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NEW BOOK IS OUT!
I have loved the words that I’ve laid down on the pages of Lent Words. I believe they have loved me in return. Now they are yours.
“This collection is beautiful and moving with an unprecedented emotional intelligence woven into every poem.”
-The Editors, Quillkeepers Press
Not a Transformation
from Lent Words; Quillkeepers Press
Nature, be my mentor.
Show me how you turn sun and
CO2 to structure and sweetness.
Teach me how you draw
from sea and softness to form mother
of impenetrable pearl.
How can your coral be
airport terminals? How do your infants
emerge from silken homes with wings?
Fire, we have said, is the greatest gift. And we have burnt
classrooms and coaches. But our bodies are
gentle. Our insides are the lightest of elements:
calcium and cobalt.
It is easy to imagine God
forming us of clay, isn’t it? Reaching hands down
into the sludge and silt and emerging with handfuls of
life. Then, ever so lovingly, shaping a shape meant
for care and discovery for question
asking and free will.
If only we could listen now
to the lessons of the ooze and slush of our making.
What stories would the swamps share?
How should we live here?
Please, tell us.
All the Stars in All the Galaxies
from Lent Words; Quillkeepers Press
There is no complete darkness.
No complete darkness.
No complete dark.
No completeness without dark.
Within the darkest dark matter there are particles of light.
There is no complete pain.
No complete pain.
No completeness without facing our pain.
Within the darkest dark pain there are particles of love.
Within love, there is a healing space for pain.
A healing space for pain.
Love has room enough to heal pain.
Within the loving most love there are particles of pain.
Within the brightest bright light there are particles of darkness
Light into light into light
Love into love into love
Dark into dark into dark
Pain into pain into pain
Pain into light into dark into love
Infinite unity. It is our destination and it is love that lights the way.
Familiar Arrangement
from Lent Words; Quillkeepers Press
Today was not unlike most days. I thought of you. I thought of writing to you. I opened your book.
You cupped my ear then, and this air of yours filled me.
This of course is improvised. My ritual. I’ll begin again tomorrow. Your book whole on the table I put beneath it last evening. The etymology of imagination folded in the drapery.
Swallowing the pages, like I had before. Tearing the binding and licking where the words made themselves paragraphs. Phrases reduced to consonants. I chewed. The vowels of it all stained black across my fingers, like your glass of water placed beside the flowers.
I ran my hand through my hair and the etymology of imagination fell around my shoulders.
Christine Moore 