The Boy I Used To Be
I saw him again today,
The boy I used to be;
He asked me once again,
Whatever became of me.
I lied to him as before,
Ashamed of what I’ve become;
Why should I crush his hopes
With the truth of what I’ve done?
He smiled mildly up at me,
His eyes brimming with tears;
I mumbled, “Your dreams came true,
I conquered all your fears.”
He pedaled slowly away,
Nothing was left to discuss;
Two pained hearts were sobbing
Over what became of us.
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
Bill Bright
The Last Leaves
The old oak stands before my eyes,
Unbowed and unmoved by life’s winds;
Scarcely grieving her dying leaves,
She has no need of her old friends.
My friends and I shall shortly be
Dead leaves beneath a living tree;
Am I scholar enough to learn
What the old oak is teaching me?
An April birth’s a joy to earth,
But manhood’s strength’s not what it seems;
Summer’s promise, summer’s glory,
Are a delusion, not a dream.
So, let’s sing a September song
And relish the November frost;
For fears of an October chill
Should our September joy be lost?
A hero’s toast – to the last leaves
Who bravely fight then loose their hold;
I think I see them smile at death,
There are many ways to grow old.
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
He was a king without a crown,
Our admiration never waned;
Why he moved to our little town,
Was something he wouldn’t explain.
Young women squealed about his smile,
Old maids adored his polished grace;
Our bon vivants begrudged his style,
He made our best seem commonplace.
Some believed he’d been a playwright,
Others gabbed that He’d lived at sea;
The riddle we knew as Bill Bright
Grinned at each surmise graciously.
As years passed we became his friends,
We embraced his secretive ways;
Before Bill died he made amends
And lied about his younger days.
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
I saw him on the beach today,
the man I fear I may become.
Lois glanced at him then at me —
she winced, and then we both went numb.
His face was flushed and showed the strain
of one whose eyes had seen too much
of life and love and life’s rough ways —
one deprived of a lover’s touch.
His shuffe testified he’d spent
a life walking against the wind.
His eyes were dead and frozen things,
unwarmed by the laugh of a friend.
Lois scrutinized him then me,
then she gently tapped my shoulder.
She smiled to let me know that she’ll
always love me when I’m older.
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
I Saw Him on The Beach Today
The Wager
Dark, brown saliva crusted on his chin,
his speech was laced with unholy phrases.
Dick Bell reeked of ripened sweat and stale gin,
and none but Satan could sing his praises.
His entrance filled the old drunks with jitters,
his whiskey-fueled laughter silenced the room.
The whores’ guffaws changed to muted titters,
and the railbirds quailed with a sense of gloom.
My eyes were riveted on the sick puke
and the hulk who trailed a few steps behind.
Dick’s deaf-mute’s mere presence was a rebuke
to any sodden fool who wasn’t blind.
A shadow stumbled behind Dick meekly,
and sat on his lap as my stomach churned.
She mumbled and managed to smile weakly,
and when she ordered a coke, my heart burned.
“Hey, you, Punk, what you got in that billfold?”
As Dick glared at me, I stared at the child.
“Dick, she can’t be more than fifteen years old.”
I spoke as coolly as I could and smiled.
“She’s probably as old as you are, Boy,
and where I come from she’s near middle-aged.”
Dick could say such things with a perverse joy
that left even a cold, cold heart outraged.
“You wanna rent her for an hour, Billy?
Maybe whisper some sweet-nothin’s to her?”
His sour cackle infuriated me,
and I muttered, “Chump, you still a gambler?”
“Chump? Maybe I’ll just slice you up for that.”
I stared at her and wondered what to do.
“Billy, you wanna play for the wildcat?
She’s a hellion when she ain’t high on glue.”
At seventeen, I had learned not to care,
my conscience was seared, and my heart was cold.
Both were required to avoid the despair
that caring for others was sure to hold.
That I cared for her at all ambushed me,
and I locked on her to collar her vibe.
Through her fog she managed to smile bravely,
and I answered with an acidic gibe.
“Only losers rent, I’d be a buyer.”
Dick smirked wickedly, “Boy, all tail’s for sale,
and hell, if you want, I’ll get her higher.”
“No need, you puke, just don’t charge me retail.”
I was a loser, living with losers,
in a lost world, and it was fine with me.
Indifference made a world of boozers
and abusers my chosen destiny.
So why did I care about this stoner?
It made no sense — a girl without a name.
I laughed, then groaned to think I might own her,
a troubled soul, and a stale sense of shame.
“Well you little shmuck! How about a grand!”
Dick’s deaf-mute grunted and slurped his Miller.
“You greaseball, I’ll tell you what I’ve got planned,
Nine Ball for the girl, so you don’t kill her.”
“You punk, you’ve got moxie, I’ll give you that.
Your grand against my little whore, right, Kid?”
I snickered, “Yeah, one game for your hellcat,
and lookin’ at her, doubt I’ll be outbid.”
As I chalked my cue, something nagged at me,
and I asked, “Old man, this girl got a name?”
