Thursday, October 22, 2015

she was a vision...








she was a heavenly creature
practiced in the art
of fellatio
self-gratification
and exotic dance.
she could go on for hours
and not break a sweat.
she wrote colorful poesy
for only her eyes
to see.
she wore a tattoo
of a pixie tied in ribbons
between her shoulder blades
and the day she left
was unseasonably warm
as the leaves
blew away
dying
like the love she had for me
becoming only a vision
floating in the breeze.


Keith Wesley Combs
Thought Life
 
The thought lives a life
of its own.  You wouldn’t know
from the skull, like everyone else.
Inside, there’s a needle, inside,
there’s a wire.  Inside.
The thought is taking out a mortgage,
trimming the front yard, dragging
planks to the side of the road. 
The thought is taking up residence.
Soon, there will be a neighborhood
welcoming party, cocktails, words
without words.  Meanwhile, the thinker
will be wandering somewhere, a new
thought:  Now, where did I put that?
 
Away to the Other
 
You’ve got to know kung-fu, my childhood
tells me.  In case you need it.  One day,
you will need a grapple hook.  You will drive
like a king.
The adventure you find in adventure stories
will be your own.  Must rescue, must
stay cool and placid in the face of evil,
always have a quick answer.
Move away from the man-child to
the other, who used to sit at the kitchen
table and design a valor-filled dream.
 
Story Tree
 
It begins at the base, a series
of background questions.
Then the story is spread               out
Leaf to branch to leaf, a face
of a protagonist, a villain,
a few strange quotations.
One way, the story branches to
a satisfying locus of foliage.
The other way, the way is broken,
splintered, falls breathless to the ground.
 
JD DeHart

Saturday, October 17, 2015

Halloween Haiku

jack–o-lantern’s light
plays tricks with the shadows
seems to be moving

Halloween full moon
werewolf at ringing doorbell
wants lots of candy

Halloween concert
undercover operation
hungry vampires

shape shifters have said
that on Halloween evening
they have the most fun

vampire smiling
tonight is Halloween night
lots will come to door

Halloween costume
he did not know what to wear
now a vampire

Denny E. Marshall 

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Another Bad Halloween

Fred must explain Halloween to Opal
when he gets home from the poker game.
He just had another bad Halloween.

He thinks Opal doesn't know but Ethel 
from across the street called Opal 
and told her the neighbors all know.

Some even have it on their iPhones.
Granny from across the alley 
has it on hers and she can hardly 

use it to call her daughter.
Last year Opal told Fred don't drink 
Jack Daniels straight again.

It’s embarrassing, she says, to know. 
all the neighbors have video of Fred 
in his Trump wig and Hillary pantsuit 

going door-to-door on Halloween
wearing a sandwich-board that says
Vote For Fred Instead.

Donal Mahoney

About Dad

They’re in the kitchen,
drinking coffee, the kids,
in their fifties now, 
figuring out what to do 
about Dad who’s 
in the parlor listening,
counting all the marbles
they think he’s lost.
The six of them flew in 
to bury mother.
They won’t go back
until they figure out 
what to do about Dad.
At the funeral they saw
Father Kelly kiss Dad’s 
wedding ring, the one 
he’s worn for 60 years.
Father Kelly bowed 
over the wheelchair 
as if Dad were pope 
and told him he’d be over 
Tuesday night as usual 
for checkers and a beer.
Best two out of three
goes to heaven first.


Donal Mahoney

Dancing in the Candy Aisle at 6 a.m.

A boy, maybe 5, dancing 
in the candy aisle of a megastore
at 6 a.m., a month before Halloween

is overjoyed by the harvest 
on every shelf, his caramel skin 
aglow, his hair a perfect 'fro, 

his black t-shirt and black jeans 
the right outfit for his performance.
And although he has the moves 

he’s more a cub scout than 
another Michael Jackson.
He has the aisle to himself 

except for me and my cart
at one end and a clerk 
with a box at the other 

both of us stunned to see
a boy with no arms dancing 
in the candy aisle till mother 

comes and scoops him up, 
plops him in her empty cart. 
Both laugh and disappear.

