Greetings All,

    I hope your Thanksgiving Holiday will be one of joy and goodness. Mine came early with two more poems being taken: Lullwater Review will publish my poem, "Sam" about the incredible poet Sam Sax, and Glass Poetry Journal will

    be publishing, "Practice Impermanence," along with a short feature article about me and my work. This will probably be out in August. Thanks to Anthony Frame, the Editor. 

    I'll post release dates when I get them.....


    I have waited for months for the late announcement, concerning who were the next 50 Best New Poets chosen for the 2016 anthology, and today I discovered the absence of my name.

                           One hour later exactly, I found out that New South Poetry Journal of the University of Georgia will publish my 7 part poem, "Psalmania," and Weber Review of Weber State University will publish my poems, "In Absentia," and "Sabbath."

    What does this all really mean, I am too overwhelmed to know. But oh, oh, oh, how the sweet endorphins flow. I am opened wider by them making my gifts their own, and allowing those words to do MAGIC in the world, just as they've done in me. I will keep you all posted with release dates, since all three will be both in print and on line. 


    Last Thursday night I came home from work to discover an email from Robert Nazarene, the Editor of The American Journal Of Poetry, in St. Louis. It began by telling me he was sorry I missed his phone call, which I later heard his voicemail from, and the reason he was calling was to infrom me that he would like to publish two poems in the January online edition of the Journal.

    He said he would take,"Locks, Rust, And The Goddess Of Trust," just the way it was, and would also take, "If," if I agreed to a few minor revisions which after reading his suggestions, I did. Maybe you're getting the picture now.

    If not, I'll be happy to help. First of all, this Journal, in my literary opinion is one of the most prestigious poetry journals in America. And to have my work chosen to be published among them in January, is a good and beautiful thing. To also have Robert Nazarene calling me at home to share the news of such a gift is a truly remarkable thing.  I am honored, thankful and very inspired by the trust, desire and admiration of people who truly believe in my poems enough to publish them. In January they will have new home to live in, as will we, when the day comes. Again, the dance of IMPERMANENCE.


    If you're a little scared by the title, I get it, but, I am not sorry. When I first heard one of my Dharma teachers, Noah Levine, in a youtube video, crash through my brain with one morning, trying to help me REALLY understand the truth about the nature of KARMA, what happended was, what often happens, imagine if you will.

    I'm already sitting in silence, trying to be kind to my body and breath, becoming aware of what's arising and passing through my mind, like my breath coming and going, doing the dance of impermanence. YEA, THE ZEN of it ALL.

    Reality owns me. I don't own it. SOOOOOOO, what are the implications of that? 

    Now, back to the present moment. Here, on the couch, in my boxers and a t-shirt, wrapped in a blanket and the two most adorable puppies in the world, our beloved, Molly and Roscoe. I've been awake for over an hour, drinking coffee, working on a new poem, which is a love letter, called "Dear Buddha" with which I am slightly obsessed with, since it's now in its second week of ongoing daily revision. And as always my eyes making me aware of this stunningly, beautiful, terrifying world, just outside my windows, that I am so honored to live in. BUT, now back to KARMA. Two weeks ago, our dear friends from whom we've rented this farmhouse for the past five years, told us they've decided to sell the place to help with their own financial future. Although shaken to the core by the news, I had to begin imagining not being here, which required days of ongoing comittment to more meditation, exercise and intimate talk with my wife and therapist, 

    and of course ultimatley, and MOST IMPORTANTLY turning to the refuge of poetry.

    "The Extravagant Trauma Of Travel," was born weighing one ounce of deliverance

    and covered in two gallons of tears, with all appendages in tact. It, LITERALLY saved me from some other less human choices, in how I would deal with such shattering change. To learn more about those choices not taken, my poem, "Glass Animal" has been accepted for publication by Ground Fresh Thursday Journal, and will be out in print in October. I hope it's getting a little clearer now, like it is for me. 

    I never owned this vision of BEAUTY. It has always OWNED ME.

    Yes, the angle from which it is seen and heard will inevitably change. Just like

    every moment we're alive, in this monstrous, mysterious, glittering place known

    as the journey of life. Thank you Noah, for helping me, understand the GRAVITY of KARMA. It's happening each moment, whether I accept it or not. And the poem is how

    I say YES, I know. I want to be part of that sane conversation, until the day comes when I can't. And have no regrets to inhale.

  • The Tule Review will publish the poem "Right Speech."

    This news could become old and unworthy of sharing, but not when it's poetry breaking into the world. I woke up to find that the Tule Review, of the Sacramento Poetry Center, has accepted my poem "Right Speech," and now in just a matter of days two poems that have strong Buddhist origins, this one and "Feeling Tones," have found new and wonderful homes in the world. My warm, deep thanks for the editors choices and for the readers who will soon hear the work. May we all learn to listen deep to deep, to the same blood gurgling in all our hearts.....


