Recognition

the package arrived early one sunny morning
not by the hands of false god nor vain divinity
quite the contrary, landed the...
cupped with compassion, kindled by kindness
handed over creatively by curiosity & genius

days past, arrived again, in form of canine chaos
revealed in muted black
with brown ears, cut tail and broken chained trail
four furry feet padding, painting up the track
tongue hanging out loosely, yet quite intact
investigating spirit, scent and score
unsure of intelligence, intention, intensity
briefly brushed, just enough, to see a similarity
among a sea full of differential matters

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Situation

the play… it still lingers
from innermost moments
down finger
tips

and up into lips
the lines still ring
replaying softly
down throat
again

parallels dance
in between
reality and script
identification disclosed
deep within it’s
grasp

~Emily Loren Moss
11/27/2009 originally written
01/26/2010 retitled & revised (yes, re-touched words, a contradiction :)
01/27/2010 kept retitle, returned to original script

Sensation

I understand warmth, the way it fills up pink shells and minds
I understand water, fluidity outstretched in dancer's arms
I understand color, transformed blue hues folded in paintings
I understand fibers, woven and knitted, tied in satin bows
I understand earth, pleasantly padded under disgruntled toes
I understand space, easing and grieving with comforting stars
I understand life, found in the most minuscule form of a pip
All the rest is second best in the spokes of mankind's making

~Emily Loren Moss

Cultivation

there isn't really much to remember
nothing solid nor concrete
yet, it's remembered and it was only yesterday
branching at interludes, flooded with tears
tickles up spine, blossoms through elbows
rooted in the pit of an empty stomach
but most of all, it whispers through a soft silence
that has been there long beyond yesterday
tended slowly, subtley, sweetly taken over

~Emily Loren Moss

A kind of jolly... literary fellow

Harrington was a hell of a man
creatively fucked, commercially programed
corporately cut like a fat dough boy cookie

he cleaned carpets, de-contaminated smoked wood
declared proudly he was the best among his underpaid crew
not only did his machines roll, they steamed, they boiled

with head nicely shined and teeth nicely whitened
he would sit in his stiff collar complacently smiling
behind a polished desk organized neatly with desolation

he and his wife attended church admiring inscribed pews
they square danced in perfect tri-angular symmetrics
ate bbq with silverware polished to a pristine gleam

pleasantly poised and determined he roamed through town
with all the latest conveniences, all the latest swatches
a “Babbitt” incarnate, so often met in previous chapters

~Emily Loren Moss

Impermanence

Another year buried
Impoverished
gently mirrored
in a mule doe’s brown eyes

Reflections of struggle
demonstrated in the pit
she dug herself
during her final breath

Inside her full bellied corpse
and hair covered flesh
lies ephemeral beauty
of a life unknown

But no matter
A life, no less
A gift, most lovely
decays in her remains

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Fertile Crescent

the pecking order started from day one
and even before, fixed ancestors preyed and pranced
entranced with bones, stones, metals
eating, competing, sleeping, fornicating together
placing one civilized foot print heavily in front of the other
clinging onward and upward towards their own collapse
obsessed with recycled fears, with gods and monsters
carefully mapped, order remains;
some still pampered, others restrained

~Emily Loren Moss

emilk

not quite asleep, not quite awake
stuck in a bizarrely lit zone
not quite alone
grabbing a warm cup
scented with flowers
scented with benevolence
scented with gesture
scented with sound
graciously received to restore hibernation

~Emily Loren Moss Ferrell

Unhindered

I asked the universe and gods for the moon
bittersweet I swung from tears to joy and back again
questioning thunder clouds heavily writ with rage
quickly transformed to delft blue and undiluted skies

I curved and carved dense paths through substratum
collided with inquisitive worms, both thick and sticky
followed slugs across smooth slated stepping stones
emptying into unbelievable gardens, fresh from growth
and with full luminous eyes, captured my demise

~Emily Loren Moss

#6 Disinfected

I am
A post Vietnam born American
A product of no suffering
From a generation of nothing
Raised on sheets of rolled out green grasses
Soft voices, unbroken glasses

I take
Refuge in the ramblings of a whiny Yorke
Dwell in the sand of a Morris sea
Just to comprehend a basic human need
To suffer
To bleed

~Emily Loren Moss

In the Arms of Morpheus

waking up entangled between wings, sheets, pajamas
moving from one end of the room to the other
a somnambulist still entranced by a nightly dance
carries residual temperaments of delicate dreams

~Emily Loren Moss

Emily 1:8 And on the 8th day, Blog rested.

The Nature of a Woman

We give our hearts openly
Nourishing equally
Both the young and old
In abundance, like apples
Red with dilation and contraction

~Emily Loren Moss


Fresh Death

Separated from earth and sky
And the endless ecstasy of their copulations
I have gone on to the other end of me
Unprintable in the obits
Unburnable in the furnace
Unburied forever
Death as fresh as ripe juicy apples
Falling from limbs
Into dry mouths.

~Richard Wilson Moss

my bloody valentine, Live
Richmond, July 30th, 2009

Jet Engines
(after a few decades/decays)

we were all there, well, most of us
to take flight
even the ones better left behind
came along for the ride

earplugs intact, well, most of us
to prepare
for post transmutation
with the exception of a brave few

~Emily Loren Moss

A Cup of Nothing

I had pushed my pleasure
To the very bottom
Crushed beneath my feet
Beaten, battered, smashed
Eggs that can no longer withstand weight
Filled with the same star stuff
The fragile yolk of a sun

I found a cup of nothing
I tipped the cup over
Just like Ray Bradbury told me
Inside the cup
I find another universe
Mingled with the pleasure of poetry
The fragile yoke of a sun

~Emily Loren Moss

Drunk On Pama

Lovely liqueur
Sweet enough
To induce
Bad Poetry
From pomegranate

Drunken poetry
Where you fall
Into a fresh snow
And feel no cold

Where you shimmer
Making snow angels
Splattered
Sprinkled with snowflakes
Shaken by gods

~Emily Loren Moss

Commemoration of One

she’s the only one awake this morning
in this house besides the sun
pillows bursting with blue covers

seeking beauty among quiescent sleepers
receiving the triviality of mankind weeping
accompanied by lilies and bushes

~Emily Loren Moss

AEIOU

she rode the bus to school
not only the yellow school bus, no, as if this was not enough,
she also rode the MTA

two years of Willits to Ukiah up route 101,
she would be forced to listen to not only one,
but many amongst the strangers in the hot, dry sun

invalid woman on the bus who would constantly fuss,
repeat her vowels over and over,
"AEIOU, AEIOU, AEIOU" sitting in her wheelchair of despair

hypnotized several times by another with his watch,
watch his wave back and forth, back and forth,
gently, she would watch

she loved to twirl, around and around, playing with her hair,
twirl whatever she could, whenever she could,
a black comb twirled up tightly on the tip top of her head

frightened she realized, the comb was stuck
teacher had no luck; the little girl was fucking stuck
she sat through the rest, sat through the spelling test

she climbed again on the yellow school bus, climbed again on the MTA
with the invalids and commuters starring down her way,
black comb dangling from the front of her golden hair, sitting in despair

the commute, a lifetime
back to school again, only this time with 1/2" bangs,
every thing had changed, everything re-arranged

~Emily Loren Moss