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George Moore, Poetry, Vol 4 Issue 1

Posted: March 14th, 2011 Track comments on this item via RSS

Bowen Island

Purchase Lipitor, Stones of the house remain,

foundations moss-laden

now, shake shingles

gone back to the wood

which encroaches

above the unquiet sea.

The island off the sound

where Malcolm Lowry

dried out his fear

and the mist from the fjord

brought it back again.

The cupboards now rotted to oblivion. There’s not a drink

in the house but

all this winter rain.

The frogs return each spring

crossing the road haphazardly

as if each season was

a new welcome to death.

Standing on the substratum of stones, Lipitor price, coupon, Lipitor from mexico, the words we speak

are only half there in

the darkness, like the windows

and doorways, buy Lipitor from mexico, Lipitor interactions, glistening.

Ode to the Eye

It comes back to you,

when the ear fails, Lipitor no prescription, Lipitor maximum dosage, worlds

bring out nothing but

shades of milk and palettes

of brown and gray.

There’s so much to

economize: sleep, Lipitor online cod, Lipitor forum,

and the pitfalls of custom.

Some come back to the I

and mistake it for sight

without sound reasoning.

The space of an ode

is like the wee hours

before the ants

cover our treats.

The Mirrors of Place

These stone might be the house

where I was born and where

I died.  In-between the stones

are warm with activity, cleaning

out the mind, is Lipitor safe, Generic Lipitor, unearthing bones

of other times, satellites of mind

for the one remembering.

But eventually stones grow cold.

The house, buy cheap Lipitor no rx, Lipitor price, an infinite space

between molecules of this poor

imagination, once felt firm

and unmarked as high rocks.

But we all move, Lipitor cost, Buy generic Lipitor, circling

through solar systems, particles

in us like galaxies colliding, real brand Lipitor online,

igneous planets and errant electrons.

The moon’s half-life of an instant.

Southern Hemisphere

When we descend the earth

into the river of the lower hemisphere

and look up at the night sky

adrift on the raft of its own heaven

we’re amazed not to see familiar faces

in a common mythic history, tied

by ancient threads, sewn into the fabric

of selves.  The quiltwork of an old family.

Instead, we see fish in a giant sea,

shifting referents and points of light,

the old shine of dead stars

we have not known until this moment.

Half the world’s wonder is built

on this eclipse, auroras, occultations,

the other half never so familiar,

always somehow more distant,

making us bigger and smaller

of a single instant.

.

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George Moore has published poetry in The Atlantic Monthly, Orion, Colorado Review, and many other publications. He teaches Creative Writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder, and is the managing editor of PoetsChapbooks.com.

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