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"Texas Landscape # 15" © 1970 BMM



"Freedom's Fare" / © 1967 by Brad Michael Moore


Oh, what a night to be -

This night of nights, I wish were me.

The moon shines iridescent, so I may see,

Soft blowing winds cradle my newborn leaves.


I am old & tried - yet still, I am King

Of this large green pasture I stand within.

But no one notices me, nothing seems to care...

How I wish I were tonight's wind - with its freedom's fare!


What a dream to perceive - to truly be free!

To seek out and find - all sights & sounds around.

To flow over hills, and whirl through towns...

Just to be free - no roots anchoring me,

To be what I give, no one truly sees.


Oh, what a night to be,

This night of nights, I wish were me.






"Imagining" © 2013 BMM




So Long

By Brad Michael Moore


So long, my heart's desire,

Fallen so many times –

Even were the sun tracing twice brightly as it trails,

So far, and too soon, it remnants are gone...


So long, thoughts betraying life’s dreams,

Bouncing through narrowing days –

Whose tasks remain unseen?

Such hopes sway - so many, too soon, sail away...


So long, temporal songs, echoing my soul,

Rhythms & rhymes melting into rainbow tones –

Tones that Nightingales may borrow,

Till glowingly comes - another dawn.






 "YoDome" © 1980 BMM


By Brad Michael Moore

    It may be poetic or even romantic to think of myself as a leaf blown here by a wind. 

But every leaf finds its resting place — its little patch where it knows it may never be moved from again. 

There, it follows its course in nature to be reincarnated into another realm.

    Now, here in this staying place I’ve found, I listen to where the wind blows and stand out in a path to face its meaning in my life.

    The wind. 

How well it carries the many aspects of my existence. 

Always seeking without taking rest. 

Always remaining a metaphor to thoughts I place near my bedside.

Unyielding motion. 

The wind carries me along with its roam. 

It carries me with its curiosity. 

It carries me with its forever seeking - its sleeplessness, and its sometimes carelessness.

    I too have traveled and taken satisfaction from my freedom. 

Though never fully grasping this swirling natural force, I chase it.

    I too am sometimes careless. 

I reach for the wind’s coattails to steal me along in its adventures.

    The wind sings through those elements it moves along its fluid path through gardened corridors, ancient canyons, and human-made edifices. 

I imagine its penetration of the smallest crevasses, it’s travailing with heaven’s rain, ice and snow — it’s white-capping the waters that surround this island to which I’m bound.

    The wind ever changes the face of all things it meets. 

It carves great arches in the sandstone of Utah. 

It turns 12 inches of snow into a 20-foot drift. 

It plants seeds it carries from afar to bring new life to a barren spot as it pilfers precious topsoil from crop fields poorly managed nearby.

     The wind is a music maker, whether through quaking the leaves of Aspens over a Colorado mountainside, or Cottonwoods across the South – or pushing waves upon a rocky beach in Cape Cod, or caressing chimes dangling on the corner of someone’s front porch with a view.

    The wind is a thief who captures balloons lost from the grasps of children at carnivals — children who watch their colored gifts disappear into big blue and wonder how far their orbs may rise.

    The wind moves moisture from oceans to heartlands and propels sailing vessels with its might. 

In its greatest furry, it can carry birds from one continent to another or bury a toothpick into the cambium of an oak tree.

The wind moves windmills that grind harvest grains, or raise water from deep underground.  It generates electricity and waves the flags of our allegiances.

The wind guides the soaring of eagles and butterflies and all other voyagers of the sky.

The wind moves our lives as it moves our imagination.  Any elements it carries along are only being assisted in moving farther down their destiny’s trail. 

While we’re always thinking of ways to harness the wind’s energy — we can never capture its spirit, nor ride the true reins of its freedom.   

When it’s too difficult to express myself anymore, I just listen to what the wind has to say.







"Midnight Sun / Artic Circle / Norway" © 1982 BMM


My Epitaph


Frost on fallen leaves, glistens beneath bare trees,

 as break of dawn offers adieu - painting a blue sky anew.

Passing from place to place, revolving wind - full of grace.

Remembering not to repeat - a life parsed, and now complete.


Fallen into this ground, a sleeping soul hears not a sound…

Even as water seeps, between crevasses up from the deep.

And from that spring to river run –

 A fullness of time, and ebb, and flow,

A winding path, gains stature unto its end,

Finally, discovered ocean, from salt beginning again.


No spoken words can bless so beautiful as ancient trees.

No memory was made to outlast Nature’s force of reprise.

I care not for when I’m gone, if my works shall tarry on -

For when my day is due, I’m relived it’s left up to you.

And then you shall burden and light along, until your time has come and gone…

Afterwards, like me, and you too, our dust will turn into something with glue.

Cycles go, and rotations respin, time after time, and then time again…



Brad Michael Moore 11/25/2006







"Buns - One By Two" © 1984 BMM


By Brad Michael Moore