Vying For Certitude
by Gail Gauldin Moore
I was up all night
becoming a wild flower
of yielding proportions:
Becoming a gnat,
riding the back of unseen worlds.
I was a clown
governed by laughs;
A serendipity of cause
and a winged player
in the fields of God.
Gifting The Source
by Gail Gauldin Moore
I didn’t want to be poor
in Bushmire County,
so I took all I had and
wrapped it in plain
brown paper. You had
left so I couldn’t take you.
Everything else was
gone.
I floundered until
I could make things fit.
I had this yellow comb
my father left me.
I carried that in my
pocket.
World on Fire
by Gail Gauldin Moore
It’s Mother’s voice saying,
“Hello, I am not at home,
I’m somewhere else.
I’ve been
looking for a new world.
I am in the pool doing laps with God.
Leave a good message.”
Mother keeps courage in
a drawstring purse,
and stores disaster by its weight.
She is used to packing
duty next to time.
But now she keeps saying;
“I’m not at home.
I am in the marketplace
looking for orphan dreams,
and not at home.”
by Gail Gauldin Moore
Psycho-babble talk can diminish
experience, as in the concept
of selves: the "lost self", "true self",
"emerging self", etc., etc..
The true self does not think,
"what self can wear with
a red raincoat?" Or"could I
learn to wear guile in a
summer dress?"
My true self should catapult the dark,
be a back-bone to my odd ways.
It should tell the truth.
My "true self" is an unlit lantern.
My "false self" clouds my dreams.
The "emerging self" cries for midwives;
and last night was so dark
that I told "my self";
no one should be this alone.
I wanted you,
but you had never reached back;
Not even for one right lifetime.
I wanted you,
but you had never met God
in his own country
and we were not a success.
But no one should be
this alone.
Lady Justice
by Gail Gauldin Moore
Sometime in May
the laws of the land
caught on fire
Then, there was no law,
except in paper courts
which shredded their own intent.
In the backroom, bones were
broken for fuel
There were many big houses,
but no justice
Someone e - mailed jokes
but even the dead, could
not laugh, knowing bones
were broken.
I offered my eyes to "potatoe faced
blind men."
I offered nuances of myself,
where every kind of hell could fit.
I offered my smile and my teeth.
I offered my entire day of nights
as I could not be arraigned and
everything large in me grew small.
And in the country of real consequences;
I offered prayers; mealy-mouthed
and awful.
I offered songs and so much money
you wouldn't believe.
But the crying didn't stop
and blind men were everywhere.