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Laura Rogerson Moore books

     available on Amazon and at Kelsay Books, January 2021 


cover and trailer artist Katherine Rogerson Moore's website:


How It Will End


We’ve always known

our story, how it ends—

how to tell what’s

not been told before.


The lowering sky is

drenched with mist

delaying darkness.


The pond surrenders

willingly to warmer

air and I might be a dream

only I am dreaming.


Silently, grackles

lift, blackening

above, turn

blackening below,

turn, swoop.


Leaves collapse

at the feet of their trees,

becoming everything.

Things I’d Thought I Might Have Lost


Swept clean, stalls shoveled

daily, fresh shavings laid,


the loft stacked high with bales,

their symmetry assuring,


right—O’Ryan always kept the barn. I liked

to lie there on the rainy evenings


when the chores were done and day

was letting go, unraveling. The watery


noise beating on the tin above, the lowing

of his cows below left no room for thought.


When I aroused at last, returning to the house,

no one ever asked me where I’d been. Draping


them across my kitchen chair

as breakfast started, more than once


O’Ryan brought me back


a sweater, scarf, or hat struck with strands of hay—

things I’d thought I might have lost.

The Green Heron


The silence mostly ours, we rounded that last turn

and found the pond, the farmhouse, barn, and woods

tumbling so fast upon the yard, the rest

of the mountain clambering upward just behind.

I rolled the window down and Mother

switched off the engine and a second silence

joined with ours until the wood thrush sang and

another answered and beneath it all

cicadas buzzed.


I was already crawling

out into the vast expanse of shade under

the oak which canopied the house, running

into the shallows, spreading my heart as

wide as it would grow. I turned back to look

up at the hills hiking all on their own, the trees

standing watch, the private paths between them.


Mother opened her door and Daddy followed

leaning on the hood, much too frail to stand

that day, gazing past me to measure shadows

along the shore. Mother climbed the sagging

steps to peer in through the dust-streaked glass at

a wood stove, the soapstone sink, its cocked pump

handle, three chairs tucked beneath a table.

Behind her a green heron shrieked, rising.

Splendor selections
Using Your Words Cover.JPG
about the poetry

from Using Your Words

selected poems

Burden of the Past


Such high expectations for years and years, and, always,

you fell short of them – you’ve re-read what you wrote,


recognized you were doing your best – a familiar girl,

difficult, unmeasured; everyone was. Half finished


reading Jackson Bate’s book on Johnson for your last exam,

exhausted but couldn’t sleep, you suddenly decided


to walk all over town, looking for another notebook,

which you found at Store 24, and a pen. Bate made


you believe you have conviction, and his affection

drove you round the corner, down the street,


back up the dormitory stairs and to your room.

There will always be something to say.

Good Girl


Springtime and the peepers cry

out for each other,


and the trail is darker than

the darkening air,


and from up ahead of you, shirt-tails flying,

bare feet pumping the pedals


as she disappears into

the sightless night,


Louisiana’s voice drifts down,

“I had a dream last night


that I could lick myself all

over, like a dog, until


I became invisible.”

And though you cannot see


her, you know that

voice, how it has changed her


face as she starts to sing,

“Cause I’m free,


I’m free falling.”

What You Mean


The moon is only visible

because the sun

undoes its darkness.


Some loves you choose.

Some love chooses you.

Call it love and wish it love


when what you mean is

something else – a knot

you can’t untie.


Unlatch and open.


A thousand thoughts fly out,

white with hope of light

that may not break.

yahoodips cover.jpg

from Yahoodips

The Love Story


Frankie keeps asking

if you’re done being dead


yet. He wanders away

from the kitchen,


unsatisfied. Outside

the sky finds a raven,


black as blindness,

outlined in wings.


Later a sideways snow

will wrap the stones


in purest white. We are

growing older without you.



The days go

by, the possible,

the impossible.


You always let us

find you.


What more is there

to say, though all else

repeats itself? You would

want to start over.


The rest of us move in

what insists on being

a forward motion.


Ready or not,

here we come.    

Last Year


We look through your pocket calendar, starting

at the back, birthdays, phone numbers, accounts,

medications, dosages, refill information. “He

never started another,” she tells me. We flip to

December, the family Christmas on the twenty-

ninth, an iron shot, rehab three days a week,

her seventieth two days before you died, and

the appointment you kept that last Monday.


“He knew,” she says. Sunday night you told her you

thought you might be admitted the next day; you felt

that bad. Thanksgiving and the half of us who made it

penciled in. September and a soccer game. I had to walk

you to and from the car. August and a trip to the lake.

July and a badminton tournament in the yard, getting

the kids out of the house so you could nap. June, May,

April, March and February, every week another set of

doctor, lunch, and dinner dates, people up to visit.


When did you decide? One day in the pharmacy when

you stood by those little leather volumes, the new

year stamping across them in gold? Did you linger or

hurry past? Did you glance up at the sunlight skating

across the windowglass, a strange woman on the

sidewalk, tightening her scarf around her open throat?


Did you step outside, head home, the medicine forgotten,

and the road familiar as the backs of the vivid dreams that

woke you every morning before daybreak when you’d

lie on your half of the bed and watch morning reinvent

itself, marching its fingertips of light over the hills,

like a mother distracting her little boy with play?       

LRM lake view.JPG
IMG_0478 (1).JPG

Moore has taught writing at Lawrence Academy since 1983. Published in 2021, Splendor is her third book of poetry. In 2017, Kelsay Books published Using Your Words, a book-length collection of narrative verse exploring the lives of 3 generations of women in the same family as, without a map, they navigate the choices of the past sixty years. Moore's chapbook Yahoodips, a collection written in memory of her father, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2010. Several journals and magazines have recognized and published her poetry and short fiction. Her essays about education are available through NAIS. Her books are available through their publisher and on Amazon.


For any inquiries, please contact Laura Rogerson Moore.

Tel: 978-877-6705 |

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