Friday, 20 February 2015

Answer Now

I was just a boy 
but I remember Hitler
at the start

and how too few 
understood his plan to
do away with Jews.

I’m a codger now
certain that too few 
understand ISIS 

so let the word go forth
for all with eyes to see
and ears to hear:

We have another genocide,
this one more inclusive. 
We must answer now

or else Christians, Jews 
and Muslims too will keep 
dying in the sand.


Donal Mahoney

donalmahoney@charter.net
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, USA and has had poems published Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Sunday, 1 February 2015

Ad Nauseam

In the mind of my eye, I see a world of sand on fire
water turned to stone with shopping carts embedded 
in frozen suspension
s t r a i n e d pigeons 
caught in them
a bloated corpse on a couch inside the rubble of a home
in front of a television set that houses syndicated lives
a man lives in a clock on the wall
chasing a cuckoo with a shotgun that BLASTS at the top 
of every hour
a broken record on a turntable repeats intestinal strings 
murdering crows perched above roofless beds 
monitoring stale dreams 

the sky falls
in 
jagged 
pieces
splintering earth while overgrown silverfish and earwigs run amok
engaging in gang battles with cockroaches.


Parker Weston
Mesa, 
Arizona, US
facebook.com/artofparker
parkerwneely@gmail.com

Wednesday, 28 January 2015

World Cup

The ISIS Brit
tall in the desert

blade by his side
talks to the camera

severs the head 
of the orange infidel

kneeling beside him 
kicks the head

across the sand
while the world 

has a beer
in its coliseum

deaf to Satan
shouting “Goal!”


Donal Mahoney

donalmahoney@charter.net
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, USA and has had poems published Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Saturday, 24 January 2015

Unfit

I feel unfit
mentally obese
the little grey cells
have matured like John Major
into something ignored and sour

Can the old biro
still scrawl anything half true
relegated to a dusty shelf
of things no one’s sure they should throw away

easier to soak the mind
in old TV, beer, cigars and fear

Why say it in 40 lines
in begging for money magazines
which still insist dead trees
are needed for our muses
when one can littler twitter
and disqus with mental pus
that will remain forever unloved
till someone presses the off button.


Anthony Miller
http://www.pearshapedcomedy.com/A_E_Miller_Poetry.html
mraemiller@aemiller.net 

Sunday, 28 December 2014

Cat Quartet

Winter

That tiger cat with
winking green eyes tossing 
up balls of red yarn.

Spring

Inquisitive...
the gingersnap cat stares as
I get undressed.

Summer

Black and white kitten
lying under clothesline in
soft circles of sleep.

Fall

Windy afternoon
my calico cat leans forward
against the cold.


Joan McNerney,
New York
poetryjoan@statetel.com

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

A New Yo-Yo on Christmas Day

I took grandson Jack
for a walk in the park
high noon on Christmas Day.
He wanted to see 
his yo-yo dance
but his parents said
no yo-yo tricks
in a crowded house
with a Christmas tree.

So after Mass
they wrapped Jack up 
in a snowsuit worn
by the Michelin Man
when he was a child.
And Jack and I 
strolled off, laughing 
through the snow.

The park was empty 
when I showed Jack 
yo-yo tricks I’d learned
many decades ago.
I told him he would
soon be tall enough 
to do these tricks
on his own.

Jack laughed and asked
if we could come back
to the park that night
and watch the comets.
I asked him why. 
That’s when I learned 
comets are yo-yos and 
God swings their strings
on the other side
of the moon.

Donal Mahoney


donalmahoney@charter.net
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, USA and has had poems published Ancient Heart Magazine and other publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Sunday, 30 November 2014

It Could Be Really Somehow Never

Never lumbers in his loft space
The could be world a distant tracing
isn’ts and aren’ts in hobbled whim
bubble offshore of germlike vision.
Blue rings ripple up, a plush rug’s twitch
Feather yellow rings of birdsong tickling.
An odd peckled speck of a moonbright slice.
Scuffling somethings picking at the ground.

But Somehow is stone still, plain so staring,
his eyes unearthing the world so really.
All horrored beaten grey waste grasses,
to the curd-like screech of circling scavengers.
Shot by the light of the moonlike scythe 
Ghosten people scrape nails through dirt.
They speak a chant of pale voiced fear
‘There must be some hope buried here’

Somehow and Never are something alike,
both eyes to see and ears to hear,
buta.


Anonymous