David W Moore III

Main page for the written works of David W Moore III

Poetry

 

The World in D minor 
 
Old man winter takes his deepest breath,  
his cheeks puffed out and red-tinged.  
He blows into the world a symphony in white: 
a universe of palest star flurries and soft satellite puffs 
who dance their orbital waltz of lazy ellipse, 
joining at times in more intimate embrace.
  
He steps lightly through the dance floor; 
his heavily calloused feet crunching through the frozen parquet  
in rhythm to the icicle bells' melody.  
Smoky pine incense billows from his censer;  
clouds drifting aimlessly across the sky.  
The baton in his right hand dips in counterpoint, 
directing an arpeggio of silver parchment leaves veined with man's family tree.
They rise and fall from redwood columns holding up the heavens.
 
His face is lined with concentration,
but his eyes shine with wonder and just a hint of smile.  
As his piece drifts to pianissimo, slowly fading to conclusion, 
He inhales deeply once more.  
The maestro readies another masterpiece.     

© 2010 David W Moore III

 

 

Star

 

In the primordial swirl, in a vortex of hues,
Life and life-not dance a tango to the sultry beat.
Here, Euclid never lived, and nothing is ever relative
In the dance of destruction; the coil of creation.

Witness birth, an explosion, a nuclear expansion.
It sings your name on the radio waves,
But it's light years and decades 
from being light years away,
And you're centuries and millennia from being eons from birth.

Still it knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.

In the midst of the maelstrom,
It shines bright, a point,
A lantern of lucidity, an anchor of hope.
You are nothing, not here,
Not even close to your birth.

Still it knows you. It feels you, It is you. It sings.

So on emergence and years of your lattes and trials,
When you look up, you see not your star shining bright,
But a curtain of black velvet and diamond scintillation.
They are all kinds of stars, fueled with fusion and fire,
You say you don't see it: not the one: not this night.

Still It knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.

And you know it. You feel it. You are it. You sing.

© 2010 David W Moore III

 

 

 

In the primordial swirl, in a vortex of hues,
Life and life-not dance a tango to the sultry beat.
Here, Euclid never lived, and nothing is ever relative
In the dance of destruction; the coil of creation.

Witness birth, an explosion, a nuclear expansion.
It sings your name on the radio waves,
But it's light years and decades 
from being light years away,
And you're centuries and millennia from being eons from birth.

Still it knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.

In the midst of the maelstrom,
It shines bright, a point,
A lantern of lucidity, an anchor of hope.
You are nothing, not here,
Not even close to your birth.

Still it knows you. It feels you, It is you. It sings.

So on emergence and years of your lattes and trials,
When you look up, you see not your star shining bright,
But a curtain of black velvet and diamond scintillation.
They are all kinds of stars, fueled with fusion and fire,
You say you don't see it: not the one: not this night.

Still It knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.

And you know it. You feel it. You are it. You sing.

© 2010 David W Moore III


In the primordial swirl, in a vortex of hues,
Life and life-not dance a tango to the sultry beat.
Here, Euclid never lived, and nothing is ever relative
In the dance of destruction; the coil of creation.

Witness birth, an explosion, a nuclear expansion.
It sings your name on the radio waves,
But it's light years and decades 
from being light years away,
And you're centuries and millennia from being eons from birth.

Still it knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.

In the midst of the maelstrom,
It shines bright, a point,
A lantern of lucidity, an anchor of hope.
You are nothing, not here,
Not even close to your birth.

Still it knows you. It feels you, It is you. It sings.

So on emergence and years of your lattes and trials,
When you look up, you see not your star shining bright,
But a curtain of black velvet and diamond scintillation.
They are all kinds of stars, fueled with fusion and fire,
You say you don't see it: not the one: not this night.

Still It knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.

And you know it. You feel it. You are it. You sing.

© 2010 David W Moore III


In the primordial swirl, in a vortex of hues,
Life and life-not dance a tango to the sultry beat.
Here, Euclid never lived, and nothing is ever relative
In the dance of destruction; the coil of creation.

Witness birth, an explosion, a nuclear expansion.
It sings your name on the radio waves,
But it's light years and decades 
from being light years away,
And you're centuries and millennia from being eons from birth.

Still it knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.

In the midst of the maelstrom,
It shines bright, a point,
A lantern of lucidity, an anchor of hope.
You are nothing, not here,
Not even close to your birth.

Still it knows you. It feels you, It is you. It sings.

So on emergence and years of your lattes and trials,
When you look up, you see not your star shining bright,
But a curtain of black velvet and diamond scintillation.
They are all kinds of stars, fueled with fusion and fire,
You say you don't see it: not the one: not this night.

Still It knows you. It feels you. It is you. It sings.

And you know it. You feel it. You are it. You sing.

© 2010 David W Moore III