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
Sunday, 28 December 2014
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.
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
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
Thursday, 30 October 2014
By Hand
This is an experiment
to see if holding these words
and feeling my pen strokes
scratched into the paper
makes them more valuable.
I’ve made an old-fashioned effort
to find a pen (sorry, blue ink)
and some paper (apologies,
torn from a reporters’ notepad)
and felt that unfamiliar stretch
of tendons straining against plastic.
I grimaced at the taste
of glue as I sealed in my
offering and then I queued
at the post office for a stamp.
I know your address by heart;
I should, I live there too.
Ben Banyard
Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, UK where he writes poetry and short fiction. His work has appeared in Shortlist Magazine, The Stare's Nest, Nutshells & Nuggets and a forthcoming issue of Sarasvati.
to see if holding these words
and feeling my pen strokes
scratched into the paper
makes them more valuable.
I’ve made an old-fashioned effort
to find a pen (sorry, blue ink)
and some paper (apologies,
torn from a reporters’ notepad)
and felt that unfamiliar stretch
of tendons straining against plastic.
I grimaced at the taste
of glue as I sealed in my
offering and then I queued
at the post office for a stamp.
I know your address by heart;
I should, I live there too.
Ben Banyard
Ben Banyard lives in Portishead, UK where he writes poetry and short fiction. His work has appeared in Shortlist Magazine, The Stare's Nest, Nutshells & Nuggets and a forthcoming issue of Sarasvati.
Saturday, 18 October 2014
Great Migration
We all moved
switching our spots,
like leopards denying their
true identities.
We found our new home,
but it reminded us too
much of the old melancholy,
so our feet grew restless
once more moving.
JD DeHart
Tennessee, US
switching our spots,
like leopards denying their
true identities.
We found our new home,
but it reminded us too
much of the old melancholy,
so our feet grew restless
once more moving.
JD DeHart
Tennessee, US
Wednesday, 15 October 2014
mis-fit
are times
of interest , for new
decisions , waking
to different views . I have
no rules & cannot fit
shall not sign
for safety & each birth
brings pain . there is danger
here & things don't measure
will try
to keep a door open
to suffer
not to slumber.
Reuben Woolley
Zaragoza, Spain
reubenwoolley@gmail.com
of interest , for new
decisions , waking
to different views . I have
no rules & cannot fit
shall not sign
for safety & each birth
brings pain . there is danger
here & things don't measure
will try
to keep a door open
to suffer
not to slumber.
Reuben Woolley
Zaragoza, Spain
reubenwoolley@gmail.com
Sunday, 12 October 2014
Family Business
Weekends were
maintenance and balancing the books.
Saturdays we got our hands dirty.
The cab tilted to check tappet clearances.
A crawlboard under the chassis, back aching.
Latching up wheelnuts, a length of steel tubing
slipped onto the torque-wrench
for leverage, knuckles white through the dirt
as it groaned then clicked in confirmation:
did six-hundred newton metres
mean they were good and tight? I don’t remember.
I didn’t have a head for the technical side.
Sundays were my forte: clean hands and sheets
of paper, the columns of figures easy enough
before spreadsheets and look-ups
and pull-throughs confused it.
Now in the office I’m almost innumerate
compared to the whiz-kids, all college-taught
theories and clever equations.
Back then I was fifteen and doing the invoicing
for a one-man-firm with a sixteen tonner,
tapping numbers into an old-school calculator
with a spool of paper chattering out
the profit and loss,a ticker-tape parade
if we weren’t in the red.
Saturdays we got our hands dirty.
The cab tilted to check tappet clearances.
A crawlboard under the chassis, back aching.
Latching up wheelnuts, a length of steel tubing
slipped onto the torque-wrench
for leverage, knuckles white through the dirt
as it groaned then clicked in confirmation:
did six-hundred newton metres
mean they were good and tight? I don’t remember.
I didn’t have a head for the technical side.
Sundays were my forte: clean hands and sheets
of paper, the columns of figures easy enough
before spreadsheets and look-ups
and pull-throughs confused it.
Now in the office I’m almost innumerate
compared to the whiz-kids, all college-taught
theories and clever equations.
Back then I was fifteen and doing the invoicing
for a one-man-firm with a sixteen tonner,
tapping numbers into an old-school calculator
with a spool of paper chattering out
the profit and loss,a ticker-tape parade
if we weren’t in the red.
Neil Fulwood
Nottingham, England.
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