24. Rich Moore

The first transatlantic member of the sixty odd - for whom victory is in the doing.

Rich Moore is a diehard Midwesterner now more Westerner, having grown up in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains in Southeastern Ohio and lived in the San Francisco Bay Area for the past several decades. His poetry clearly reflects his Midwestern roots and sensibilities as well as his journalist background. After college, he was a newspaper reporter for five years on the North Shore of Massachusetts, about 50 miles North of Boston.  

He moved to Silicon Valley in the late 1980s and shifted to marketing for technology companies but continued to write short stories on the side, none of which saw the light of day nor were shared with anyone. About 25 years ago, something changed.  His writing started bubbling up as narrative poetry and he doesn’t know why. But it ignited a new passion and conviction.

A year ago, a close friend encouraged Rich to share his poetry with family and friends. That resulted in him creating Along the Way, his Substack site.  Since then, he has posted a new poem about once a week.  

As a fellow writer advised him, ‘When it comes to writing, victory is in the doing!’  Rich has adopted that as his mantra.  

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Poems

Cheating the Wind
My Dog doesn't Drink Bourbon
The Lady in the Mirror
Geological Time
5 Feet 20 Years Apart
Dad's Plaid Coat

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Cheating the Wind

You see it
in the cracks and lines
in his wizened face,
years of cheating the wind
and being chased 
by ghosts 
deep in the water 
and deep in his bones.

You see it
in his hands,
worn and calloused
from years
of pulling lines
and trimming sails 
to bring his boat about
and head in a new direction.

You see it
in his eyes,
wary and weary, 
focused every day
on tedious tasks 
to keep the ghosts at bay.

Ghosts of good friends,
memories of them 
disappearing, 
ghosts of a dad
impossible to please,
no measuring up
no matter how hard 
he worked
or what 
he achieved.

He sought and found
solace at sea,
plowing coastal water
in old sailboats,
drowning himself
above the surface,
plying his own dark water
with his own dark spirits 
that quieted the ghosts.

Now he sits 
and watches over
a quiet harbor,
his latest old boat
bobbing and rocking
with the tides,
its rigging clinking
like a chime, 
him rubbing his hands
and blinking his eyes,
finally smiling, 
clearly recounting 
the good times.

<<<

My Dog Doesn’t Drink Bourbon

My dog
doesn’t drink
bourbon.

But she likes 
to sit with me
in the early evening
while I do.

We like to sit
on the flat stone steps
atop our front yard,
me on a step or two 
higher than her,
she sitting up  
on her haunches,
one step below me,
alert and eyes forward.

As soon as she hears the ice
in my tumbler,
upon my first sip,
she turns her head, 
tips it a bit, 
arches her eyebrows 
above her big dark eyes,
then sniffs toward my face.

If I were to guess,
I’d guess she’s wondering
why I'm sitting so low to the ground,
like her, 
and trying to understand
why I’m so quiet and contemplative. 

She returns her gaze forward
and lifts her hind quarters,
her well-worn signal for me
to rub her head and shoulders,
her back, and ultimately,
her achy old hips.

Then we stop
and stare together 
into the crisp December sky,
the sun melting into the horizon,
giving way to streaks and wisps
of pink, light blue, and orange,
all melding into
a faded palette
of pastel hues.

I sip my bourbon
and my dog sits
quietly, turns again
and gives me another 
one of her inquisitive looks.

If I were to guess,
I’d guess she’s wondering
what the hell I’m doing,
and marveling 
at what I find 
so marvelous about
something she sees
as so natural and normal.

She likely keeps wondering
why people are so strange,
then is distracted by a crow
landing on our picket fence
or a squirrel racing up a tree 
across the street.

Once the distractions 
have loosened their
grip on her brain 
and she’s regained her senses,
she stands up, 
walks down a couple of steps
and trots across the yard 
toward the back door:  

‘He’ll feed me soon!”

<<<

The Lady in The Mirror

She holds the photo 
between the fingers 
of her left hand and turns it over
in search of a date
and a place.

She straightens in her chair 
and runs the fingers 
of her right hand
along the side of her head, 
pushing wet hair back off her face.

The young woman
in the photo stares
straight into the camera,
smiling softly as she leans back  
atop the old stone wall.

Her eyes are bright
and full of life,
her face smooth and relaxed
showing none of the lines 
of strain that will come later.

The sun in the photo 
is bright but it’s clearly a cold day  
as the woman on the wall
wears a heavy black sweater
pulled tightly up around her neck.

The woman holding the photo
turns it over again, 
then again. But there’s
no indication of when
or where it was taken. 

It arrived in the mail
that morning
with a simple card and message:
‘Found this today 
in a favorite old book. 
So many memories! 
Your friend, T.’

The woman 
holding the photo 
looks up from her dining room table 
and catches her reflection
in the mirror.

She leans back,
smiles softly,
her eyes grow bright.
She returns her gaze 
to the photo,
and remembers 
that day.

<<<

Geological Time

Our geological clock
has no hands,
no numbers,
nothing designating
seconds, minutes or hours.

Its face
is our natural landscape
and it marks time
using spires
and fins stacked up 
at places like Canyonlands….

By the majesty
of formations 
like Delicate Arch
and the artistry 
of Looking Glass Rock
and the vibrant glow
of the red rock walls
and sharp ridges
surrounding Moab.

