With more love then talent,
I’d painted a picture of Horsie,
my slender black cat,
perched on the open dictionary in my study,
where her yellow eyes studied me.


Now I look at the painting
and recall that she always settled there
while I worked.
Recall becomes reality
when I turn the painting over.

Taped to its underside,
is a snapshot of Horsie in the study,
seated on the dictionary,
and above her, on the wall,
the painting.


Mary E. Moore






An extremely smart dexterous fellow,
my old cat was especially mellow.
        When he was alone,
        he’d answer the phone
and then purr at the fruitless cry “Hello!”

Mary E. Moore
Brightwater Limericks
Finalist, Cat Limerick Contest,
May, 2006






While I perched on the toilet to pee,
a young cat was attending to me.
        As I stood up and flushed,
        toward my lap it had rushed,
then swirled headlong toward life #3.

Mary E. Moore
World’s Funniest Cat Limericks
Robert Schwartztrauber, Ed.,
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2013





If you

aren’t keen about routine or an everyday walk,
in the absence of a baby, wouldn’t talk baby talk,
prefer sleeping alone or with just your own mate,
enjoy scraping gravy from a dirty dinner plate,
don’t want the greetings strangers will give,
are depressed and believe it’s the only way to live,
never yearn for some handy, warm body to hug,
can respond to a cuddle with simply a shrug,
make it a point not to boast or to brag,
get no kick from playing tug-a-war or tag,
feel no need to make new friends with ease
on a path, by a brook, or under the trees,
never want to feel like you are number one
and the earth circles you, instead of the sun:

do not get a dog.


Mary E. Moore
Möbius, January 2006
The HyperTexts
You can purchase a framed copy
of this poem, or tee shirts and tote bags
imprinted with it at
Pogo's Place.





Though from his tail a proper puff unfurls,
his ’do is not the dog-show-poodle-cut.
He wears a mass of scruffy, copper curls
that might adorn an ordinary mutt.

When he and I are on our daily walk
strangers speak but, sadly, not to me.
“Hi there!” they say (as if they thought he’d talk)
while gazing downward just below my knee.

Their eyes meet his and distance disappears.
He sidles close. Their fingers comb his hair
to settle in the warmth behind his ears.
For moments, no one cares that I’m still there.

At times when this occurs, I do not know
if jealousy or pride is what I feel.
But in the end, it’s pride wins out, although
I wish that I had half my dog’s appeal.



Mary E. Moore
Rhyme and Reason,
Neil H. McAlister, Ed. 2006
The HyperTexts
The Raintown Review,
September 2007





My shrewd little poodle’s inventive;
to safety on stairs he’s attentive.
        When his towel’s in his teeth,
        partly dragging beneath,
he climbs backwards. He knows it’s preventive.

Mary E. Moore
Brightwater Limericks
Finalist, Pet Limerick Contest,
June, 2006




I thought doggie was safeguarding me,
when one morning a knock came at three.
        Getting rid of the stranger,
        I withdrew from the danger
stepping barefoot to puddles of pee.

Mary E. Moore
Brightwater Limericks
Honorable Mention,
Pet Limerick Contest,
June, 2006



Strangers become friends.
Shoe and paw prints show the way
around the dogpark.

Mary E. Moore
The New York Times Haiku Contest
Finalist: "New York in 17 Syllables"
April, 24, 2014





Early on, you sniff my jeans and shoes
assuring morning's walk is not in doubt.
And if I style my hair, the latest news
is broadcast by the dryer: Stepping out!
What remains of cereal's for you
and clink of spoon on dish declares, She's done.
With PC shut-down, software sighs Adieu. . . ,
proclaiming work is through, and next comes fun.

I read your sign as well as you read mine,
discern from your low hum you have to pee.
Appreciate your stare that says it's time
to stop that boring stuff, Attend to me!
Have learned that I'm to hold the rawhide strip
you shove into my hand, that you intend
(a feat impossible with no firm grip)
to gnaw it nearly to the very end.

Our tracks converge so many different ways
I wonder if, in fact, we two are two.
Or if, in other lives, in ancient days
of being, we were one, that by miscue
was split; then sent off singly to explore
succeeding worlds with self just half-expressed,
haunted by recall of something more.
And now, in part united–doubly blessed.


Mary E. Moore
The HyperTexts





He runs
errands all day –
seeking this, fetching that –
flops, at last, on the kitchen floor.
Dog tired.

Mary E. Moore
Amaze, Summer 2007




lying in bed,
the dog’s warm back
presses against my thign,
connects us

Mary E. Moore
Modern English Tanka, Spring 2008





On six old legs we walk each day
tracing our familiar way.

My dog cannot conceive the view
that walks like this may soon be through.

For him, though sights and smells may vary,
the given is the customary.

For me, I often pause to wonder
when the fates will set asunder

our supports or, what is more,
leave us only two, or four.


Mary E. Moore
The Raintown Review,
Spring 2008

The HyperTexts




the old dog limps slowly
toward the steps to the vet’s,
struggles to climb —
the effort, his . . .
the tears, mine

Mary E. Moore
Modern English Tanka, Summer 2008




He is gone, but he is here.

Shape of shadow, source of sound,
with stir of air, ever near.
To my routine, so closely bound.

In nearby woods, we’d often share,
I’ll trace the path, now so redrawn,
and as I go, will loose him there.

He is here, but he’ll be gone.

Mary E. Moore
The HyperTexts





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