The Poetic Journey of James E. Moore

 

 

This long-hidden, one-man project seemed worth bringing to light.  It was discovered while sorting through the personal effects of our parents in late August, 2000, the day after our father had passed away.  In more than 20 years of living in the same home with them, neither I nor my brothers had ever seen the old army green canvas covered field book that contained these original works.  We found it in an old foot locker tucked in the back of Dads closet, with a few ancient photos from Moms family tucked inside.  Those pictures depicted people we had heard mentioned, but had never met.

 

The author of these verses was our great-grandfather, James E. Moore.  The initial poems suggest that James began this work within days of the death of his wife in 1920.  He dedicated the third poem to Nellie, my 4 year old granddaughter.  Nellie was our mother (1916-1996).  The final poem on the bound pages of this book was written to commemorate the first reunion of his mothers family in 1925.  James E. Moore passed away on November 21, 1927, at age 76.  Now at age 92, Mothers older sister, our Aunt Betty, still remembers her grandfather diligently working on this very project (he was always writing in that book) when she was a teenager.

 

From here onward, the book is reproduced from its original longhand, written in fountain pen, including some of his original misspellings and occasional bouts of dyslexia.  There are only a few spots in the original manuscript where the ink was painstakingly erased, and fewer still where a word was written over in correction.  Loose papers within the book suggest that he copied from his rough drafts.

 

Is this a volume of exceptional poetry, worthy of international acclaim?  Probably not, but you decide.  It is a documentary of one mans journey through the process of mourning and reassessment of his life.  He descends into deep despair, but emerges by mid-book and finishes at quite a different place by the end of the book, some five years later.  One thing this work clearly does show us is how much life has changed in the United States in the last 100 years.

 

Great-grandfather James finished his book with a comprehensive table of its contents, which he had clearly anticipated adding from the very beginning.

Page   Index

 

40        Absent

16        Blind Child   The

22        Bereft

43        Broken Promise   The

92        Barbecue ball   The

15        City vs. Country

23        Contentment

48        Choice   The

54        Change of hour   The

56        Cheerie

74        Childhood days

83        Colleens choice

88        Cupid

91        Carpet Whipper   The

36        Decades   The

47        Dew of Hermon

66        Dreams

76        Dews

68        Eden of the heart

18        Frost and the flowers

49        Frozen tear drop

51        Fifty years

24        Gems of thought

32        Going

34        Grandmas pinks

75        Good thoughts

28        Garden of Love   The

64        Good Judge   The

70        Graces   The

79        Greenwood

  5        Introduction

21        Idle thoughts

37        Love

57        Longing

58        Lines on a wedding anniversary

59        Land o my dreams

84        Life of a Riley   The

11        Mothers Album Quilt

38        Mammon

45        Midnights dream

77        Mother is there a

85        Marys lamb

87        Meg

89        My Papa

96        Mithers tryst

82        Neglected

20        Ode to a snail

51        Old Rocking chair   The

58        Old fashioned

94        Old Friends

97        Old man in a churchyard

  4        Preface

12        Polly green

33        Prints   The

61        Praying

67        Prospect Park Ice

80        Pictures on the wall

69        Questionings

14        Reflections

63        Remedies

27        Seperation

44        Spiritism

47        Sunset   A

52        Spirit of Love   The

90        Spoons

30        Tears

42        Tender Memories

53        Tilte guessers

60        Three Friends

78        Times Ending

86        To a Fly

22        To a Friend

  8        To my daughter, Grace

11        To Mother

10        Unknown

50        Unrest

  6        Vision   The

46        Virtuous woman

19        Whims of the moon

41        Weary

62        Winter

73        Whisperings

98        Miller reunion

 

loose sheets JEM did not catalog in his Table of Contents

 

By Express

Epigram

[If?]

Heart Throbbings

Lexington

Streets of Life

Tears (rough draft)

[Untitled]

 

 

 

 

1827-1917

 

On Election Day, Nov 6^th, Mr. And Mrs. James E. Moore, Vosenkill Road, entertained their children and grandchildren in honor of the ninetieth birthday of the hosts father, John Moore, who was as bright and active as any of his great-grandchildren, being truly merely ninety years young.  He received over fifty birthday cards, a goodly number from the mountain towns, where he was born and lived for seventy-five years, and was and is known to all as Uncle John.  After the fourteen persons present had partaken of the bountiful dinner, including the birthday cake cut by the hero of the hour, the son and grandson felt it their duty to go and vote, so Mr. Moore went to the barn and fed the chickens and made other preparations for the night.  He is surely remarkable for a man of his years, and his friends, young and old, wish him many more such days as this.

 

 

Obituary        April 19, 1918

 

Moore John Moore, aged over ninety years, after failing in health for a short time, passed away on April 19^th at the home of his son James, inAthens township, where he had resided for fifteen years and where the Rev. J.H. Heinrichs of the Leeds Reformed Church conducted the funeral on Sunday, with interment the next day at Lexington.

