Theresa Ann Moore Poems

Where does the dust come from?
How does it begin and become?
Each particle finds a place to land.
On a mission, they strategically band.
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If two souls are in tune
They never act or pretend
Often a sentence is completed
by the other… as thoughts blend
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Upon the canvas of my mind
Visions of perfection are confined
I try to translate and convey
But, brilliance strays and fades away
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The rising steam from a boiling kettle
Created a mist that cooled and settled
Ice crystals formed from the moisture
Upon a winter window pane of grandeur
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When life is waning
And precious blood is draining
A transfusion is call upon
Before you go to the beyond
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Running in the sun with a terrier named Queenie
Gathering morels under a blossoming apple tree
Standing still as a stick hearing the hum of a bee
Many years ago, these were childhood images of me
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Some days the minutes are compressed
Jammed and crowded; simply overbooked
End to end, top to bottom…overstressed
Sometimes burned to crisp or undercooked
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My father lifted me high to his broad shoulder
I felt as though I was a mountain high beholder
Trucks brought wild animals from far corners…
Gigantic wrinkled pachyderms were performers
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Listening to the old tunes
Reminding me of a past scene
Making me feel reminiscent
Of a pony tailed girl of fourteen
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The perfect solution
Is resting in the sand
With bare feet you will see
The answer is in your hand
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