That woman in the mirror can’t be me.
She looks so worn and clearly past her prime,
while I take nostrums advertised to be
protection from the wear and tear of time.
Her bushy eyebrows and unruly mop
make her appear unkempt. My brows, I pluck,
at least those bits that I can see. I chop
long strands of hair. Those out of place I tuck.
My wit, with highschool classmates, ranked first place.
Her down-turned mouth belies a sense of fun.
The more I stare, the more severe her face—
in movies, she’d be cast as Scary Nun.
No wait! What’s that? Do I detect she blinks?
It’s there again, more clear. My God! She winks!
Mary E. Moore
The HyperTexts
I recognize the face I knew so well
and cherished, more than fifty years ago,
when future‘s promise no one could foretell
and he had been my first, official beau.
Reserved, we trade in facts to bridge the years;
compare careers and families, choices, cost.
We tease and laugh a bit, allaying fears
that we are really strangers. Love, all lost.
At length, we cast aside the masquerade,
begin to speak of what we hold as true.
With souls and psyches bare, the decades fade
and fresh emotions, based on old, debut.
When he departs, I tell myself, in truth,
his lips, so sweet on mine, are those of youth.
Mary E. Moore
Rhyme and Reason,
Neil H. McAlister, Ed., 2006
Each day that passes gives me pause to think,
that might have been the day on which I died.
My every footstep closer to the brink
each day that passes. I take pause to think:
to relish life, one needs to make the link
to death, not set mortality aside.
One day that passes, I won’t pause to think.
That will be the day on which I died.
Mary E. Moore
The Eclectic Muse,
Christmas, 2006
Momma, don’t you know it’s me?
It’s John, your oldest son who’s here.
Who’s that? What do you want? Who’s he?
Momma, don’t you know? It’s me!
I hear a voice but I don’t see
my Johnnie. He’ll be nine this year.
Momma don’t you know? It’s me.
It’s John, your oldest son. Who’s here?
Mary E. Moore
The Eclectic Muse,
Christmas, 2006
old age –
we hope it comes
but if it does,
we hope no fellow travelers
tag along
Mary E. Moore
Modern English Tanka,
Spring 2008
Now we’ve
grown old, tomorrows fade.
We lose our way; thoughts get mislaid.
We thrive on simple, fixed routine
preferring the familiar scene
to new, exotic escapade.
Youth looks askance at the brigade
of us whose death has been delayed
past years when we were swift and keen,
now we’ve grown old.
But we can claim, “Our dues are paid.
We’ve marched full course in life’s parade.”
So bang the drums and intervene
with battle cries, though we convene
on rocking chairs set down in shade,
now we’ve grown old.
Mary E. Moore
Möbius, January 2006
The hours slip away too fast for me.
A day begins and suddenly it’s night.
Time and my ambition disagree.
I’m slower now than what I used to be
and take forever getting things just right.
The hours slip away too fast for me.
I pen TO DOs, my list a potpourri
of duty, chores and poetry to write.
But time and my ambition disagree.
I move to do one thing, then two, or three
and, flea-like, find it vexing to alight.
So hours slip away too fast for me.
Now add to this my rotten memory.
Misplaced my bloody list. No list in sight.
There’s time, but no ambitions I can see.
Revision done, one thing’s complete. Yipee!
This villanelle is through, as I recite:
The hours slipped away too fast for me.
But time and one ambition did agree.
Mary E. Moore
Möbius, January 2006
lying in his arms last night
thinking of you —
I knew I’d grown old
and that you were
my youth
Mary E. Moore
Modern English Tanka,
Summer 2008