Energy centers.  Emotion.

So I wrote a poem about the color of anger.


Can’t you see I’m working?