those long stainless spoons
bring back memories
the noise of the chefs bringing long trays
of food we would soon be dipping into
as trays would make their way along the line
gathering the daily meal the kitchen had prepared
the last duty was the exit dispensing
the bagged lunches we had already prepared
as they made their way back into the streets
the camaraderie in the kitchen
was a daily blessing
sometimes one could hear old gospel songs
or perhaps a newer popular tune
it was a shared joy
the art of bagging baloney and cheese
the banter between volunteers and recipients
and the Thanksgiving meals of the Salvation Army
escorting them through the line, seating them
oh, I could tell you tales from the shower detail
soap, shampoo, new t-shirt, specialty products
the smiles, having removed the everyday wear of life
a chance to walk into a new life for a moment
my walk from the trolley among them gathering
waiting at the door, offers of drugs, street reality
when i must confront the cruelty of humanity
it is here i remember, the heart of Christianity
Oregon 8/3/26
we’ve had sheep not as wooly as our dog
it’s in our carpet, thick as a log
we wade through his hair every day
kicking tufts of it out of our way
it is on the couch, floating in the air
I’d like to knit it into a blanket, mohair
Bagging it would be hard to do
it floats all over, wild as my hairdo
October, bring me home to all the scents I so adore
clothe me in cinnamon dreams and help me collect
all the colors that I so lovingly wrapped
with burlap's gentle touch !
October, blush me with orange and tangerines
tint my lips with red and crimson sheen
and as the fall foliage falls away from me,
bring me a mug of pumpkin spice, Oh please
October, while your busy bagging gold
I am gathering dry leaves at my feet
Raking in hopes for a mild mild winter,
and marshmallows roasting by a lovely fireside.
After the first hard frost comes the gentle snow,
then later on if we are lucky, a beautiful warm spring in toe...
here’s your plaque:
best in uniformity & public shaming.
no rooster crows without committee review.
no similes unless they match the mulch.
you scratch the dirt,
then vote on who gets corn-fed
when there's plenty to go around.
not every poem is a zoning dispute,
and I'm hard pressed to name anyone here
an expert in the field. get over yourselves.
she left.
what was the point of that?
you ran off a chance to learn something,
or worse,
ran off a chance to help a lonely person
in need, masquerading what they want to be.
we'll never know now.
all this for what?
the abject terror of an electron less
of validation? grow the f*ck up.
I see you,
paper-bagging praise like contraband,
while circling the coop,
searching for a beak to clip.
I'm going to bed now,
to dream of that first welcome
I had three years ago.
My sincerest hope
is that you'll meet me there.
If you own a dog, at some point you
Will be carrying a bag of poo,
At least if you’re considerate
And follow laws regarding s#%*.
There are some, though, who flout the rules
And think that bagging crap’s for fools.
A joke said, aliens did land
And, struggling to understand,
Determined that the smarter race
Were not the humans, for their place
Was picking up whatever lot
Their masters left with every squat.
In any case, when doggies do
Their business, making number two,
Their owners might hold back a gag
But will be left to hold the bag,
Unless, of course, that they refuse
And leave the mess for others’ shoes.
When a tripping tongue
sets a tail to wagging
Check the message brung
see what it’s bagging
At the end of the season
bagging trash
worn out from holiness
Lights burning black holes
in bright windows
Longer nights circle narrowing days
sense of unseen toothless dogs
The thin smoke of merriment rising
out of colorless dawns
The children are sulky
their wishes all came true
someday close at hand
they will understand
Still it’s been
(if the amount of trash
counts for anything)
the very best one yet
Peanut butter and jelly always satisfied me
Why'd I stop brown-bagging it in 2003
I Used to Enjoy
by Bob Moore © 2022
I used to enjoy the barbers
go for a haircut and a chat
talk about the football
politics and things like that
There usually would be one chair,
or maybe there was two
a few customers and the barber
who knew just what to do
Short back and sides was standard
the cut most of us had
not fancy, but easy to comb or brush
and it didn’t look too bad
But things have changed, as all things do
and whenever you may go
the barbers speak to each other
in a language I do not know.
They may be telling each other jokes
just like we used to do
“two cutting and three bagging here,
been a while since we’ve seen you.”
Or talking about the football
or the land where they were born
but I cannot join in with them
on this haircut Saturday morn.
I miss those haircut mornings
and now it’s just a chore
I listen but do not understand
don’t go much anymore
Bob Moore
You’re one of The Mortals
To whom others are “Empty Bottles”
You have risen now and again,
Degrees bagging to your own again
At all analyses “Very Good!”
And at Evaluation “Oh! My God!”
Often, The First to be Understood,
No frustrated use of bullying rod.
Still need you to set yourself apart
By being The Proverbial Young at Heart:
Voice for infant’s frame of mind;
I have in mind the toddler just behind
Your sweetly playful Four-Year-Old Son
About to a game start in The Sun …
For that is when in you
The presence of God holds true.
And you become truly a mortal
To whom another is Empty Bottle.
At the end of the season
bagging trash
worn out from holiness
Lights burning black holes
in bright windows.
Longer nights circle narrowing days,
sense of unseen toothless dogs.
The thin smoke of merriment rising
out of colorless dawns.
The children are sulky
their wishes all came true,
someday close at hand
they will understand.
Still it’s been
(if the amount of trash
counts for anything),
the very best one yet.
From assassins fleeing but finally spotted,
One’s good image guarding and still it is blotted;
An ill-omened murderous car
Crushing one’s guiltless star!
A team playing out its heart but lifting no trophy,
Zero approbation bagging for one’s philanthropy;
A last- round knockout receiving from a punch-drunk pugilist,
God truthfully serving but still tagged an animist.
Also, forever battling with recognition
While not indifferent to its precondition
Or, of a sudden, experiencing health issues
After stepping into demanding shoes…
The jaws of Devourer Fate
Remain The Widest Gate:
That which would storm one’s path
And for days not important a bath.
A few days before Thanksgiving,
My sister was not among the living.
Time to celebrate and be giving
Without her, was emotional missing.
Day of giving thanks and blessings
With strong friends and family bonding
Instead mourning and weeping
When our hearts were breaking.
I stare, unable to utter a sound, bagging
To wake up from this nightmare; hiding
The pain, but I can't stop shuddering.
How does one deal with the death of a sibling?
My unforgivable sin of my grief;
If only I knew that our time would be brief.
I would say I love you with lots of hugging.
11/10/2021
''U'' Contest, New Poems Only Poetry Contest 3. unforgivable
Sponsored by: Constance La France
At the end of the season
bagging trash
worn out from the holiness
missed or avoided.
Lights burning black holes
in bright windows.
Longer nights circle narrowing days,
sense of unseen toothless dogs.
The thin smoke of merriment rising
out of colorless dawns.
The children are sulky
their wishes all came true,
late in the evening
someday close at hand
they will understand.
Still it’s been (if the amount of trash
counts for anything),
the very best one yet.
(TO: One of my favorite appendages)
My shoulder bag is important to me
It bumps against the side of my knee
When I wear it there is no stopping
As I tote it while I am shopping
Wallet, makeup, notebooks too
And trusty cell phone (I love you!)
Breath mints and gum to chew
Just can't shop without them too
It's a mobile file cabinet of
Various assorted stuff
The weight sometimes
Makes shopping tough
Brandolini bag of leather
It has compartments galore
I love to haul it with me
All around the store
When we get to checkout
We are feeling fine
Both me and the treasured
Shoulder Bag of mine!
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