Gail Gauldin Moore says: When I was an infant and young child, my mother, a brilliant poet herself, put me to sleep by quoting the poetry of Conrad Aiken, A.E. Houseman and others. Thus it was that poetry became me. I began writing poetry in 1990 after a vision of a strange, wooly animal emerged from a cave and began shaking off wool.

Moore was born and raised in Los Angeles but has moved around eight times in the last seven years. Someone told me…that wherever I go, I will still be there. This gave me pause, so I am trying to stay where I am.

She has three poetry books, Poems on the Half Shell, Postcard Poems and most recently, Nancy of the Silences. She has a master's degree in Education, Ed Psy and counseling.

I never knew what Educational Psychology really was, but needing the money, I taught it anyway.

Moore experiences the world through her five senses, moment by moment, so that the reader is pulled - gently, precisely, and absolutely - into her space. The pain she expresses somehow works in the service of nurturing the reader.  — Marjorie Power on amazon.com

Three Poems from Nancy of the Silences:

What to Do with Your Hands in Winter

We talked about things.
I was a Goddess of ribbons and small blue charms.
I never thought that anyone would
close the seams in me again, but there
you were, piling rainbow dust upon
my hair and filling time.

I touched the root of your wild place
and danced with your acceptance
in the breakwater of your eyes, loving
you with that second sight that only
blind love has.

When I made you an offering of blue and white
seawater, nothing was afraid:
Not even the strong man who kept breaking.
Not even the woman who had put nothing aside.

Betsy

I said,
Betsy of the leaves,
of the wild hair,
lover of small things,
pour yourself into
the pockets of my soul.
I find this silence
incompressible.

Where are you
in the pale color of days?
In the whine of years?
In the storage space where
love is blinded?

We once lived together.
Now I love alone,
and cannot find you among
                                       necessities.

Straddling Worlds

There was something I want to tell you
that I did not tell you before because
I was sleeping.

The leaves deserve the light.
They did not bite the light like
winds you have known.

I want to tell you one more thing:
Something is rocking my heart.
It is the breeze, speaking in tongues.

The leaves tremble.
They sound like a billion
tissue paper fairies that say,
everything could be music.

© 2013 Gail Gauldin Moore