Tag: Poetry

Ambrosia

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

I saw a picture of myself from childhood,

a picture I had never seen before,

a reflection of my seven-year-old self

frozen in time for 49 years

without me even knowing

it existed.  

 

A friend sent it to me.

“Just ran across this.  

Thought you’d want to see it.” 

I opened the email attachment

and looked into my own face,

recognizable, but unfamiliar.

 

I was sitting on a sled,

guide rope in hand,

forced to pose when really

all I wanted to do was race

down the hill

again and again.

 

I looked determined. 

I looked like I had a 

sense of purpose. 

I didn’t need anybody’s 

permission or approval.

I just needed to fly over

the icy crust of a 

Michigan snow.  

 

My father was in the picture

dressed in 1970s cool,

I suppose, 

if 1970s cool was

Siberian Robin Hood.  

 

My sister was there,

and the friend who sent 

the picture.  

I was glad to have the memory

of a day I didn’t recall,

of a time I couldn’t forget,

of a child I couldn’t remember.  

 

I wanted to race back 

through time 

to warn her

not to lose her Self. 

I wanted to tell her to 

never seek permission,

to always trust the sled

and fly down hills at

full speed.

 

I wanted to tell her

to savor each moment

like ambrosia with

a fast-approaching

sell-by date.  

 

Instead, 

she told me.  

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

Blackberry Winter

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

It’s that time of year                                                                                                                      when the world is half awake.                                                                                              Upright, sure.  Eyes open, mostly.

Daffodils are history.                                                                                                                      Redbud color has come and gone.                                                                                    Dogwoods still razzle-dazzle.                                                                                                          The elm looks almost full.                                                                                                              The maple has already                                                                                                                    put in a full day’s work. 

But the mimosa out front                                                                                                                has yet to crack open an eye.                                                                                                          The walnut looks as tucked in                                                                                                          as the middle of winter.

Gaia hits snooze                                                                                                                                and back we go to                                                                                                                               locust winter                                                                                                                                     dogwood winter                                                                                                                       blackberry winter.

She doesn’t rush things.                                                                                                                  She lets this one get the worm                                                                                                         and that one sleep in.

Everything in due time.                                                                                                              Everything in its season.

© 2020 Deb Moore, All Rights Reserved

The Color of My Sadness

~ Deb ~ 3 Comments

Not blue.  Never blue.  

I don’t care what Elvis thought about Hawaii

or what kind of Christmas it will be without you.

Blue is not sad or depressed or blue.

Blue is happy, sky, azure, eternal seas,

baby boys, forever in blue jeans.

I love blue, and I refuse to hand it over to sadness.

 

You can’t have brown either.  

Brown is the earth.

Brown is suntan, coppertone, 

beach babies drinking brown beer 

on a brown blanket 

delivered by a UPS truck.

Back away from the brown.

 

And you can’t have yellow.  Duh.

 

Red is out.  I need it for passion.

And righteous indignation. 

 

Green?  Not on your life.  

It is the smell of freshly mown grass, 

the sound of the breeze blowing 

through Mother Nature’s hair,

the taste of a slightly tart margarita.

 

If you want to own my sadness,

then I suppose you’ll have to take

whatever color the sun becomes 

in those last seconds before she falls 

into the coin slot of the horizon.

Take the thousands of

red-orange-purple-mauve-fuchsias

that melt into each other

and shift and change each other

every few milliseconds 

into one more sunset seen 

for the first time anywhere,

just like that one I saw 

the night you left,

when my tears made a

kaleidoscope of color

out of the western sky

and welled to honor

the last of the light,

the farewell to the 

Bringer of 

Life. 

 

Whatever color is sent on

the last ray from the sun

at day’s end,

that is the color of sadness.

That one you can have. 

100 Novels

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

100 novels live inside me.

Some I write as poems because I get bored quickly.

Some have a natural hook and a dance beat. They become songs.

A few bloom into a full plot, character sketches, random baubles of backstory.

 

I finished two.

One lives in a black hole in cyberspace.

The other lives in my memory and on a five-and-a-quarter inch floppy disk.

Both corrupted storage media.

 

Sometimes, rarely, a novel will arrive in a sense of fullness,

a complete glorious narrative waiting for the telling.

And there it recluses, known only in the flash of my firefly attention.

 

But what a concept.

What an ending.