Original Poetry

An economy of transparent eddies
supports your lift,
flitting evanescent,
you vanish
before I can cry out
for another witness.
Matthew Dwight Moore



This poem was published in a poetry journal called “Prometheus Dreaming.: Here’s the link: https://www.prometheusdreaming.com/cosmos

It’s like that moment when you know
a pile of books is going to fall
and all that knowledge
will spill out almost willfully.
That’s when a tiny box inside you
opens up to reveal
that what’s within
is much, much wider
than what’s out—
a kind of private sky
that’s been tucked and folded
achingly away
and can’t be private anymore
because now a new sun shines
through your smile.

Matthew Dwight Moore

My heart grieves for words like
kind, fond, lovely, and delightful.
Every day they’re vibed out of cyberspace
by the likes of swag, twerk, selfie, and un-friend.
But what of words such as
chaosing, ensouled, helpiest, or joysorrow?
For you are my helpiest joysorrow
and now my ensouled heart is chaosing
for you.
Matthew Dwight Moore

Losing My Son at the Park

When your absence fell

suddenly over me, the first wave,

which no one in the crowd noticed,

sloshed through my stomach

like tidewaters in a Venetian basement.

All I need now is to spot

one sliver of your gentle body,

your lean arm,

the slight tuft of your head

tossed about in a sea

of purposeful adults,

but you are not written

in that archipelago of strangers.

I take the hill like a Marine

to reconnoiter, and then

the second wave hits

like the swelling ocean

over a sinking island nation.

Where will they all go?

What will become of everything

they know? Their homes,

their worlds, submerged, flags

floating on shortened poles

peeking out of the water.

Matthew Dwight Moore


I am an ocean lost in another ocean.
Let me float along these syllables,
pulsing with terrible joys
along the curve of a brittle vastness.
A double tornado in the cosmos,
a trove of estuaries,
low and tremendous.
Matthew Dwight Moore

You might collect your chaos
in a customized cup
to sip a kind of now
that tastes of forever.
But what brief circumference
can contain such an ocean
better than a fluid smile
whose horizon starts at yes
and ends at us?

Matthew Dwight Moore

The rain’s ecstasy
is found in solitude,
and scatters into countless tears
following a dim trajectory.
Even though it sings of falling
always from a heaven,
we have felt its enigmatic coursings
where our two spaces meet.
Matthew Dwight Moore

a little is a lot
and what I’ve got
I give to you
to do or to keep
or to make the leap
to give
to help another live
a little
or a lot
Matthew Dwight Moore

Grief blooms in richer shades than black—
the colors too diverse to guess—
its petals only mirror back
the sun of others’ happiness.
All through the summer it has grown
and roots push deeper with each day—
its seeds fall off as if they’re sown
but never does it waste away.
Yet as it stretches out its leaf
and reaches further than before
it touches someone else’s grief
and then— perhaps— will grow no more.
Matthew Dwight Moore

the secret god
too small to see
too heavy to carry alone
gardens in silence—
its eternal signature
is written in the
falling of a tree—
we worship
as eloquently as if cut
with the blade of our
unspoken grief

Matthew Dwight Moore