T. M. Moore

What is this little poem of mine?
A work of words and meter, line
and rhyme; a thought, a soaring hope,
me clinging to life-saving rope;
...

What’s that I’m making? Bricks, and nothing more.
These sentences and words are all I know.
I hope their usefulness might long endure.
...

I guess I'll never traipse through snow soft woods
and fields I call my own, to feel the quiet,
and know the lovely loneliness of God's

scarce-sin-touched glory. And I guess the night
...

It's never too late not to waste your life.
Regret is neither vision, goal, nor plan,
so press on, stay the course, endure the strife.

There's no use waiting for some drum and fife
...

You won't read this, no; no one will. Or should 
You do so, or should anybody read
It, well, like all the other words that bleed
From my soul's veins, it's doubtful much of good
...

I’d shut down once the text is read,
and wish I’d just stayed home instead.
What do they teach these guys in school?
Must boredom be their guiding rule?
...

“In this sign conquer.” So he did,
and persecution ended.
But peace from Christian leaders hid
the price of a world befriended.
...

It's only gruel, I know, no spice or zing
like all that sumptuous, fine cuisine that rests,  
forgotten, on your master's shelves. The thing
...

   ...a world perfect at last.
                              Milosz

Because I'm such a disappointment to
...

This time you really mean it. It will all
work out, you're sure. This time won't be like last
time, or like all those other times, long past.
This time you've got the details, great and small,
...