THE POETRY OF NANCY MOORE

THE DREAM

We were launching a new start-up.

We were all abuzz with pouring off our first batch.

I was the Queen Bee of this sweet honey of a fermenting project:

Monkey Kombucha.

Several strong men assisting.

Like dance partners in Contact Improv or Ecstatic Dance.

Setting the stage.

Handling some of the heavy musical instruments.

Yet I was the one to hoist the huge curvaceous container over my shoulder.

To carry it up to the Light,

The testing, tasting room.

Some to be bottled.

Monkey Kumbucha.

A renegade brand of off-beat flavors and textures.

Snippets of Life… Like my paintings and writings.

I MARCHED BECAUSE I CANNOT MARCH.

Yesterday I put on my warrior boots and marched.

I marched because I cannot not march.

A hunger for equality, for peace.

When I march my strength is curried.

In objection, protection, at the sight and the energy, of gathering caring force.

I join focus with the other one who is me.

My heart opens to the shared experience.

My tears well up. I am a free agent of truth.

I take in the messages of the signs, faces, the ages and sizes.

Young, old, babies on backs.

Women, yes, women, with canes and in wheelchairs.

I wrote a long piece, about hunger,

The hunger for, of, nature.

Perhaps this marching is another deep hunger for nature.

Hugging trees AND gathering forces together with Beings to bring Harmony.

BRAIDING MY HAIR

When you see me braiding my hair

Come close…

You will feel my power

My resolve.

I have made a shift

To allow strength to possess me.

What is in a simple braid?

A weaving of generations of women’s wisdom.

This is not a loose braid

Nor tight and binding.

Just so… do you see?

Hanging away from my head

Curving toward my back.

Come close…

You will learn to dance… to spin out

To gather-in… to hold.

For a time I’ve worn one

Small thin braid.

Inconspicuous,

Yet always known to me.

Now when I’ve braided the rest

You will surely know my certainty.

Come close…

Feel the vibrations.

Of woman

Of women

Of long time knowings

Of long time dwelling

In sacred space

EUPHORIA

Today I float through a new awareness.

My movement is somehow changed.

An ease… in my hips…

My feet… not quite touching the ground.

I am…

Perhaps effervescent,

Elated… elongated.

This instrument of beingness has been strung,

Tuned, strummed, and savored.

The shaman has once again been nudged,

Caressed, called forth.

She is awake, powerful, and strong…

In her whisperings,

Purrings and healings.

The reason for my sleepless night:

Love danced an arch over me.

Pouring forth within me.

And I watch in wonder and awe.

Yes I love, I’ve loved.

Yet this was a freeing from bonds,

Years of walking stiffly,

Looking to both sides,

The front and back.

Watching for missteps…

Mine and yours.

Now I honor and am truly happy,

For your free spirit.

I ordain you into your

Ministry of Freedom.

And renew my own.

WHAT CARRIES ME.

My writing is like my paintings.

Snippets of my life.

No apologies for lack of settings,

Characters, corrections of formula.

I use poetry form; so I can get away with incomplete sentences.

Vital injections of life’s juice.

Life saving words of color, form, formlessness.

Rats, snakes, lemons… lemonade.

“Another day, I am feeling the call to be creative. I ask if I show that in painting or writing? Both, was the answer; they can’t be separated. One is a picture message in words: one is messages in color and form. Both are of this world, yet not: a language to reach (God’s lovers).”