The Works of George Moore

George Moore has published poetry in The Atlantic Monthly, Poetry, North American Review, Orion, Colorado Review, Nimrod, Meridian, Chelsea, Southern Poetry Review, Southwest Review, Chariton Review, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times.  In 2007, He was a finalist for the Richard Snyder Memorial Prize, from Ashland Poetry Press, and earlier for The National Poetry Series, The Brittingham Poetry Award, and the Anhinga Poetry Prize. His third collection in print is Headhunting (Edwin Mellen, 2002) a travelogue on ritual practices of love and possession; and he has two recent e-Books as well, All Night Card Game in the Back Room of Time (Pulpbits, 2007) and a CD, Tree in the Wall, (, 2006). He has collaborated with a number of artists internationally, both in Spain in 2007 where he did an installation at Can Serrat, outside Barcelona, with the French Canadian conceptual artist, Mireille Perron, and another with Hrafnhildur Sigurðardóttir, the Scandinavian textile artist, for Skagaströnd, Iceland this coming year. He teaches literature with the University of Colorado, Boulder.

All Poems © George Moore

The Flight

The child flies alone.
I’m asked to sit with him because
I am a man flying alone.

The child does not know
the distance between our seats
and the ground,

between his world just now
beginning and the one
I have left so far behind.

He guesses a million miles.
He is correct, of course,
and I look down

across that universe of time
to the spot where I grew up,
once staring into the sky.

We reach the ground
without more than a few complaints
from sleepers everywhere.

The stewardesses thank me
profusely for my time,
for my patience,

for taking the wild one on
while they were busy flying,
busy preparing to land.

But it is I that must thank him,
the little man, the one who flies
millions of miles above the ground,

to the very place where I am
now dissolving through this world
into his enigmatic future.

The Human Cycle

We know the turnaround
of life and death, from birth
to the moment no one expects,
as we know each day that
passes with flies in pastures
and horses moving slowly
through the upper gate. Here
the trail of their industry
on the windows seem fit
for monuments. Dust line
scratches along the way.
But life has more than this
in store for us. Before
winter wheat comes in
and the dead trees fall in
spring winds, an hour alone
with ourselves is recognized.
The Navajo say the seed
is really alive in its husk
all winter long, that this is
the first sign of life. We live
in a remnant of an earlier
universe, born before sight,
and we cycle back through
the imagination. Does it mean
we believe in ends more than
in beginnings? Look into
the sun too much to know
what the stars have never
forgotten? Light and its
inevitable love affair with heat.
Death means a new beginning.
The horses come home alone
all by themselves, and with
darkness, the flies have gone.
The feeling is this day goes on
into others, and back into more,
and its wheels are quiet but
churn the world with living.