The clock 
has no chimes,
other than 
occasional claps of thunder
created by jagged bolts
of lightening 
on the horizon,
echoing for miles around.

It delineates eons
by the sandwiched layers 
of salt and sandstone
left behind 
and the deep, meandering gorges
revealed millions of years ago
by the receding sea.

Little remains 
of the sea 
that once covered this land,
other than the muddy ribbons
of the Colorado and Green rivers
flowing through opposite sides
of this expanse
before they meet 
at their confluence.

The clock has no pendulum
nor stem to wind it,
no cord to plug it in
for it’s a perpetual machine
powered by a cool morning breeze
that gives way, slowly,
to the warmth 
of the desert sun
that keeps it running
into the evening
when the wind picks up
strong enough
to power it through the night
and make any tent 
sound like 
it’s coming apart
or look like 
a pounding heart.

No, this clock 
has no springs 
or ratchets, 
no hammers 
no brackets,
no intricate flirts,
or lugs, pallets or crutches,
no barrels or wheels,
no balances or weights.

It’s not mechanical,
it's ethereal,
gauging our stewardship
rather than our punctuality.

<<<

Five Feet, Twenty Years Apart

They sit
five feet 
and twenty years
apart.

Her hazel eyes still 
dance with 
a bit of mischief,
but are tired 
and weary,
impossible to hide 
the years of worry
and toil and burden
of motherhood.

He’s twenty years
behind her, 
her first and oldest
with eyes that show
their own worry and wear
yet still hold
a softness for most
all she says.
 
She talks
and talks 
in rambling 
disjointed circular
monologues, mostly
starting a conversation 
with distant details
of convoluted context
and quickly snaps 
at questions about
her intent with ‘Well,
let me finish. I’m trying 
to tell you!’

It’s frustrating
and frequently infuriating
but he takes a breath,
reminds himself 
of the twenty-year
difference and attempts 
to acquiesce.

They’re five feet apart 
on her front porch,
sitting in wide armed
white wicker chairs,
sharing a bottle of rose,
a bowl of olives, 
a board of cheese 
and hummus and
carrots, pita chips,
and pepper salami that
she’s convinced
will be too spicy 
and make 
her choke, plus
the wine’s too cold
for her COPD throat. 

Along with her 
concern about 
salt in the salami
and acid in the thin slice
of backyard tomato she just ate,
she doesn’t understand
how anyone could vote for that man, 
what the Supreme Court was thinking 
when it overturned Roe, 
or why her geraniums 
look so lousy 
when just a week ago
they were gorgeous, 
full and vibrant red.

‘Look at those plants 
over in Carol’s yard,
just bursting,’ 
she says, then adds,
‘I think someone’s 
dog peed on mine.’

She sips the rose.
He just stares
into her hazel eyes
and doesn’t know
what to say.

It’s the silence
in such conversations
that seem to un-nerve her,
the void an unknown
she wants to fill 
before it gets too big
and engulfs her.

He wonders 
about her partial
and her sunken cheeks, 
her thinning hair, 
worries about her
balance and lack of it,
her waning sense of adventure
and fear about 
nearly everything 
outside her door
beyond her porch.

He worries about
how much time 
she spends watching CNN
and her special daytime show 
and how little time 
she spends in the sunshine
and breathing 
fresh air.

She waters the fern,
deadheads the sad geraniums,
and notes with glee
all the buds and blooms 
on her hostas.

He stares
into her hazel eyes
and knows it’s wise
to let her go,
let her meander
through her days
not to his projected
expectations 
but to her priorities 
and shifting motivations.

She sips her rose
and cracks a soft smile:
‘Let's have 
another slice 
of that tomato.’

<<<

Dad’s Plaid Coat

Wonder what became
of Dad’s plaid
winter coat?

Heavy wool
with grey flannel lining,
black and white tweed
with tiny flecks of red,
mid-thigh length
with dark horn buttons.

He'd stuff his well-worn 
black leather gloves
into the pockets
of that coat
and pop the collar
when it was 
really cold.

When he got home
from work 
he’d throw his coat
over the newel post
at the bottom of the stairs
that led up to the landing
that turned and 
went further up
to the second floor.

I always checked
his pockets
for a piece of gum
or a Tootsie Roll
but usually just found
his pack of Marlboros,
a book of matches, 
and his car keys.

I’d pull his coat
off the banister
and put it on
along with his gloves,
all of it dwarfing
my little boy’s body.

He was a stylish guy
with his plaid coat,
grey flannel slacks,
crisp white shirt,
skinny striped tie,
and shiny thick-soled 
black wingtip shoes.

I vividly recall that coat
with its comforting scent
of my dad’s Clubman after shave
mixed with a hint
of cigarette smoke.

I vividly recall that coat 
but can’t remember 
the sound of his voice,
now lost in the fog of time,
20 plus years 
since he passed.

I bet his coat
is tucked away 
in some long-forgotten 
cardboard box,
likely in a deserted closet
in some remote Salvation Army 
storage facility 
or the attic 
of the First Baptist Church
down on Fourth Street,
all taped up 
and covered in dust.

I wonder
if I found that box
and opened it
and found Dad’s coat
if I’d also find his voice?
 
<<<

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