“Take your pick, sometimes she says it’s Molly,
next time it’s Holly, it’s all just a game.”
As the drunken railbirds dragged their stools close,
Molly, or Holly, lurched to the jukebox.
She gyrated slowly, slipped off her hose,
and arched to expose her tattooed peacocks.
A hero likes to be watched by his whore,
but mine was busy taking off her clothes.
I focused on the table and my war
and blocked out Dick and the other psychos.
Seven in the side, eight in the corner,
and the nine in the side ended the game.
I stared at her, but chose not to warn her
that Dick Bell might live up to his nickname.
“Crazy Dick” Bell rose slowly to his feet
and smiled that warped smile I had seen before.
“I ain’t never been good about defeat,
and I ain’t happy to give up my whore.”
My cue butt made a thud against his head,
the deaf-mute just grunted, and the girl cried.
The railbirds could tell Old Dick wasn’t dead,
but no one would have cared if he had died.
The child stopped dancing and started shaking,
I gathered her clothes, and we walked outside.
I could see by the smile she was faking,
that one of her demons was pacified.
I drove her to my house and tucked her in,
she said nothing, but nothing went unsaid.
What I’d done made me feel human again —
in the morning, when I checked, she was dead.
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
Love's Quicksand
Are we brave enough to unlock the chains
we fashioned to keep ourselves safe from each
other? True courage is obliged to reach
across a table to learn what remains
of love.
Why can’t yesterday’s costly pains
become tutors, ghosts who exist to teach
us that self-preservation is a breach
of love, the ogre that true love disdains?
As a young man I did not understand
love demanded daring, a fearlessness
that reckons another’s life more precious
than one’s own.
Safety becomes love’s quicksand,
a quagmire of selfishness, a marshland
that will one day swallow up a princess,
her fool prince, whatever is left of us,
and the promising fire love’s winds had fanned.
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
Easy
Easy may have died of laughter,
if so, it was an inside joke;
he knew who the punks were after —
he also knew that I was broke.
We can’t know how rare a man is
when we are not quite seventeen;
as I hid, Easy reached for his
knife and cackled something obscene.
For three minutes the only sounds
he mustered were two sad chuckles;
I cowered as they fired off two rounds
and beat Easy with brass knuckles.
I carefully avoided his eyes
as I scrambled out the back door;
I closed my ears to his soft cries,
and Easy bled out on the floor.
I have a debt I’ll always owe,
and cowardice I can’t disown;
Easy died forty years ago,
the bravest man I’ve ever known.
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
Greasy Charlie
For a poor man, life is a life sentence,
his bars are disguised as low paying jobs.
Charlie’s mere existence was a grievance,
he was an offense to middle-class snobs.
Greasy Charlie was a wisp of a man,
with yellow-tinged teeth and yellower skin.
His people were a citybilly clan,
Charlie was born with chaw stains on his chin.
Charlie quit school on his sixteenth birthday,
and I’m not sure he should have stayed that long.
For poor folk, education does not pay,
for the poor, life’s battle lines are soon drawn.
Charlie flipped burgers from midnight to six,
the Jack Robinson System never closed.
He patiently took abuse from the hicks,
while the drunks, hookers, and drug addicts dozed.
Three babies and a bride needed Charlie,
poor Charlie may even have needed them.
They endured the chaos of poverty,
the wonderful harmony of mayhem.
Seems poor folks grow two years older each year,
Greasy Charlie was old when he was young.
By thirty-six, hardship drove him to beer,
by forty, his funeral song was sung.
The youngest child died the following spring,
and Charlie’s bride married Charlie’s brother.
All poor families know poverty’s sting,
poverty kills, one way or another.
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
Psalm 49
My wealth made noise in the world,
all my friends envied me.
Death silenced my rattle
and buried their jealousy.
I was like a hailstone
striking a tiled roof in spring;
when I tumbled to the ground,
no one was listening.
My earthly glory dissolved,
like smoke into the sky;
my majesty melted,
all my glory was a lie.
Death enjoys his triumph,
mocking my old dignity.
My beauty has been consumed,
worms are feeding on me.
My dazzling marble headstone
gleams proudly to this day;
inside my tomb flesh rots,
all grandeur must become decay.
My wealth failed to bribe death,
he came for me one twilight;
I was lodging by the hour,
I didn’t stay the night.
Grandpa/ W.D. Moore
The Captain Knows What's Best For Me
The south winds of Heaven’s mercy
are welcomed by my soul,
but a voyage of gentle breezes
is not the Captain’s goal.
The north winds of adversity
are sometimes best for me,
so the Captain steers my ship
against the winds of mercy.
The north winds of calamity
disturb life’s placid sea,
waves of woe cause tearful nights
as they wash over me.
The Captain charts life’s course for me,
we sail where He thinks best,
north winds bring me sleepless nights,
south winds bring me rest.
Weakness and strength, wealth and want,
miseries and mercies,
the Captain steers me through life’s seas,
the Captain knows what’s best for me.
