Wednesday, October 14, 2015

FLYING

Tired is the jumping off point,
the ledge on which she stands
remembering the bounce
of high board at the swimming hole
where she entertained him nightly
when he was still a boy
and she a femme fatale,
intent on being different
noticed, worshipped, adored,
tease-stripping, tossing her garments
onto the limbs of trees.

There is no bounce where she now stands
only rough edge tempting,
teasing her weary toes
turned inward, pre-takeoff.
She’s letting go at last,
abandoning the dream
their destinations are the same,
flinging her clothes before
the thousand eyes of night.
They fall softly over fir trees
in this hymnless season of dying.

© 2013 Barbara Moore
 “…and it happened under cover”
editing by alicia winski & rich follett



Friday, February 6, 2015

SHIPSHAPE

I don’t think I can find you
here in the darkening afternoon
under the faithless cowlick clouds.
I sense you before I see your face,
before I see the back of your head,
before I see your shoulders slump
and roll up again in sets of 10.
You are exercising your right
to exorcise the tension from your frame.

You are getting shipshape
for a boat that has already sailed.
I have stayed behind hopping
because I do not dare to hope
for anything less or more
than what my body
can perform soloing
on one foot first, then on the other.


© 2014 Barbara H. Moore
A Pressure Press Collection October 2014
Edited by Ron Androla

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Count On It

If we had known
each other from birth
shared playpen, den
roots, berries
walks in open air,
maybe we could
break this glass,
let love flow
freely with no
apprehension,
trust one another
save one another.

But thick glass
shields if onlys,
wistful longings,
protects us
from ourselves.
We were not meant
to be together
in this life.
I will meet you
in another
on the same side
of the glass.

© Aug 16, 2013 Barbara H. Moore
(an older poem I came upon tonight.)


Friday, June 21, 2013

Spun Out


Four bald tires now,
tread eaten away
Countless milestones
nobody noticed
Cruising through drive-ins
Onion rings and fries
Crazy on the side

Highway 61
the gateway journey
Minnesota blues
Commercial detours
Next patch of black ice
your long expected
running out of time


© February 16, 2012 Barbara Moore
Gutter Eloquence Volume 21

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Empty Chest


The coffers crept away
leaving formulas for failure
scripted in bled-out ink
impotent as your word,
your marker, your johnny
hancock come lately
much too late for
happily ever
after the final heist.


© December 2011 Barbara Moore
Guerilla Pamphlets Volume 19

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Your Silence


Your silence does not roar
Its impact lies in subtlety

too clever to dissect
and far too twisted

Its iron hardness
capable of speech

preferring none
chooses instead

to leave me dangling
like a participle

with no rope attached



© November 2011
Guerilla Pamphlets Volume 18

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Not Close to Golden


Addicted to you
and the paranoia
you sowed in
me  I rip-clawed
banshee-wild
scratching out
from your eyes
hot flames
once devouring
minuscule hope

hiding out  in
the cracks  of
symphysis  col-
lapsing   under
beings  you hot-
pricked

one sorry
jab  at a time
from the
slithering spike
of your slippery psychopathy


© 2010 Barbara Moore

How Dirty Girls Get Clean: 
An Anthology of Wicked Women Writes, 
Art and Subversive Scholarship
Edited by Rene Diedrich – Creative Consultant: Fiona Helmsley
Art Soldier Liberated Press
© 2011 by Rene Diedrich