Anonymity

 

It’s the empty signature line,

that blank place on the form

right after the word, name.

 

It’s the x we tried to find in math,

the unknown in chemistry lab,

the final line to the word puzzle

we worked on all afternoon.

 

It’s what’s missing from too fat

phone books, with their pages

and pages of Smiths and Joneses,

so many they become disguises

that everyone of no one wears.

 

It’s a being being willfully invisible,

not even the shadow of himself

or herself, as the case may be.

 

It’s the person today who called

three times, and left no message

from their unlisted number.

 

It’s why there’s graffiti aplenty,

nameless faces, faceless names

following us all over the city.

 

It’s why some of us don’t vote,

and some don’t call their families

for months and months.

 

It’s the way I feel in a crowd

these days, bumped and jostled,

a nuisance, an inconvenience,

a blank at the bottom of the page

I tried so hard to write.

                           Dust

It settles everywhere, it settles everything

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the words seem

Ironic as we Swiffer and Pledge our way

Through our house, as if there was hope of

Getting ahead of it, as it sifts down behind

Our efforts, fills in, waits; I have written

My name, more than once, in the dust, tried

To record the moment as it passed, as I

Passed briefly by, the dust, each time, fills in

Inherits my name, blanks it, blends it into

The surface, a blanket of dirt, of dust to dust.

                                Conspiracy

 

The sequence is set. The time will come, and he will call

from a newly purchased disposable phone, he’ll call and

say the signal phrase, and we, even if we don’t know the

others or where what we do fits into the sequence, will do

our assigned task, the things we have been waiting to do

all these years in deep cover, and then it all will be set in

motion – one thing triggering the next, triggering the next,

it will stop them in the street, catch them in the classroom,

the politician mid-speech, the singer mid-song, salesmen

and carpenters, businessmen mid-deal, lawyers and lovers,

a chain reaction, an avalanche, a tsunami of change will come

and the world we think we know will never be the same,

there will be light at the end of the tunnel, the end of our day,

and we will be speeding toward it, hanging on for the ride.

                       Consider the Lilies

While they don’t toil or spin, they do need a few things

For instance, fields, preferably, with six to eight hours

Of sun a day, proper planting, deep enough with proper

Spacing, and thorough watering to start, then tending

With fertilizer every two weeks, watering in summer, if

By chance it doesn’t rain an inch a week, but once they

Catch on they put on quite a show, Solomon in all his glory

Etcetera, etcetera, all that biblical rant about transience

The things of today getting cast in the oven of tomorrow

But here, without a burn permit, that never really happens

And the birds not sowing or reaping or gathering and yet

Every morning first thing I fill up the feeder and spread

Some on the ground for all the walk around ground birds

As if their heavenly father could easily slip up and forget

This once, as it seems He does so often with the rest of us.

 

J.K. Durick

Interchangeable

Well dressed tourists

clog desirable streets

digitally clicking

hi-tech cameras

at sights of interest.

Except for minor differences

it’s hard to differentiate

between bearers of the Euro

and those using the dollar.

Gary Beck

Going Once…

Auction houses thrive

on collective greed

as the seasonal sale

of Impressionist paintings

attracts the wealthy,

American, European, Asian,

squandering their riches

on recognized art,

a secure commodity

for avid investors,

to the approving applause

of titillated spectators

endorsing extravagance

in the showrooms of acquisition.

Gary Beck

Ode to the Forgotten

As your value sinks to obscurity

to the wealthy, the powerful,

who no longer recognize

the necessary labor

to keep food growing,

to maintain the roads

so food can travel

and feed the hungry,

who tend the water system

so the pipes don’t go dry

and thirst can be slaked.

And if the toilers are neglected

while the rich carouse on mega-yachts,

and are not nourished

they fall into despair,

no longer preserve the skills

that bind the nation together,

and the contract between those who have

and those who aspire, lapses,

and the workers are despised

instead of recognized

for meritorious service

that allows all to function,

rich and poor alike,

interdependent,

as long as there is hope

for another tomorrow.

