Thursday, July 7, 2016


karma'll hit you 
always pushing through
wounds
creating new scars
from the old
as is your
custom,
and i hope one day that karma
revisits the terror upon you
that you've given
others;
forever it seems i was caught in a tide
of self-loathing and disgust
when it was really you
i should have 
drowned
as a child of the moon, 
it'd be so easy to lose my temper
blame my actions on my
dark side;
but i know karma could only hit your harder
than i ever could.
- linda m. crate 

fallen from grace 
bruised, broken, and bleeding
you left me crushed
like a rose
trampled to the ground
crucified me with my own love
because the more i loved you the less you
respected me,
and i'll never understand why
i found such bliss in
your empty and insincere words;
they say twenty-twenty is
the measure for hindsight
but i wish it were the means of observation,
too,
you were nothing like you pretended to be
always a beacon of hell but never
heaven
for your feathers turned onyx long ago.
- linda m. crate 

not half the man you think 
you can bury your
crucifix in the sand 
for all the good
it will do you
we both know you're no saint
past nor present
your broken halo is evidence
enough of that as is
the blood on your lips and the broken
threads you carry in your hands
conquests of love
you caused to atrophy because of your
inability to love anyone
let alone yourself,
and ordinarily i would say that you were
beautiful and believe in yourself;
but i would encourage 
a lying narcissist to fall deeper in love
with the fallacy of who they
believe they are
so divorce yourself from the reality of you
that you see because you are not
half the man your imagination
makes.
- linda m. crate 

drowning in your blood 
i danced with your light
thinking it were heaven
when you were every
bit of hell,
and i was oblivious to that wolf smirk
until it was too late and black 
feathers snared around
my neck;
but i knew that not all that whispered black
was wicked for i have and always will 
be raven born
i was furious that you would wear such a color
with indignity 
because sometimes white is the most dishonest hue
in nature because none of us as pure as
driven snow,
and i'm here to remind you as much as i strive
to be heaven
i can also be your hell tearing through your fangs
with my talons
rescinding your fierce strength to a weak whimper
as you drown in your own blood.
- linda m. crate 

hungry souls 
we all seek validation
in some form
whilst others seek to invalidate
themselves as if excusing themselves
from the very world they live in
dancing on the periphery
of untruth and calling it honesty
you are one of the latter
forming scars
deep in the bosoms of all those who dare
be brave enough to love you because
to you love is a consequence
of war,
and you've only hungered for bodies
sweat and blood and chaos
primordial as the moon blood in my veins; 
you say you know of love but you
only know and give lust
always leaving
hunger behind in the bones of all you
shatter.
- linda m. crate 

trampler of roses 
a man of no ambition
for life nor love
simply a corpse pressed into
a living body
i suppose you'd have a lot of people
who could relate to you,
but i cannot let go of this fire or these
dreams shining so bright
in me they retain the gaze of the sun
and the moon;
you love your destruction and death
but i adore my loving light
transforming even the darkest parts of myself
into something more beautiful as i learn
not only to love others but myself
something you've never done
concerned with outward appearances and fronts
you've never seen the blackness of your
heart or the coarseness of your
words
always you were a victim,
but never have you ever been at fault;
simply slaughtering flowers with reckless abandon
to satiate your never ending forest of
greed.
- linda m. crate 
Poetry Submission - Natalie Crick
Natalie Crick
Tue 8:32 AMYou
A New Etiquette

"One stall for all" is
a new scenario for Wilbur.
Thanks to his wife, he knew

in the past the right thing to do
but now he doesn't know what
"one stall for all” calls for 

after he’s through:
Is it toilet seat up
or toilet seat down?


Donal Mahoney


Ramadan in America

It’s Ramadan
and late one evening 
I walk by a mosque
and hear little girls
laughing on the sidewalk,
walking in circles talking
about what they want to eat.

In America it's nice to hear 
joy among our Muslims,
a counterpoint we need 
in light of all the news.

I wish I had the guts to call 
an old friend from Pakistan
I haven’t seen in 40 years.
He had nine children, a son 
and eight daughters.

His little girls laughed 
outside his house the night
we had come for dinner, 
a chorus like the one 
I heard again tonight
outside that mosque.

I’d like to ask him
what’s happening 
in our world but why
embarrass both of us. 
Why ask a question 
neither one of us 
can answer.


Donal Mahoney


When a Debutante Marries a Troll


The problem is, Priscilla grew up 
in a penthouse having parties while 
Biff came of age under a bridge

fighting other trolls, he remembers.
When Pris calls his office and says 
we're having guests tonight

the chasm in their marriage grows
The guests go home sauced and smiling
but the chasm stays behind, snarling.

Biff can't make the leap to kiss Pris
and some day have 10 kids.
The next time she invites guests

he wants to be told at dawn.
Biff plans to skip feeding the pit bulls  
and introduce them to her guests.

Donal Mahoney


Daily Paper on the Lawn

An hour before dawn
the paper is out on the lawn
white in the moonlight 

a trumpet dozing after 
long night in a jazz bar 
tired from playing   

but willing to play
a last set for me
not knowing I read    

only sports and the obits 
two riffs in the paper
anyone can believe


Donal Mahoney


At 100, Gramps Recalls Life in Mississippi

Being poor on our patch of land
was better than being poor 
all the years I’ve lived in the city.
We had a couple of cows,
a rooster and seven hens.
We had milk and eggs and meat 
in back of the shack we lived in.

In summer we had a garden
and we canned tomatoes and beans.
Pa bought flour by the gunny sack
and it didn’t cost that much.
Mom baked bread and biscuits.
There were 12 of us back then
and we loved biscuits and gravy.

Slavery wasn’t dead too long
so we had odd jobs all year round.
The plantations needed help.
A retired doctor would come out 
to the house for a nice chicken
Pa would clean and cut up.
That was Mississippi in the Twenties.
Probably nicer down there now.
I was a tyke in short pants then.
As long as we avoided the noose,
we had food and beds to sleep in.


Donal Mahoney