Evening winds of care may howl,
but they calm at mercy’s dawning,
weeping may endure for a night,
but joy — joy comes in the morning.
Grandpa/ W.D. Moore
Wild Bill
The man I have become stands alone by
Wild Bill’s headstone and worries what thoughtless
men might think of his old friend’s willingness
to drink his bottle of Drano and die.
The man I was did not care how, nor why,
men took their own lives. But, he did witness
Wild Bill’s final breath, and he would confess
he wished he could remember how to cry.
Perhaps a full bottle of Drano would
have finished him quickly and quietly,
but as he clutched my hand, terror slowly
consumed my friend, Wild Bill, as terror should.
A holy horror commandeered Bill’s eyes,
as he was racing to eternity,
and I am ashamed I felt no pity,
but, I knew we both loathed final goodbyes.
Grandpa/ W.D. Moore
No one came — is it right to bury bones
that no one misses, loves, claims, or reviles?
Silence is not eulogy — man’s trials
may slay a man, and all trials are stones
that are history’s foundation, and groans
and moans should be revered. Unnamed exiles
deserve applause for the self-denials
life extracted. I toast mankind’s unknowns!
Are your wrinkles for God alone to read,
to treasure, to understand? No one came,
no one cared. Providence demands I plead
we raise a glass to your clandestine fame.
“Pilgrim, allow me to offer a meade
of praise to you, friend only God can name.”
Grandpa / W.D. Moore
No One Came
Lord Give Me Eyes Of Love
Misery should move mercy,
true compassion must have hands.
Love washes the poor man’s feet,
Christian love meets life’s demands.
Can you see God’s anguished sheep,
are they sitting next to you?
Are you looking through God’s poor?
it’s an easy thing to do.
Lord, please give me eyes of love
that overflow in pity.
Lord, give me a grateful heart
that overflows with mercy.
Sympathy is not enough,
Christ’s love does more than just feel.
His love seeks needs it can meet,
love searches for wounds to heal.
There are no poor in Heaven,
this is the sad world we share.
Wealth is ours for a reason,
we are their answers to prayer.
Lord, Remember Me
Luke 23:38-43
WHO did you see?
A man? The King of eternity?
A bruised, bloodied man in agony,
or the Creator robed in glory?
WHAT did you see?
His nakedness? His princely beauty?
The innocent slain for the guilty,
justice abused by human cruelty?
WHEN did you see?
As you gasped for breath? While on the tree?
When in the midst of your misery,
did you know who died on Calvary?
WHY did YOU see?
Why you? Why did you receive mercy?
A slaughtered lamb had eyes of pity,
and you whispered, “Lord, remember me”.
Fools Mistake Bounty For Security
Amos, Chapter 8
The avenger is silent as you sell
barley as wheat and refuse as barley,
want conscripts the ravaged to slavery.
Hunger and a pair of shoes will compel
a soul to embrace what he might repel
if your fraud suffered one whiff of pity.
Sullied gold secures the poor, but fury
stirs the Judge to unlock the gates to hell.
Heaven abhors all boasted dignity,
yet you recklessly hiss reproofs to scorn.
Fools mistake bounty for security,
you will, no, you must, remember to mourn.
When God’s outrage dissolves your bravery,
you will curse the very day you were born.
Grandpa/ W.D. Moore
If Death Only Granted Us Rest
If only death granted rest,
if only man’s flesh was man.
But, the grave guards dust alone,
the soul serves a longer span.
The calm beating of a heart
is the account of a beast.
A man flails against death’s tug,
‘til death secures his release.
Indeed, death is but a lie,
the hope of weary traitors.
The soul once freed from the flesh,
finds endless life awaits her.
This planet was born to die,
the sun blazes merely hours.
But, man, the eternal soul,
is kept by Heaven’s powers.
All earthly pains are tutors,
if we do not close our ears.
Traitors must lay down their arms,
or suffer what devils fear.
Grandpa/ W.D. Moore
The World Winks At Halfwits
Baubles the world calls great
are merely a convict’s dream;
glitz is the Devil’s bait,
riches are not what they seem.
Fame is a frail tower,
man’s glory is pageantry;
painted pomp for an hour
will peel in eternity.
The world winks at halfwits,
a harlot savors a tease;
her smile leads to the pits,
fools drown in puddles of ease.
The grave swallows all men,
human pride finally dies;
hell must whisper, “amen,”
when a soul falls for her lies.
Grandpa/ W.D. Moore
My Lady Millay
Edna lived and longed for someone to blame
for the old friends who were and are no more,
the faces Edna knew so well before,
earthly flickers Edna thought Heaven’s flame.
She sorrowed only for more of the same,
warm, familiar friends’ voices at her door.
They’re gone now as well as the smiles they wore,
leaving only Edna for death to tame.
Poor Edna cursed time, her gluttonous god,
the phantom who daily stole friends away,
leaving Edna to tread where ghosts once trod.
Her wrinkled hand was proof of her decay,
time ever watching for the Judge to nod —
Edna lived captive to life’s yesterday.
Grandpa/ W.D. Moore