 

The deceased was born in Lexington to Elijah and Martha Johnson Moore, being the youngest of many children and said to be the last called home.  He was a carpenter by trade, a man of rugged constitution and honest, upright character, leading a retired life full of kindnesses.  He was active till a few months before his death, and his great wish was to wait until the deep snow should be gone, so that those who were to take him to his last resting place might find their task easy.  Respected and loved by all, he died as quietly as he lived, going on with the expectation of meeting those who had preceeded him, and leaving a host of friends but no enemies.

 

Seventy-five years of his long life were spent near Lexington.  Some sixty-eight years ago he married Candace Bailey and two sons were born to them - James and Horace, the latter going thirty-eight years ago to California.  He was heard from for a short time, but not since then and is supposed to be dead, but the uncertainty was one of his fathers greatest sorrows.  Besides his son James, Mr. Moore is survived by four grandchildren (Mrs. Willis Brandow of Athens, Charles and Berdella Moore of Athens township, and Horace Moore of Philadelphia), also four great-grandchildren and several other relatives.

 

June 24^th, 1920    The Catskill Daily Mail (?)

 

A Good Womans Death

 

Emma Elizabeth, wife of James E. Moore, died on June 24^th at her home on the Vosenkill Road, town of Athens, where on Sunday the funeral was conducted by the Rev. J.H. Heinrichs of Leeds, with interment in the Jefferson Rural Cemetary.

 

Mrs. Moore was born on Oct 1, 1849 in the town of Halcott, to Peter and Hannah Miller, being the youngest but one of nine children.  Her early life was spent mostly in Lexington, where on Feb 5, 1873, she married James E. Moore, and with him resided in or near Lexington and Jewett.  Twenty-six years ago they moved to the residence where in peaceful sleep she passed to Heavenly home.  It was in the month of roses, which she loved, and in her last resting place she was covered and surrounded by their beauty and fragrance.  Four years ago she suffered a nervous breakdown, with complications, and since then had been out of health.  Of a warm hearted and loving yet quaint disposition, she was a devoted, unselfish wife and mother, and her familys tender hands cared for her to the end.

 

She is survived by her husband, two sons (Charles of Athens township and Horace of Brooklyn), two daughters (Mrs. Willis Brandow of Athens and Miss Berdella Moore of the town of Athens), four grandchildren and one sister (Mrs. Rowena Moore, who had been with her for the past three years.)

 

 

Death of James Moore                  Catskill Daily Mail   Nov 21^st, 1927

 

Former Catskill Milk Dealer Dies in New Jersey

 

James Moore, for many years a milk dealer in Catskill and who lived on the Vosenkill road in the town of Athens, where he had a large farm, died this morning at the home of his daughter, Mrs. Arthur Burgess, in Rutherford, NJ.  The funeral will take place Wednesday afternoon, at 2:30 oclock at the home of his son, Charles Moore, on the Vosenkill road, and the burial will be in the Jefferson Rural Cemetary.

 

Mr. Moore is survived by two sons, Charles Moore, who succeeded his father in the business, and Horace Moore, of Brooklyn, and two daughters, Mrs. Arthur Burgess of Rutherford, NJ, and Mrs. Willis Brandow, of Athens.

 

Mr. Moore was a man who enjoyed the respect and quiet confidence of his fellow men.  Quiet and unostentatious, but of a genial disposition, he had a wide circle of friends who will sincerely regret his death.  For many years he sold milk in Catskill and built up a large and lucrative business.  He was a man of the highest integrity and this contributed largely to his success.

                                                Notation on the obituary clipping:  Age 76, died 4:43 am

Preface

 

Some poems composed by James E. Moore in old age for the consolation of those I leave behind when I have passed the great Divide to the great beyond.  May those who read them enjoy the same pleasure the writer has received in composing will be full compensation.   JEM

 

 

Could we but once control the - uncontrollable

And see the thing which we possess - inanimate

That, which, doth leave the body - inconsolable

Which with corruption, doth not contaminate.

 

That, which, soars above, below, nor whereunto

We know not now; returns not, after seperation

To give account of the mysterious - in lieu

Of unfolding the mysterys born in creation

 

Could we but once dissect that part; - unconcerned,

As we do, wherein it holds its sway - dominant,

Oer all the master mind of great and learned,

Whose wisdom leave for others less prominent.

 

To search the secret of the power of will - revealed,

Only by an unseen guide doth hold full control,

Wherein the poets full description - unsealed,

Doth find in hi immortal part - the soul.

 

Should not the immortal part give thanks intertwined

As are; that we should know so little of futurity,

Yet possessing so great faith, waught left behind

Eer can hinder the immortal parts security.

 

Introduction

 

Why should I write, when all the earth seems filled,

And nought is left to me but empty space?

Some poetry teaches, some written verse teaches,

One the mind degrading - the other inspiring grace.

 

Sometime I think that ancient poets have written,

All the things that heart could wish to say,

Nothing more to teach us, nothing new to reach us,

It seems as if the lyric of the poet had its day.

 

Yet somehow ancient things may need rehearsing,

To give expression to what is in your heart,

Lest such retiring, may banish the inspiring,

Of the silent muse that gives to you your heart.

 

Where the burdens, and cares of life are laid aside,

And weary one tires of lifes transitory things,

The poets lyric theme comes with a cheerful mien,

A gladness, joy, and pleasure to us brings.

