http://slow.writerscafe.org/bretthmoore The original writings of author Brett Moore en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776057435 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Watching life through the window Past the fence post in the yardStuck under heavy feelings Really living is too hardDoing circles in my past lifeAfraid to let it goI don’t want to meet an angelI want the devil that I knowI’m not afraid to admit it - Tha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2861502/ Look at this dappled white road reflecting a tired sun. A shimmering, coruscated bridgeconnecting shorelines to where I sit, reflecting.Is it a highway to the better oblivion in the shade of the tree covered cove, opposite this dock?This water ripples with a r.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2861500/ I want to raise this childand fill him up with hope.I want to shelter him from painand ensure that he grows old.I’ll bequeath him all my goodness, if I have to tear it off my soul,and steal his mother’s witso that he’s always in control.I will hide him from.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2861497/ Bum King is a loser in a winner’s car.He’s hard to see in the bright city.You can lose him in the wild weavingbetween the golden glow of streetlights. The car is new, the music is curated, the clothes are tailored like the words.Even if every window in the city was an eye,they could neve.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2171659/ I own a little shop in town.Money comes. Money goesto the bank, I am told.It’s all fools gold.I own a little piece of land.Reap the crops. Work the fields.If I can’t feed myself, I stealfrom a richer man.I am no rich man waiting to die.I am a poor man fighting for life.Don’t need n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2167694/ For me, this is a rare rhyming poem. Spoken word because it has a cadence. Almost like a rap but I'll stay in my lane. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2167693/ My voice doesn't sound like it should when I hear it out loud, but I shed a tear when I wrote these words. And if that doesn’t do you justice, what will?I’ve been writing words down and throwing them away for so long that I must have written the same thing twice by now.You know, working .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2142951/ I am cut from the cloth you keep,and we fuss over the stitching,over and over until we find each other torn anew.This dirt on that dirt is a history lesson.Look for it and look for me in it.Am I the same boy who only played guitar to hear you sing?And you, the girl that held my hand first? Laughing .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2142949/ we are, all of us just a fragile breatha small and gentle windaway from ceasing to beamong the still burning candlesin this cold, dark rooma laugh echoes through the clusterwe feel warmer, we burn brighterwe remember the possibilitywe remember to keep rememberingthat even though we fill such a small.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/2071777/ I live halfway down on my knees gazing up at a smattering of chaos, swearing that I used to believe that swirling gas was divine.Where did all that magic go?"""I hadn’t noticed the flaw,Fate’s stubborn will, hiding beneath the foundation of me.I thought I built this place to hide. I ofte.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1877106/ A short poem in memory of my sweet cousin Camellia Nini Lynch. When my time here is done, if I can leave behind half of the legacy you left, I will count my life one worth living. I love you. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1876340/ When I was young, maybe eight or nine years,Grandma sat in her rocking chair sewing promises.The front porch was civilized. I found Nazisin the woods, fought them with stick gunsand pine cone grenades, laughed and playedhide and seek in the saw grass by the marshaway from her watchful eyes, fully aw.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1621307/ Sitting sets my addiction, on the ground, surrounded by these pictures, scattered and in stacksand therefore, you.Staring at my reflection, ruined by the swift movement of the second hand in the tiny timepiece you gave to me.I count it a blessing and I wait for the even.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1621286/ It's expected, says the data.  That corporate pocket watch plays catchy jinglesto all these smug, commercialized independents.Idling, self absorbing, cyclical, pointless.Happiness is provided for you in 30 plus miles to the gallonof an absolutely finite resource.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1299453/ A cold light's kiss rests upon my pale, polished skin as a blanket would,in a windowless room, populated with plastic chairs and particle board tables. A greying man reads about a yacht he will never own, no matter how well he registers&nbs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1183350/ In retrospect, our civilization can be bothered to bended kneeby circumstance.Why not divinity?Your god shines brightest in the garden of man, only sometimes.Other times, he's hiding in your shadow. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1180187/ Somewhere between too drunk and dreaming. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1179025/ I remember a chipped concrete causeway, baron but for beggars and trash, with lurching walls pressed apart by the devil’s outstretched arms,glowing in the dim shadows of a street lamp.And I, just a child, played hide- and-seek with the drug addicts and pedophiles,.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1174315/ These cheap sheets itchand no matter how many sheep manifest on this spackled ceiling,every single night, I am a sentinel.Counting backwards from total loss to love's conception in a truck cab, on the parkway, stars can't undo this particular set of failures.So i breathe deeplyin.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1172366/ A free feather falls, abandoned but preserved,gripped by a knightly wind. Its soft color and grace dwindle in the turbulence, doomed to meet mud and death.This discarded soldier of the physical, the civil war of the natural, abandoned in the cool shade of the Oak, its f.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1172359/ Haunting isn't just a word I know.I've experienced the powerful persuasion of the dead.The bones that rattle while they creep, tapping down the hallway,scratching on the hardwood, sliding towards my bedroom, the clawing at the door.A procession in gusts of wind and whispers .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1172357/ Lonely Heart,What is it that you want?Is it a companion?A yin to your yang parade?An idealist? A punch-drunk lover,destined to enhance your penitence by hanging all your imperfections over head, like a skyline painting picture perfect unhappinessonto a well lit, black dust infect.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1172351/ If you don’t have it, say goodbye to the soles of your shoes.Misfortune haunts every step like piranhas in the concrete.Merciless, unsympathetic eyes abound.There are no friendly bets for beggars.The devil always has his guns. A man’s best friend in the palm of his ha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1172349/ perfection.all knees and elbows to the touchwet like the first time i ran home in thick raini was too young to remember to look upor the soft kiss of love's lips on my skin contrasting the burning heat of summerin the wet woods by the lake at Wolf Creeki was all elbows and knees.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/bretthmoore/1172224/