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