New Site…


As I just realized, I made a silly mistake back when I first created this blog.

Simply put, I misspelled the web address, using two R’s instead of two O’s in Morre… er, make that Moore.

This caused WordPress to say that my blog didn’t exist. You could get here through the error page but it was confusing, so I now made a new blog with the same name but the correct web address:

I am going to transfer all my content over to the new site, but it’s going to take a little time.

I will double post until I get everything moved and then I will take this one off line.

Thank you for your understanding and please feel free to tease me for this!

Thank you all,


Oops, forgot to add the link… kiramoorescloset

To Become Immortal



In case no one noticed, I am writing a lot of poetry these days. In fact, this is the most prolific time I have had since I was in a deep depression several years ago. 

I know when I started this blog, I thought all I would write about was what was going on in my head, and that was true when all that filled my waking hours was dealing with figuring out who I was and if I was going insane or not. Now, things have settled down enough so other things, such as poetry, have some room to grow. And so, I am using words to express my thoughts and emotions.

Although many of you have sent me very kind thoughts and words, and I appreciate them more than I can say, I know I am no Emily Dickinson or Laure~Anne Bosselaar. I hope over time I will improve, I want to be proud of my poetry and maybe one day see some published. 

I do not think my name will be spoken of in whispers by over taxed and stressed out college students trying to impress their friends in an over crowded coffee house where a want-a-be artist sits on a little stage in the corner, strumming on a guitar singing poorly written lyrics and dreaming of being the next Bob Dylan.

No, I expect that you would find my book of poetry tucked away in the corner of some library where it has been forgotten since the day it was donated by a girl who bought it because it was on sale and she thought some other poet had written it. Still, that would be fine with me, that even forgotten, somewhere my words outlived me.

Isn’t it the dream of every writer, to become immortal, in even this small way?

Time Needed



I had hoped to work on some poetry and maybe a new post today, unfortunately my blood pressure is higher than normal and I feel terrible as a result. 

I woke with a headache and nausea and though I took my medication right away and I am beginning to feel better, I find I am forced to take things slow. 

The last thing I want is to have to go back to the ER to get this under control as the last time I was out of commission for a week.

At the least I hope to have something to post for tomorrow.



7X7 Blog Award



I’d like to say thanks to Gray Poet×7/

Please check out his blog if you haven’t already, it’s well worth it.



Tell everyone something no one knows about you.

I use to chew ice cubes… until I chocked on one.

Link my personal posts to a variety of categories.

Most beautiful piece:

Most helpful piece:

Most popular:

Most underrated:


Passing on the 7×7, I nominate the following even though I know some will probably not want awards.








Real Life Doesn’t Care

You know something? Real life doesn’t care about our little problems. Yes. I know, at this moment in time our problems might seem like giants trying to stomp on us but in truth there are some things much more important.

From the beginning I have said that what happens in my head is unimportant compared to my family. They come first, period. This is an example of that. Something has come up which I need to deal with and whatever I might have been thinking about is being put on the back burner.

I hope that I can be back later today with a post but that will depend on other things that I cannot control. We’ll see what happens.


The Jacket

The Jacket

By Kira A. Moore

100 9714

The shadows on the porch are cool,

pimples the skin.

Reminding me that  I need to break out the

jackets waiting in the hall closet.

Each of which will demand,

by means of dusty shoulders and rumpled back,

to be taken to the cleaners,

where sweating and cursing,

a boy will complain about the  stain on the sleeve

of my wife’s’ coat.

The one my mother bought her

for Christmas and that she insists is,

“The ugliest damn thing I’ve ever seen”.

I think of the only time she wore it,

the marinara sauce dripping,

unnoticed, from the bread stick clutched

in my mother’s hand as she turned to look for the

waitress who promised to,

“be back in a sec”, ten minutes ago.

The shake of my wife’s head

when I thought to give warning,

“Now I’ll have an excuse to not wear it”.