Gray

I feel a certain loyalty to gray.
Gray days, gray sweaters, cars – gray everything.
Gray soothes and calms. It doesn’t boast, or fling
itself before you like some shades do (they
know who they are). Gray broods, as if to say,
“Let’s wait and see. Don’t get excited, sing
the blues, or dance a jig. Just chill.” The thing
is, gray is faithful, always there – no way
gray ever lets you down. Gray won’t display,
as if to seek attention. Gray will bring
out other colors, let them show their zing
and fleeting flair, so they can have their day.
But mostly, gray adorns the tresses of
the graycious lady who owns all my love.

 

 

Baking Day

Behind me, sounds of baking stir from in
the kitchen. A concerto in three parts
is on the program, as the tuning starts
and instruments appear: a baking tin,
bowls, spoons, whisk, mixer, and a sheet of thin
brown parchment paper (just to keep the tarts
from sticking). The ingredients these arts
require arrive and take their places in
the orchestra. She’s ready to begin.
The maestro brings together all the parts:
eggs, milk, three flours, some spices – each imparts
its special contribution, its own spin.
The concert ends in “Bravo!” and “Encore!”
for sweet tarts, scones, and muffins by the score.

 

 

Coin of the Realm (1)

I. Money

“Hi, Mrs. Moore? It’s Emily? I’m from
the nursing home? I understand your mom
is in the hospital? We’re wondering
if we should hold her bed? You see, the thing
is, well, about her bill? If she won’t be
returning, then, I mean, about the fee?
You won’t, I guess, be paying this month, so
we probably can let your mom’s bed go
to someone else? I see. Well, can you let
me know sometime today? OK. You bet.”

II. Grace

“Hi, Mrs. Moore. It’s Emily, I’m from
the nursing home. I understand your Mom
Is in the hospital. Is she OK?
Do you need anything? While she’s away,
don’t worry about anything. Keep us
informed about her progress. We’ll discuss
her status here when it’s convenient
for you. No problem. Your time’s better spent
right now just taking care of Mom. Please let
her know we love her, and you, too. You bet.”

 

 

T.M. Moore’s poetry has appeared in numerous journals, and he has published five volumes of verse through his ministry’s imprint, Waxed Tablet Publications. He is Principal of The Fellowship of Ailbe, he and his wife, Susie, reside in Essex Junction, VT.

NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets.

The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary.


Trending now:

19 Responses

  1. Peter Hartley

    A paean in praise of the colour grey? It’s the last thing I expected to hear on this site, but after reading this a few times I’m firmly persuaded. I give this little poem an A star, not to ingreyciate myself with its creator but because it gave me a good laugh, and because I always admire a well-constructed Petrarchan sonnet. The second poem I liked very much too as it attempts to make something almost sublime of the ineffably mundane.

    Reply
    • T. M.

      Peter: Thanks. I think it’s a Shakespearean sonnet? Either way, I’m glad you liked it. Gray (or grey) is my favorite color for all those reasons and more.

      Reply
  2. Joe Tessitore

    Terrific poetry.

    Was the last word of your second poem an intentional pun?

    Reply
    • T. M.

      I’d say yes, but that wouldn’t be true. But now that you’ve noticed it, I’m going to claim it.

      Thanks, Joe.

      Reply
    • James A. Tweedie

      I noticed the same thing. Intentional or not the word sounded like a Picardy third—a dash of added spice to a classical recipe.

      Reply
      • T.M.

        James: I’m sounding smarter by the day. I had to look up a Picardy third, but I know what that means, and I always brighten when I hear one. Now that I read the poem with yours and Joe’s comments in mind, it sounds better even to me. Doesn’t this say something about the mystery of formal verse?

  3. Peter Hartley

    A Petrarchan or Italian sonnet, the octet rhyming ABBAABBA though there is some latitude in the sestet. A Shakespearean sonnet rhymes ABABCDCDEFEFGG. Anyway whatever it is, you might persuade the undecided with this sonnet that it’s their favo(u)rite colo(u)r too.

    Reply
  4. David Watt

    Tremendous poetry.

    You have a knack for choosing unexpected poetic themes. I look forward to the next batch.

    Reply
    • T. M.

      David: Like you, I believe the poetry is everywhere all around us. What makes the poet, it seems to me, is the ability to coax the poetry out and let its presence appear. The challenge is more seeing the poetry that is there than writing the poetry that brings it to life.

      Reply
      • Denise Sobilo

        Hear, hear! Poetry definitely is a way of being in this world.

        By the way, I can really relate to the juxtapositional contrast between the two sections of your second poem, being caregiver to my elderly mom and having had experience with both kinds of support systems. Superbly crafted.

  5. Denise Sobilo

    Hear, hear! Poetry definitely is a way of being in this world.

    By the way, I can really relate to the juxtapositional contrast between the two sections of your third poem, being caregiver to my elderly mom and having had experience with both kinds of support systems. Superbly crafted.

    Reply
  6. Paul

    These are delightful. And you are an absolute master of enjambment. And how sweet to end the gray poem as a love poem. And your keen facilities with meter and rhyme – are sublime.

    Reply
  7. Monty

    I agree wholeheartedly with Mr Watt about your “knack for choosing unexpected poetic themes”.
    All three pieces are classy . . as are your previous offerings to SCP.

    Reply
    • T. M.

      Monty: You are too kind. I know you agree that we need to learn to see the beauty and wonder in even the most everyday things. Evan’s site is a boon and blessing to us all in that regard.

      Reply
  8. Monty

    Am I right, TM, in remembering it being yourself who wrote (earlier in the year) the image-accompanied poem about the piece of food lying in the snow, surrounded by a birds’ claw-marks?

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.