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Essays Examining Xenophobia

Poetry John L. Moorman (1939-1984)

Poetry

John L. Moorman (1939 -1984)



TEARS


I have had trouble with tears today;
       tears that swell and burn,
       tears that seep and steam
       tears that drop
          upon the
             secret
             center
of my wakefulness,
             tears
             that want to
       water all our lives,
Tears that hurt.  Tears.

                                               29 July 77
 
   
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SOUL


Some sensitive soul
     Has sought me out
          And found me
               In my tears.

Some sorrowing soul
     Was passing through
          And saw into
               My tears.

Some secret soul
     Has seen my soul
          And felt
     The longing
          There,
     And given back
          The love
                I lack,
     I felt him
          say,
     "I care".

                                                  16 May 78
 
     
 

ADMIRE


Now I will lean forward
And admire my just-washed, un-combed
Hair tangled in the bright September sun.

Never (without you) did I admire
And really like
Anything about me.

I cry (a little) in joy
And admiration
And accept me
Like you do.

I’m good.
                             15 Sept 80
     
     
     
GOLDENROD


(It's time to cut tobacco in Kentucky)
The budding of autumn...
Goldenrod yellowing off its green
Like willows in early spring--
(who get their green from yellow)
Like new life; but goldenrod
Will witness the reverse,
And preside over the passing
Of all our summer green.

                                                   21 Aug 80
 
     
 
WANT


Sister sitting
On a sunlit Saturday
Morning corner
Asks people passing
For a quarter
Like she asked me
Yesterday.

"Tis more blessed
to give than to receive,"--
But isn't it
More holy still
To ask,
Risk denial
Beg and want?

The giver
Must be moved
By the higher
Good of a
Request,
Plea,
Want.

                                21 June 75




     
     
     
SUN-FALL


Clear Monday morning--
softened sunlight
of the Fall filling the window
of our room--

Watching the delicate, twisting
shadows of cigarette smoke
among the dancing shadows
of withering tree leaves
cast upon this book
by Columbus Day sun;

I woke to find
you next to me
and the early sun (8:30)
already almost to the corner
of the room with its square of light
--not on the summer center of the wall

                         9 October 78
 
     
   
   
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FOG


Fog-filled Saturday morning--
Standing at the door
not wanting to go in--
The wet, gray air
Among the wet, black trees of March
is fondling their figures.

Along the walk the winter waste
of pens and pins and broken glass
of countless losses and beer bottles
is regurgitated by the melting snow.

March morning in the mist
March morning I was kissed
by cold, wet lips of fog.

It feels so good to get it out
and let the fog-tongue in.


11 Mar 78
                

 
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