Waiting Room

First time seeing this doctor,
a specialist. Took a month
to get an appointment.
The waiting room’s packed.
I grab the last seat 
next to a lady in a wheelchair
knitting something,
perhaps for a grandchild. 

I pull out my cell phone 
like everyone else
but just to check messages,
not into games. 
No one’s looking at magazines,
it seems, any more.
It’s a cell phone world,
messages and Tic-Tac-Toe.

Half an hour later the lady 
stops knitting and whispers, 
“Sit back and relax, son. 
Life’s a waiting room.
We all have appointments.
Every name is called.
Even those who believe
no doctor is in."


Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net

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

Art-istic

I was the open shirt

and the journal palm,

not a pair of wings,

the recorder of passersby.

They did not know what

to do with me. I strung

together metaphors while

they talked about baseball

cards. While they volleyed

juvenile experiences of lust,

I read the thoughts of

expatriate Parisians, sarcastic

polarizing prophets, and poems

balanced on an image. Popping

in compact discs, I imagined

the world I might one day

engage in, sketched in pencil.

JD DeHart

Tennessee, US

All entirely normal

The outlines in the dark
Were of no interest to you
But to me it was a mystery
That rocks could soar suddenly
Bigger than a tower block
Blocking the horizon
Even at night

I’d seen such things in books
And on 625 line TV sets
But not these giant silhouettes
Taunting us
Warning us to stay away
Sneering at our lack of size

The coach slid
Scattered snow into chasm
The driver reversed
Then went forward
And then reversed
And then went forward again
As though it was entirely normal
To slide on the side of rocks
near oblivion.


Anthony E Miller,
Croydon
http://www.pearshapedcomedy.com/A_E_Miller_Poetry.html

The Good Liar

He knows how to spin
his yarn so that the truth
is hidden under a golden
hue, desiccated stories

Reworked so that the horror
he was is now the hero,
re-spoken so that the old 
bones are not yet grown that
way, reset and shooting forth

In another, unexpected way,
trying on a new voice instead.


J 'Ash' Gamble

Ham

Mother brought the ham,
the one I was supposed to bring,
she's always good like that.
Mother is dressed in the smell
of lavender and other fine oils,
she is the movement of sheets
in the wind, pinned up on the line
father erected for her.
Mother is the smell of that ham
and other kitchen odors, the feeling
of an ice pack on my bleeding head,
the tsk-tsk-tsk sound when I know
I've really messed up my life,
the needle and thread putting me
back together again, after it all.


Kaitlyn Park
Salem, Oregon,
US

Jabberwocky Redux:

After reading too much Aquinas

Would an aphid reside in an onager’s ear
if the onager’s master spoke Twi?
Or a Gascony scop with a leper elope
if a civet leapt out of a tree?
You doubt it? Read Thomas and see.

Would an addax in Denmark gyrate
if an emu in Sweden bore freight?
Or an eland in Chile complain
if jerboas in Goa refrain?
You doubt it? Read Thomas and see.

For really I thought ‘twas the onager taught
the aphid the tenor of Twi, and that
Gascony scops with Norwegians eloped
when Danes had lepers to tea.
You doubt it? Read Thomas and see.

Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net

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

.

Rabble

I do not know about the rabble
that keeps some people busy,
but I know about the perfect

green serene moments of clarity,
when it is just me and a wine

glass. Not the fast dazzle of
drizzle traffic, not the loners
who cross bridges and beg for
coins, but the small instant

when the mind closes in on true
beauty and leaves chaos behind.

Camille Clark
Atlanta, 
Georgia, US 

On the Lawn

They gather in spring
grasses to see the passing
of newcomers,
they greet them with looks
of uncertainty,
and when they inevitably
leave the following spring,
nomads always,
the intransigents come out
again to observe.



J. "Ash" Gamble
Ft. Myers, FL
US 

The World in the Year 3000

There are pockets 
of them everywhere,
quiet and discreet.

Usually they meet 
once a week
in private homes

in basements 
some call catacombs.
Depending on the group

a minister will preach,
a priest say Mass
a rabbi teach.

Elsewhere you will find
a mosque on almost
every street.

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. 

November

cool frost stones

remind me of my choices

we followed each other

through the wood

I chose to follow

and could have gone

my own way,

instead choosing the same

frigid river path

not yet strong enough

to make our own road

through litter of leaves.

JD DeHart

DeHart is a writer and teacher from Tennessee.

His blog is spinrockreader.blogspot.com

Yowling

Ed's wife found a sinkhole
in the yard a year ago
a foot wide, several feet deep

and she wanted it filled.
No problem said Ed.
The sinkhole is hidden 

behind a big bush 
next to their garage. 
Sometimes a feral cat, 

good as its eyes may be,
falls into the hole at night,
never to come out.

The yowling can go on
longer than a week.
Neighbors around 

Ed’s stockade fence 
ask where the yowling
is coming from and Ed 

asks them if they
have a cat in heat.
They always say no

and the questions stop.
Meanwhile, feral cats, 
once a plague in Ed's yard,

no longer crouch
in the foliage and leap 
to pluck robins and 

cardinals out of the air.
Birds can worship now
at Ed’s suet and feeders, 

wipe their beaks in peace,
serenaded at times
by the yowling.


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. 

Skylight

Streaming above
is the bold news
of a new time,
restless we rise
to waking life,
visions of heaven
floating above us.

JD DeHart

DeHart is a writer and teacher from Tennessee. 
His blog is spinrockreader.blogspot.com 

Hold Out

Morning glories

bravely blooming

on my terrace

despite chill wind,

blossom all day

stubbornly denying

end of summer.

Gary Beck

New York,

garycbeck@yahoo.com