    Greetings All,

    It is with much joy that I share with you the news that Compose Literary Journal will be publishing my poems, "Gone Blue, Gone Gray, Gone away," and "Feeling Tones" in their next online issue. Besides, Compose, being one of the most respected online poetry journals, there are two special facts regarding this acceptance.

    1. "Gone Blue, Gone Gray Gone Away," is the second poem in three months to be published about my Father, Emmanuel Moore, Jr. I am so honored that the world is finding him as lovable and beautiful as I do.

    2. "Feeling Tones," which is a 5 part, Buddhist meditation on the inquiry into the meaning of the five interrogative words, Who, What, When, Where, and Why, is my longest poem yet to be published, and a poem I invested much work and belief in as we both grew together into the piece.

    So, you can see why there's is such a deep sense of gratitude flowing for this acceptance.

    And as if that weren't enough. Sometime this coming week, begin looking this Saturday,

    my poem "A Way To Live With Lightning Without The Coming Storm," will be online at Permafrost Magazine, at the University of Alaska.

    I hope that you will read the new work and share with me any thoughts you may have, that continue to teach me more about the infinite gift of poetry. It is truly why I live.


  • The metaphysical alchemy of being taken hostage at the Green Lake Public Library

    Last Saturday, Laura and I arrived in Seattle, at the Green Lake Library a few hours early before I was scheduled to do a Poetry reading at 4:00. We intentionally went early due to our very few trips to "France," which is what vwe call the mainland, and in particular our old homeland of Seattle, where we both lived for many years.

    Going early reduces the possible stress of uncertainty about traffic, parking and other related questions. But the joke, as always was on us, and me in particular. Yes, we arrived safe and sound, with literally NO STRESSFUL experiences at all.  Yet, we had forgotten what I call my "City Of Angels Syndrome," which I discovered I had a few years ago on a casual visit to the Freeland Library, here on the Island.

    Let me explain. In the movie, "City Of Angels." wih Nicholas Cage and Meg Ryan, the Angels of the world live in the LIBRARIES, walking, sitting, and moving about in black trench coats with stoic faces, asking each other questions about life before then, before they became the guardians of the WORD, so to speak. I admit, I wasn't that impressed by the love story narrative, but I was radically intrigued by the presence of a creative force, LET"S CALL THEM ANGELS, its as close to a real idea of Heaven I can come to. So, anyway, back to the Freeland Library.

    There I was like a hostage looking for paper and pencil, which I found with those little 3x6 scraps of paper and tiny wooden 3 inch pencils, frantically writing, scratching ou poems, as if possessed by some creative, alien force, I simply choose to call, Library Angels.

    After that first encounter, I was very aware that by choosing to sit in the Library's silence, I surrenderd my ideas of poetic inspiration, to the presence of a place, not me. But, of course, once I did that new poems often came speaking about what I know best, which are the contents of my own life, but that too, becomes a more humbling mystery, as my poems leave me where they need me to be, not in some glorious high resort of me as a poet of place.

    What made the experience at Green Lake different was the visceral electric buzz in the air, a quiet, yet powerful hum of something gathered in the minds and faces of so many.  Laura and I turned often to each other, and quietly shared our perceptions with a mix of inappropriate humor, and theological intensity, while as also scratching out poems on the back of copies of my poems I'd be reading later.

    So, considering the number of radically important elements that made this moment, such as being surrounded by other minds who like me were basically meditating on questions they hoped to find answers for in the thousands of books resting on the shelves, and then knowing for me, it was not that at all. Their faces and hair, eyes and smell, their fingers tapping out new morris code, their raw inability to be someone else, in this chilling, City Of Stare. Maybe it helps to remember, this was July 10th, in Seattle on a beautiful northwest summer day. It's clear I was freezing inside. That's really why I was there, to warm myself with my flammable need, by burning them into myself. Later, I finished a new first draft, called, City Of Stare.

  • Cooper Francis Jones is in the HOUSE

    It is with much DEEP JOY and GRATITUDE that we welcome the birth of Cooper Francis Jones.

    Our two beloved friends, Kim and Joe Jones, back in Johnson City, Tennessee gave birth to little Cooper Francis and we are blessed to be part of his loving circle of life. Here is Cooper's first poem,

    The Temple Of All Good Things


                                                                         For Cooper Francis Jones


    On a Tennessee morning

    at the tail end of June,

    no cell phone rang

    with a thousand pearls

    dripping off the string of her voice,

    no husband measured love

    in Mississippi time

    by stitches kissing the skin.

