My Poems

Just a few of the few poems I've written.

The Wise Men and the Man

(Not A Hindu Fable)

It was six men of Erudition to
learning much inclined, who went
to see the species' man (or what
of him they'd find), That each by
observation might satisfy his mind.

The Theologist approached the
man and finding his heart could
grow, saw light and darkness, good
and bad about him start to roll:
"God bless me! but the species'
man, is very like a soul!"

The Anthropologist feeling culture
in words of cryptic cant, saw
slaves and mobs and battles and at
once began to change: "What a
phantasmagoric creature, he's
very like an ant!"

The Politician approached the man
and by government did seek to spy
on rich and poor alike in myriad
theories heap, to prove beyond the
slightest doubt "Man's nothing but
a sheep!"

Next it was the scientist's turn,
"Much less than that I'd deem,
can't you see ith all his
snyapses, protons, atoms, averages
and mean, man is totally,
irreparably very like a machine!"

The artist sighing, shook his head.
To share his point was no one. He
felt the weathered brow of age
and asked where man was goin'.
"Of dust and slude and stars and
might. Man's very like a poem!"

The jester laughed out loud at
this and soon began to note that
one and only one clue 'lone could
he to mankind yoke. "Since Kings
are fools and children wise, man's
very like a joke!"

And so these men of erudition
disputed loud and long, each in his
own opinion exceeding stiff and
strong, Though each was partly in
the right and all were in the

So oft in ideologic wars the
disputans, I ween, rail on in utter
ignorance of what each other
mean. And prate about a species'
man that none (or all) of them
might seem.

-- Carol Moore


Behold the horse's neck clothed in
thunder who runs against the wind
strong anf free. His countenane
abounds with graceful wonder; no
creature more proud could ever
be. Upon his back great kings he
doth carry, charging forth into
battle without fear.

Behold the lowly donkey, what
shame to see that only down a path
he trods each year with common
stuff, his pride to him not dear.
His face is sad, his bray does
come to many as an awful sound to
hear. Yet it was on him Christ
entered Jerusalem.

So although a mighty steed may
carry laud, it is the humble ass
who carried God.

-- Carol Moore


Oh little bird perched up there so
high, what becomes your mind?
Do you survey the land as though
you were a monarch who had
nothing else to do but gloat?

That unsteady perch, your
prearious chair rocks and I
wonder that  you stand it except
for your pride -- and the privilege.

There, you've abdicated.
Nevertheless, thrones make good
rest stops.

-- Carol Moore

I once read a book about the Coast Guard searching and destroying abandoned "ghost" ships on the open sea in the 1940's/'50's. Derelicts had beocme so numerous that they were a hazard to shipping and commerce; apparently the saltwater had reacted on the wood in some of the old ships making them almost unsinkable and forcing the Coast Guard to use explosives. One of the derelits was the Marlborough, out of Glasgow, adrift for 21 years. The thought made such an impression on me that I wrote the following poem.  -- Carol


Drifting dark against the waves
Swept the ship of Glasgow
Lifting lonely to a wind
That hummed above her spars
Listen! She moans to die
For fixed to the rotting deck
In the rigging and the bow
Poor parted corpses for a crew
Beneath the blinking stars.

Twenty tired years she's
Roamed the open sea
Plenty paradox to
Some strange tale
Listen! She groans...why?
Sold slave to the wind
A dancing, prancing banshee
Mold meddled shrouds slap
In song to her sails.

Shadowed ship, a derelict of the seas
Fashioned floating tomb
Saddled sodden with a burden
She cannot hold
Listen! She wants to try
And always seeking searching
For that blessed doom
Send sinking to the bottom
A ship to whom death was sold

Pity poor the living with vows
They cannot keep
Surely sometime she will bury
Her dead sailors
Listen! There moans a sigh
No natural grave is this
To lay masters of the deep
So sad she asks the scornful
Sea her mighty jailor.

On only nights as dark as this
Does the Marlborough mewl the sea
Long lost the Captain at her wheel
Who now will find the gate?
Listen! She moans to die
She sails a ship of dreams a
Ship of sleep and forgotten
See scend of her soul to the
Shudder of that dread fate.

-- Carol Moore