Let me be
your solid protection
your lead blanket
your heartless wonder
let me be
the ground you stand
on, and the rain
that pelts down,
baptizes you in spring
let me be
your history, your
personal tragedy,
your vestment,
an armament, let me
be your childhood
makeshift fortress.
Nate Maye,
Texas, US
Monday, 25 April 2016
Sunday, 21 February 2016
One Old Gigolo Counsels Another
You take care now, Harold,
and don't slip on the ice
looking for a good bookstore
on the streets of Chicago.
Print is dead, Harold,
and it's being waked
in empty bookstores.
Soon all bookstores
will be dead, Harold,
and then you will have
no good reason
to go out on the ice.
At our age, Harold,
ice can be lethal
so take my advice
and do as I do:
Walk head down
even if there's no ice
so you can avoid
not only the ice
but also the women
disgruntled with men.
Believe me, Harold,
they're out there
armed with bumbershoots.
They prowl the streets now
more than when we were
young and dashing
and making them angry.
They haven't forgotten us.
So for God's sake, Harold,
go out for a walk but
bundle up and take your cane
and walk with your head down.
Do you believe in God, Harold?
I hope you do because
at our age, Harold, ice or a
woman could be the chariot
that takes us over the moon
faster than we'd like.
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.
and don't slip on the ice
looking for a good bookstore
on the streets of Chicago.
Print is dead, Harold,
and it's being waked
in empty bookstores.
Soon all bookstores
will be dead, Harold,
and then you will have
no good reason
to go out on the ice.
At our age, Harold,
ice can be lethal
so take my advice
and do as I do:
Walk head down
even if there's no ice
so you can avoid
not only the ice
but also the women
disgruntled with men.
Believe me, Harold,
they're out there
armed with bumbershoots.
They prowl the streets now
more than when we were
young and dashing
and making them angry.
They haven't forgotten us.
So for God's sake, Harold,
go out for a walk but
bundle up and take your cane
and walk with your head down.
Do you believe in God, Harold?
I hope you do because
at our age, Harold, ice or a
woman could be the chariot
that takes us over the moon
faster than we'd like.
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.
Thursday, 4 February 2016
Social Adaptation
In the 1950's
when a girl dumped a boy
he listened to sad songs,
forgot her by and by.
In the 1960's
when a girl dumped a boy
he smoked pot,
protested the war.
In the 1970's and '80's
when a girl dumped a boy
he got drunk,
demanded his ring.
In the 1990's
when a girl dumped a boy
he stalked her,
sometimes attacked her.
If the trend continues
of violent resentment
when a girl dumps a boy…
Gary Beck,
NY, NY
garycbeck@yahoo.com
when a girl dumped a boy
he listened to sad songs,
forgot her by and by.
In the 1960's
when a girl dumped a boy
he smoked pot,
protested the war.
In the 1970's and '80's
when a girl dumped a boy
he got drunk,
demanded his ring.
In the 1990's
when a girl dumped a boy
he stalked her,
sometimes attacked her.
If the trend continues
of violent resentment
when a girl dumps a boy…
Gary Beck,
NY, NY
garycbeck@yahoo.com
Saturday, 23 January 2016
High Summer in the Country
Far from the city
way out in the country
a hot afternoon in high summer
as we drive down a bumpy road
bouncing one mail box past
another saluting
each farmer by name.
We marvel at the giant corn
until we come to a mail box
bent over an old table
piled high with tomatoes,
green beans and melons.
A tin can slumps in front
of this harvest with a note
gripped by a clothes pin
saying, “Take what you will
and leave what you will.
God blessed us this year.”
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.
way out in the country
a hot afternoon in high summer
as we drive down a bumpy road
bouncing one mail box past
another saluting
each farmer by name.
We marvel at the giant corn
until we come to a mail box
bent over an old table
piled high with tomatoes,
green beans and melons.
A tin can slumps in front
of this harvest with a note
gripped by a clothes pin
saying, “Take what you will
and leave what you will.
God blessed us this year.”
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.
Monday, 11 January 2016
Sack
a week ago
when the piercing clarity of the moon sang
graphite harmonies, sweeping across the silent hills
before we discovered that tiny, blotted bundle
of eternity in the field behind your house
before the piercing violence of your scream
split the charcoal night
as you peeled back the hessian shroud
revealing a tiny face
with eyes dreaming of forever.
Stuart Buck
Llanarmon DC
Wales
stuartmbuck@hotmail.com
when the piercing clarity of the moon sang
graphite harmonies, sweeping across the silent hills
before we discovered that tiny, blotted bundle
of eternity in the field behind your house
before the piercing violence of your scream
split the charcoal night
as you peeled back the hessian shroud
revealing a tiny face
with eyes dreaming of forever.
Stuart Buck
Llanarmon DC
Wales
stuartmbuck@hotmail.com
Saturday, 19 December 2015
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.
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.
Tuesday, 27 October 2015
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
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