Three Poems by Grant A. Moore

by Grant A. Moore

Anniversary

the city edge, its concrete knife

divides the Earth, creates a cliff

the shifting gears engage to dive,

a morning drive becomes a trek

along the etching mountainside,

the tips of which all signals die;

ascending poles of cable lines,

the crooked rubber vines that test

the forest depth infested heights

with swarming trails of valleyed years

much older than the minutes here,

forgotten since and gone to ground,

to gravel found upon the paths

unravelled round the bend today,

today a day the years return,

it turns around to me again,

repeated now, but far removed

by twisted roads that have no end,

where maps pretend to know the way

through swaying wilds of ancient pine

inclined on slants of slated shelves,

that delve the dark of cratered holes

around reverbing curves that skirt

the skids my spinning makes in dirt;

the thinning miles, the barren miles,

as humans fade, the tree empires

expanding spans of secret green,

and losing me, i find the top,

the spot we used, the place you said

you'd always be, but all remains

decayed, reclaimed, reversed, undone,

embedded in the layered lime.

Christmas

the town is dead, in dying dreams

december trees with vying lights,

the timbered scenes that blink unseen

in eerie angles down the street.

on holidays, the graves of men

are warmer than the fallen world,

the sheets that form a shawl and tomb,

the keepers of the doomed and spring.

in dark the corpses grow and rot

in pockets kept beneath the snow.

although i wander to and fro,

the freeze that slows the world to stop,

it wraps around in glowing rings

the steeples pointing up to show

my heart is aimed like arrowed bow,

but lowered level to the ground

where pounding feet, in treks alone,

remember trees that grew back home.

Cathedral

A church atop a steepled hill,

foundation layers ages old,

remains in spirit standing still.

The shattered stains on window sill,

with marble halls of lichen mold,

a church atop a steepled hill.

Decrepit pews of souls fulfill

what congregation left untold,

remains in spirit standing still.

The circled streets possess no will

except the signs that staked and sold

a church atop a steepled hill.

But tower high such pointed skill,

through silken skies of glittered gold,

remains in spirit standing still.

Ignore the wind, the biting chill,

and cast your final gaze, behold:

A church atop a steepled hill

remains in spirit standing still.