By John Moore

How quietly the cat comes on padded feet,
slowly twitching tail,
eyes vigilant and muscles poised.
It leaps into my crib
where my sweet soul slumbers
innocent in new birth, clothed
in the velvet skin of redemption.

It snuggles against my face,
fur in my eyes, a fanged mouth
smiling against my parted lips,
hoping to suck my breath.
Who will scream out a warning?
What piercing shriek will cause
the cat to flee?
Only the warrior lying latent within me
harmonizing with the cry
of Calvary.


By John Moore

This pastor sitting across from me,
does not hear, will not hear me
because he has issues of his own
about doing it his way, out of his knowledge,
his training, his will.

He does not have the seal,
the blessing, the approval
of a natural father who ever
patted his head or back, but instead,
pointed fingers, raised a voice,
or worse yet,
ignored him.

And I sit here the same, a tare
in the fields of the Lord,
uncultivated, untended, unwatered,
and somehow through all of this
we must bond and become one,
or separate,
and become nothing at all.
Just something for flames to lick.