 

So let us write our thoughts - in the after years

All who follow in the circle round of time;

Perchance in distress; some cheerfulness possess,

By ecstacies that we have woven into rhyme.

 

There let all who read these lines remember,

He who wrote them took the greatest pleasure.

When the inditing, the thoughts he is writing

And the pleasant memories, counted treasure.

 

But on me the shawods fast are falling,

Times grim finger is pointing to the tomb,

My pen will soon lay down, but not with a frown,

Ive a hope within, Heaven will be home.

 

 

The Vision

 

This morning I stood on the hilltop,

And gazed on the valley below;

All nature was clad as in springtime,

The sun made the air all aglow.

 

Dewdrops stood out like bubbles,

Treetops moved with the breeze,

I thought a God must be in them

Alike on land and the seas.

 

As pondering the beauties of nature,

A mist came over mine eyes,

I saw no more that was earthly,

My thoughts upturned to the skies.

 

I saw that beautiful hilltop,

Where zion in beauty shall dwell,

Where Jesus passed from their vision,

And knew for her it is well.

 

For there He ascended to glory,

A cloud received Him from sight,

By faith I saw Him returning,

With angels, in glory and light.

 

And Zion was glad and rejoiced,

As on her shining he looked,

A scroll in his hand with names,

Of all that ever was booked.

 

Come in thou blest of my Father,

I long have waited for thee,

I paid the great debt for your pardon,

You now have acceptance in me.

 

7

 

The mansions up here are all ready,

My going prepared them for thee;

I have come for my bride, is she ready,

Her garments are on as I see.

 

Ye have borne each ones burdens,

Fullfilled all my law of love,

Remembered my great commandment,

Its like unto that above.

 

We have a continuing city,

Its streets are jasper and gold,

The emblem of heavenly security

And built in the heavenly mold.

 

I said, I will always stay here,

Ill not go back to the earth,

The veil was removed from my eyelids,

I was still in the land of my birth.

 

I saw that in self I was trusting,

Instead of his mercy and grace,

For nothing of earth can enter,

That holy heavenly place.

 

I pray I yet may keep a trusting,

By faith, in love, nothing fearing

Watching, waiting with patience,

His glorious second appearing.

 

8

 

To my Daughter - Grace

 

Your name suggests some feeble thoughts,

Ive wondered what it meant,

While pondring on the grace of God,

These lines to me were sent.

 

Grace is a free gift of love,

The fountain of our youth,

The spring and summer of our joys

Tis Gods eternal truth.

 

Grace is the spirit of our God,

In renewing of our heart,

Restraining from the depths of sin,

The true life giving dart.

 

The righteousness of Christ applied,

To sinners bought with blood,

The reconciling us Him,

The eternal, living, God.

 

It brings patience, meekness, faith.

It makes our virtues shine.

It gives something more than life

It touches the divine.

 

Salvation founded on that word

Eternal life secures,

It gives a foretaste of a heaven,

All that heaven insured.

 

Embrace mercy, pardon free,

Love, kindness and good will.

If prone to wander far away

Tis grace holds us still.

 

9

 

Its virtue never can be told,

By tongue or pen of men.

It never never can be earned,

But must be felt within.

 

Doubly blest are those who have

This power on them bestowed.

They see the shining heavenly way.

They walk the narrow road.

 

Their footsteps will leave a print,

If kept by power of grace.

Their names are written in a book,

Which sin cannot efface.

 

Lines to my granddaughter Nellie, (4 yrs old)

 

I received your sweet letter, dear Nellie

It flew in here like a bird,

I read it over and over again, Nellie

I sure I read every word.

 

There was something about it, dear Nellie,

Around my heart strings entwine

I could see your little blue eyes, Nellie,

Looking at me in each line.

 

And I knew your thoughts as plain, Nellie,

As if perfected by pen.

So save me one dear little curl, Nellie,

And write to grandad again.

 

10

 

Unknown

 

I have just received a letter from my old home town.

As I looked on the address, it nearly knocked me down;

But two long weary months since I became a rolling stone,

To receive a forward letter, written on its face- Unknown.

 

Many, many years, I lived there, every day had some mail.

Did I live so secluded, by mountain, hill or dale,

That I should be so soon forgot, memories from me blown

To winds?  So postman with a pencil writes on address - unknown.

 

Was there not one friend left to tell him I still live,

To hold them in remembrance, the best my heart can give?

What is there now to call me back since I am left alone.

Or draw upon my heartstrings, when my name is - unknown.

 

Have I not left up there, some trace of evil or of good.

A friend or enemy, by which I might be understood,

To think my lifes a failure, just like mong bees a drone,

If so I must not murmer if they write my name - unknown.

 

Well I have but a few more years to paddle my canoe,

Im past the time of joyous life, to make a great ado.

Ive many deeds, many thoughts, for which I might atone.

It will not make much difference, if I remain - unknown.

 

If I can feel all my sins by one has been forgiven,

I care not what becomes of earth, leave me the hope of heaven,

With eyes of faith and wings of love, to reach my Fathers throne,

And hear His voice come in, then Ill not be - unknown.