PPS Poets

East End Elegy

His mind on wings, telegraphs to that time
When his world was still hospitable
Those days, when hot air folded in waves across the city
His youthful life waiting to be spread and shared,
The sun, red as righteous new blood, breaks his reverie,
He speaks the language of the roadside
He is feral; he carries the smell of sweat with him
His faded denims are stiff and shiny with dirt
He squints tentatively into the light
A smoldering pain fills his vacant eyes

His whole face is an aching question,
In silence he picks the backs of his knotty fingers
Rubs his pale forehead with a knuckle
And peals off a line of dirt.
Worrying at his thick nails with a pocket knife,
He hears the angry howl of a tethered dog,
In the morning light he deconstructs his shelter
The cardboard and trappings of his life
Folded and placed into a shopping cart,
His dragging footsteps echo long after he has packed and gone.

He has learned the pattern of building his world
Making a shelter when dusk falls
And tearing it down in the morning,
Mornings find him unkempt and sleepy eyed,
Struggling to his feet he grunts suspiciously
He pauses to swat a fly with his ragged cap,
His only companion, a mangy cur
Raises a spindly leg and pees dolefully on the dusty earth,
And all around him the city teems with life
While he nervously runs his fingers through his matted hair

The afternoon sun scorches and dries the earth and men,
In the blazing heat he escapes again
To the green hills, warm and soft as breasts,
With stick in hand he squats and traces a figure on the ground,
Suspiciously, he casts his eyes, scanning for signs of danger
He has a sorrow that cannot talk, he knows hunger
The hunger of an empty stomach
A restless hunger for joy and belonging.
He forages in the waste and swill of others
Eager and grateful for their cold and greasy cast offs

The large red drop lingers on the horizon,
Another evening stares in his dusty face,
As night falls, silent strangers move toward the lighted alleys,
There is a variation of rhythm, a slowing
The closing of another day,
He rolls a cigarette butt slowly
And perfectly in his fingers,
He studies it reverently,
And somewhere a sleeping mother stirs
And silently wonders, “Where is my son?”

Copyright © Jan 2008 Karen Belix Moore.  Used with permission

The Relationship

I unconsciously mend this blanket of silence
This threadbare heirloom, the last segment,
A patchwork reminder of things left unsaid
Dormant beings shuffling the morning paper
I root for consequence, some meaning
As I chase the last cheerio around my cereal bowl
Expectantly hoping for some dialogue

Slumped half heartedly on my yawning elbows
I recall with a somewhat reluctant heart
The dance, when we were whole
But now, the wind catches us and carries us away
Indifferent, bored, to some lonely place without a name
Where the baggage tags have been torn
And the train station has no schedule

I absentmindedly fix my gaze on the half empty milk carton
Where on its side I read about the benefits of vitamin D
Thereby postponing my feelings of anger and avoiding forgiveness
I guard my words carefully; I only speak when I am spoken to
I am a vessel of disdain and I pay a price
I never once thought about what I wanted
And now I do not want what I have got

As I revisit the warps and woofs of our history
I see a tapestry woven without substance, void of commitment
You and I, we always said we were peace makers
When, in truth, we scrambled to avoid conflict
We never tested our mettle, not even once did we try
We never looked for or found the beauty in each others eyes
We became trapped in our quest for freedom, our need for space

I ask for a sign, but my voice is not heard
I have been told that I have power, but I fear the uncertainty of change
There is something comforting in the mundane
remain frozen and mired in the pedestrian affairs of everyday life
I travel in my dreams to places of wisdom
Knowing that the future is mine should I take it
But tomorrow morning, I know where I’ll be, back here,
sitting in the same place at the same table
Afraid of letting go

Copyright © Jan 2008 Karen Belix Moore.  Used with permission

Karen Belix Moore grew up in North Vancouver and has always felt that there is something sacred in the salt air of west coast beaches. She graduated from RCH School of Nursing, UBC and SFU. After 35 years working in a variety of nursing roles, ranging from educator to administrator, she again had time to get back to poetry and art which had long been a part of her life.

Karen has been active in hospice/ palliative care for many years and at present volunteers for Abbotsford Hospice Society. During her career she published a number of medical journal articles and resources. In 2005 she published a book, Seasons of Grief, drawn from her personal and professional experiences. Three of her poems were in the Poetic Spirits of the Valley Anthology.

She belongs to an artists’ co op and has worked in a number of mediums including clay, acrylic, glass painting and mosaic.

She has three grown children and three grand daughters.

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