Theresa Ann Moore Poems

The years trickle by like an old cliché
Minutes turn to hours… then days
Passing through the hourglass of time,
as bones stiffen and hair turns to gray
...

Delicate frigid flakes layer and repeat
As tracks trace a path of adventurous feet
Soon to be melted by warming rays…
Fading away with winter's dreary days
...

The sky is filled with droplets
of inconvenience
prompting sidewalk travelers
to scurry and run away
...

Stan is a dapper man
mild and shy to some degree
with a spirit that is constrained...
sometimes it yearns to be free
...

Life is enhanced by the sense of smell.
Some aromas can inspire and compel.
If you ask a man with a deficient sniffer…
He may shrug and say that he does differ.
...

A shadow looms and crashes to the earth
spreading debris that scatters upon impact
Within the settling dust and ascending smoke
are traces of hate burning… how do we react?
...

Dark smoke is streaming
across the top of my cockpit
Mayday! Mayday! I shout...
Can anyone hear me on this frequency
...

Deciding what the day
will be
watching snowflakes
turn to rain
...

is there a clue
to what you are to do
beyond mere existence…
overcoming resistance
...

Keepsakes of a time
when love
was radiant…
free from doubt
...