A Matter of Preference

Fred prefers a mouse
connected by a wire
to his keyboard.
Walt prefers a mouse

that’s portable, able 
to roam over the desk
in Walt’s big hand.
For Walt the danger is

the mouse may slip
and fall off the desk,
hit the floor and break.
That's happened twice.

Fred prefers a wife, one 
he’s had for 30 years.
Walt prefers a fiancé,
a new one every year.


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net 

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

Passage

Roots are deep
the trees stretch
toward the ether

and within the womb
of dark brown soil.

The sky changes
like time
and leaves shades

of purple and blue
amid a cacophony
of wasted foliage.



Sneha Subramanian Kanta
United Kingdom 

No Silence

Hell is the absence
of ink with twelve more
ideas rolling out,
soon to be forgotten

An absence of voice,
itch in the throat,
when a word must be
spoken for reason

Last bits of thought
unrecorded, unexpressed
on a sullen afternoon,
embracing silence

When a sentence would
heal, banishing tension.

JD DeHart 
Tennessee, US. 

A Winter Buffet

A bright winter day
and not a leaf left
on this skeleton 

tree teeming 
with sparrows
chirping and hopping

branch to branch 
waiting for the feeder
to be free of cardinals

juncos and jays 
bickering for seed
while on the ground

four doves
stroll in silence
feasting on spilled 

seed near the tree
where a fat squirrel 
sits with tail high 

in a question mark
ready to dive 
and scatter them all


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net 

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

The Garden of Thieves

A blissful story written upon pages,
where I carved your name in remorse.
I dreamt you singing in silver cages,
while resting my blame upon the chords.

Told me the poetry you wrote before
the lyrics still unhurried upon your lips,
while ashes and cries you sorrowfully mourn
your brief, nostalgic, evanescent kiss. 

Dancing along the edges of forever,
you sang a melody of what once was.
As the doves and ravens all cry, “Never”,
I know you’ll bury your innocent lust.

For life, for love, for whom I could tell.
I watch the greetings and the silent goodbyes. 
And shadows, the weeping, while the bell knells. 
You disappear gracefully, along the edges of twilight. 



Robin Goodfellow,
Denton, US.

Robin Goodfellow has had poems published in the online magazine Nature Writing, as well as the Healing Poetry and the Haiku Journal. She enjoys listening to Owl City and rewriting classic fairytales

Did You

Did you know
me as my younger form
when I lacked solidity
vacillating among faces

Did you know
my mildly contented
middle aged self
just starting life with
a small amount of sense

Or have you met
the older casket me,
the current one who
lacks much future
but can go on and on
about the past?



R Cope
Richmond, VA,
US 

Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son

The older I get the more I realize
the importance of getting things done
before your mother announces another 

assignment to roust me from my hammock.
As you know I've never been much
around the house, my skills limited to 

raking leaves and shoveling snow, 
menial tasks I haven't missed in years.
Probably not since you lived here.

Your mother, of course, grew up on a farm 
and has always liked getting things done.
But she's getting older too. In fact,

she recently had a big operation 
and I've pitched in beyond my skill set 
despite new stents and a pacemaker.

But even though we just put away
the walker, cane and wheelchair,
all three are on alert so I believe 

it's best to let you know that
one of these days the one who's left 
will ring you up and let you know.


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net 

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