Journeys from the Road

Greetings,

Let me introduce myself, I am a poet, a free-lance photographer, a story-teller and a documenter of life. I am predominately a poet but my love for photography and the arts in general seep into the words that stain the pages in countless notebooks. I have an English degree with an emphasis in creative writing but my passion for the arts caused me to chart a different course when I entered graduate school. Currently I am pursuing a Master’s in Humanities with a focus on Art History and Poetry as well as a Certificate in Museum Studies. I feel that with this combination, I can fulfill my passion while getting the experience I need in a variety of areas.

In the course of this blog,I intend to use it as an extension of my writing in the form of retelling stories that are connected to my work, discussing my life, and of course connecting to you all be it a few people or a lot. In my years of helping beginning poets and other writers, I've learned the most essential thing is just getting your work out there.

So I welcome you onto this road I walk, paved in stories, memories, and experiences that document my past, and the days to come. Hopefully you all will enjoy the stories that are to come. Till then I wish you all a very pleasant evening

The Road
by Zach Moore

I walk the road paved in drifter’s tales

Where soles are peeled and strewn about

Vagrant prints rest step in step,

Their trails intersect in boxcars and ash covered alleys
Becoming road blocks constructed by glass ceiling fragments.

Crinkled church bulletins guide me to deteriorating shelters

Where patron saints watch over flocks of vagabonds huddled in masses

Neglected and forgotten, they struggle to capture the last bit of warmth,

Cracked soup bowls are tossed aside with echoing thuds
"The wells dried up" a man says to me with hunger, with desperation

Leaning against brick walls like soldiers at arm

Their plaid and checkered sweaters tie lives together

In patch-work sacks, photo prints stitched into frayed cloth,

Trinkets of yester life fade and fissure
Beside families forgotten

The breaking day leads me to cracked street corners,

I hunch over with hands clasped, praying for food, for salvation,

My remaining days have become etched along soot stained wrinkles

Mapping my past and present like an atlas for people walking by
While at intersections, ragged panhandlers stalk like lions ready to pounce.

The sun dips behind lamp posts, clocking out for the day

I depart to neighboring cities or wherever the railway-men permit

This pile of clothes bones and decaying dreams cares not the least

For the road I walk, speaks the tales I cannot

And engraves the words on my gutter grave.

Copyrighted 2012