    The depth of her opened beyond

    what any man could give,

    beyond standing guard

    next to hospital glass,

    next to nurses marked blue

    by the bruises of prayers.


    As the oxygen chose

    to make his lungs

    the temple of all good things,

    birds gathered on a

    storm wracked tree,

    hysterical with hope

    and the flapping of wings,

    slapping death with

    light’s rhythm of rage,

    waking the world to Tennessee time,

    the music of Cooper’s song.












  • "A Way To Live With Lightning Without The Coming Storm" in PERMAFROST

    I found out yesterday that Permafrost Magazine, at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks will be publishing my poem, "A Way To LIve With Lightning Without The Coming Storm." This poem was originally "Confessions Of A Pentecostal Buddhist," and still may be titled that in the future. Kori, the Editor suggested a Title change due to recent poems with the word "Confessions" in them, so after some creative email exchange I agreed on my transitional title, which is actually a line in the poem.

    Besides the magazine having a high literary reputation, they also have the unique distinction of being the most NORTHERN, poetry journal publication in America. Looking back at my humbly prolific year of publications, most of my work has been published by southern or midwest journals, so this is exciting for me to have something coming out, in the far reaches of my Northwest neighborhood, so to speak.

    My writing life remains focused and passionate with new poems sparking out as they tend to do, on a fairly consistent basis. A few new poems I'm currently working on are "River Serotonin" and "King Of Bones." Both of which are in early drafts, but like all spoiled children, they won't let me go of their demanding beautiful voices and potential joy, and so I submit, and I listen, and so the journey goes.

    Speaking of SUBMIT, check out the first poem on my "New Poems" page, called "Submission Manager."

    I'm trying to describe my personal "Twist And Shout" with the Submittable Page process that so many of us poets live with daily. I use sleep/wake/S&M/ as my primary points of entry into acceptance of how graciously enslaved I am to the tunnel where my voice speaks my poems into the world, as I wait for some sign of civilized listening. Calmly, they say, "Yes, we are here. But not this time, or we really love this, and want it now, and everything in between" Like a new lover's voice you're not sure can be trusted, it's like being naked on a roller coaster ride, that begins and ends at the door of your cave, where inside your poems cover the walls like a scene from "A Beautiful Mind."


    Waking up 48 hours ago to see and read the words "50 Dead in Orlando Gay Nightclub,' my whole being blew out like a flame. I just stared at my wife across the dining room table, who then began sobbing hysterically. I walked over and held her tight, trying to bring comfort to her shaking body, but I was still a flame blewn out, still a ghost with eyes and mouth, who barely knew its name.  Then after sitting back down the words of the poet Wallace Stevens came to me, "Men die daily for lack of what is found there."

    He was talking about POETRY, being the real news, the way we have access to LIFE below the surface, where ones passion for life or hatred of life is translated in a way back to the mind from that poor little muscle of the heart. What if Omar, the killer, had read or written poetry instead of buying guns to act out his rage? Would there have been 50 people right now, who still had a PULSE beating in their wrists, who could still laugh and dance away the darkness, and read a poem in their lover's arms. Then minuts later I am walking out through the sunroom of our house where there are big beautiful planters of flowers, all radiating color, all bathing in the light, and I stopped, as tears ran down my face,

    THEY WILL NEVER SEE FLOWERS AGAIN, and what can I do, what can I say, how can I NEVER FORGET!!

    To honor them, in all of their GLORIOUS GOODNESS AND BEAUTY, I offer this poem I wrote years ago, in tribute to another tribe of the dead, taken from us by AIDS, and published in Rattle Magazine.


    The Fire Island Boys


    Warhol wasn’t the only one

    who loved those Fire Island boys;

    marble statues cloaked in sand,

    whipped by pleasure’s summers storms.


    Caution fainted on a thousand zippers,

    a thousand eyes and tongues. There

    was no such thing as a stranger’s bed.

    Every mattress played the same song;


    Love as if loving makes you immortal,

    carving a valley of light through the shame;

    the crippling years of closet-shaped posture,

    breaking the spirit’s spine.


    Those were the days of aquatic ecstasy:

    steam baths swirling with deep sea divers

    trading their handfuls of pearls, risking

    their lives in the dangerous caves of


    some other man who had to be entered

    to prove how good, how beautiful he was,

    even if only for an hour. If I could weep

    as loud as they laughed and rage as hard


    as they loved, maybe the young wouldn’t die

    so fast; alone, on the edge of a viral abyss

    wailing at the red autumn moon; God waking up

    to the sound of his sons, washing the sand from their eyes.