The Sound of Scampering

By Dainon Moody

Author Dainon Moody is a self-proclaimed wanderer on the fabled road of life. In The Sound of Scampering, his first collection of poetry, Moody explores the unique world around him through verse rich in imagery and sensory detail extracted from his life experiences over the course of more than twenty years.

While many of Moodys poems cover relatable subjects, such as lost love, death, friendship, and nature, others offer an engaging, lighter look at life. He recalls what it is like to ride a runt calf, travel back in time to visit his newly wed parents, and sell roadside zucchini. With unguarded honesty, Moody contemplates the yearnings of his heart, his understandings of love, and his hopes for his future, ultimately encouraging others to do the same with their own unfinished lives.

My grandpa went quickly.
He forgot his granddaughters name short months before
she was by his hospital bed, playing hymns for him on her violin.
And, when they laid him in his grave, soldiers
shooting up the air, a folded American flag,
my cry was one I hadnt the time to practice.
I lost all strength, some oxygen and time
nearby sisters keeping me from falling
my chest caving in. Its the first and last time
I understand the depth of sadness
that gets forced into a sob.
from Three Cries (and None for Help)

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475959017

Dainon Moody

Dainon Moody earned a bachelor’s degree in Journalism from Utah State University. He is a marketing writer who has been known to play Neil Young’s Harvest loudly on the turntable at three o’clock in the morning. Dainon lives in Orlando, Florida. This is his first poetry collection.

Book preview

Handled with Care

When she who still ought not be named

asked me in that single fated phone call

if I had anything or one I cared for, looked after—

an ex, a child, a pet—I was not fully prepared

to say that, yes, I have a lone plant that craves

an open window during the work week,

lets down and reaches up long, splendored leaves

when let out on the porch weekends,

begs me to flip that Johnny Hartman record already

all the times in between.

Maybe, too, I could have mentioned the three cats

one yard over, the very ones I keep trying to entice

with cans of tuna (and again just now)

though they’ve perfected disinterest,

constantly fail to prove they can purr.

I don’t even look after myself all that well.

That’s neither here, there.

Still, why the question from this mother

of two, married wife of one? Was there

a right answer to give, if I’d tried to find it?

It goes back in the drawer with the unanswereds,

as she’ll not call again and I’ll not have to

not pick up when she doesn’t at this last

and finally and forevermore already.

The Show-Me State

(In the Beginning)

Secret Prayer

This is in the hours before my beginning

as I stroll into this place

a hippied commune of a town later,

now it’s ripe with redwoods

more green than the beaches ever see,

this the California dreams are made of.

There is my mother, no cares worn

on her face—none deep in her eyes

when I stare for minutes and hours.

There is my father, never knowing

more than wanting to provide,

go-to-where-the-job-takes-him type.

They’re renters now, still so caught up

in the new birth of their first,

she with the mouth like his,

smiling eyes like hers.

He hasn’t had the chance to create my name quite yet

so he fiddles with his Polaroid,

captures her black and whites instead,

the shots looking like they’re torn

from a baby catalog even now, even later.

If he were to look in my direction

he might see a piece of his handiwork,

sniff out some air of the familiar. I have

a secret to share with both (not all