Donal Mahoney

Lunch with a Good Ol’ Boy Cancelled

I should have said yes,
meet you anywhere you want
for lunch, even that greasy spoon
with the lousy chili and corn dogs.
Every five years or so we meet
to recall the bad old days
and you always tell me that’s the way 
they make chili and corn dogs 
at home in the hills of Arkansas
and I always ask about the stills
and you tell me no more stills
since the repeal of Prohibition.
They never saw a salad in that place
I’m certain, but who cares.
I should have said yes,
meet you anywhere you want.
I promise you I'll go there today
and order chili and a corn dog
once I get back from the cemetery.

Donal Mahoney

Apostrophe in Eternity

A coffin’s not so bad, the old monk told me,
the two of us standing there, a foot or two 
from the monk who had died the day before

and was lying now in a pine casket.
He was younger, only 83, the old monk said, 
and healthy, too, and yet he got there 

before I did, a lucky soul if you believe 
that life's an apostrophe in eternity 
standing in momentarily

for Who we’re all dying to meet.
If we didn’t believe that, the old monk said,
neither of us would have come here.

He was an engineer, like you, for years 
and I would have been a forest ranger, 
hard to believe two men like us would 

spend our lives praying for hours a day 
and making cheddar cheese in between
I’ll give you some to take home to the family.

The cheese is worth the trip, he laughed. 
We monks make the best of it
until the apostrophe disappears.

Donal Mahoney

Dolls

A fragment of one face, a bit of one
limb, a piece of one dress.  A sewing
machine going wildly.  A building up
of image.  What is it to become?
A camouflage figure that can tie
varieties of knots.  A corduroy jacket
and goatee, tattered copy of Nabokov
under one arm.  A simple T-shirt, hat
announcing a favorite team, and pair
of sneakers, caked with dirt.  
The sewing machine keeps ticking,
ticking, needle rising to give the fabric
an ornate and methodical wholeness

JD DeHart

Sailing

The slap of water is somewhere
to the right.  Somewhere, on the darkened
surface is a small vessel.  
It could be seen moments ago, but the moon
is obscured.  A bridge, in the distance,
rises and falls, as cars blink across like
eyelids.  The sound of tiny crabs clattering
against each other is somewhere below.
Inside the old structure, overlooking
the water, settlers and workers carved
words and ideas that no longer make sense.
Like two hundred years from now if someone
reads this poem, their then-language unlike
mine, trying to make sense of where the boat
may really be.
 
JD DeHart
 
Keep You Forever

This is shameful.  When I was little,
any visitor or guest became mine.  Didn't
matter if they were there to see me.
Or someone else.  I wanted to pull hair,
hold them down, make them watch my
silly movies I watched every day.  
Which is so different than who I am now,
creature who values the moment of silence,
keeps distance, does not invite,
is not comfortable with invitation, a being
somehow the reverse of that little kid
who wanted to keep an audience.
 
JD DeHart
 

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Reconnect

The person I was wants
to meet the person I am.
We could sit down for coffee,
but I bet we would only stare
at each other.  With not much
to say.  

So I hate to do this, but I am
not returning the call, not showing
up, and my usual latte will get
cold unless my other decides
to drink it up.

Take Us Home

I've had one too many
before I know
and I feel my legs bending,
so take me home.

I've read one too many
words, and seen one
too many hero pulled
down by reality, so take
me home, quick

I've met one too many
people, seen one too many
hidden truth, and had one
too many bitter conversations,
so take me home, so soon.


Pop a Joint

I'm all bound up,
pressing against bone,
ready to pop

My affinities, my
contrary nature, should
be loosed

I was banished by
my own fascination,
and I have to confront
my own self,

So pop me loose
from my bones.
 
J. "Ash" Gamble