And if the low envy the privileged

this is the pattern of history,

yet toilers should not be scorned

by economic betters

merely because they have less.

As the needs of the people are neglected

then their efforts will diminish,

skills will dwindle, repairs will suffer

in the loss of ability

to fix something,

talents will not be nurtured,

so quality will decline.

If the rich do not awaken

to their dependence

on the populace at large,

collapse is inevitable

and there will be no refuge

for rich and poor alike.

The wealthy my last a little longer,

but if they have children,

heirs to prosperity

who they wish to flourish,

they must change the fortunes

of a faltering people,

allow wealth to trickle down

to nourish continuity,

support parental dreams

for cherished offspring

fearful of the future,

who do not think

they will prosper.

So awaken oligarchs,

the safest refuge

in a dangerous future

is in your own land,

no security offshore,

and sustain those

who sustain you,

before it is too late.

Gary Beck

Imminent Despair

A man sits by the window

of his decaying house

watching the children

at play on the street

unaware of anything

but the game of tag,

as urgent feet

escape capture.

They do not know

the troubles of the land,

the loss of jobs, homes,

the end of hope for many.

A man sits by the window

of his decaying house

about to be foreclosed

by a religious bank

devoted to profit,

indifferent to the woes of the people

as long as it makes money,

so the wealthy can flourish

as the social network crumbles

under the burden of demand

from legions of the needy,

deprived of resources

to endure deprivation.

A man sits by the window

of his decaying house

watching the children play

completely unaware

he has no voice

in a nation is divided

between haves and have-nots.

Gary Beck

Transportation

Flying has become

almost normal

for many,

but not as stress free

as train or bus.

The biggest tensions,

lateness, noise, overcrowding,

are not as stressful

as the occasional shock

when the Captain’s voice

says: ‘fasten seat belts’.

For a nervous moment

there is atavistic fear

that we will fall out of the sky,

quickly forgotten

when turbulence subsides.

We resume listening to our IPODs,

watching the in-flight movie,

eating the courtesy pretzels,

brief alarm forgotten, suppressed

apprehension replaced

by expectation of arrival.

Gary Beck

from Claws this Pause

In a dream a bear cub came to me

to tell me I would die without glory, and I did

not cry, for somehow I knew this had always been

true.  I thanked him by offering my hand

to shake or eat, whichever

is more appropriate in dreams these days.

He refused both,

mumbled something about being

a germaphobic vegan, two things I know little about

so I said nothing as I watched him walk away.

I woke the next morning, still chained to the life

of a man I did not respect, a man who did not

even know the entirety of my name, and I decided

the bear was a messenger meant to bleed

me like a bullet.  I gave myself up

to the transfusion, walked out of the upside down

life I had been hiding under, and tried

once again to teach my eyes the difference

between the shapes of shadow and sun.

A.J. Huffman

Concentric Circles

scream like air

that isn’t there.  I

can see them, mocking

me from shallow shadows.

I long to play

inside their expansive embrace,

but I am collapsing

inside myself as if I were

a reflection of their falling.

Call me Ishmael

and hand me a harp.

I have every intention

of singing as I go down

with this invisible ship.

A.J. Huffman

I Am Crucifixion

abandoned idol, hanging in penance

for others’ sins.  Stripped to the waist, nailed

to splintering symbol of my own faith.

Wearing crown of thorns, I am blessed rose,

marking universal grave.  Sacrificed,

I am anonymous figure, assuming blame.  I am

mother, daughter, holy ghost

of flesh discarded.  I am expendable

angel, dying in plain sight.

A.J. Huffman

This is Affliction

I did not want the weight of place,

refused the floor.  I chose

to dangle like the ghost of a hybrid

orchid, picked by childish hands

that did not understand my vibrancy.

In a glass cage with no ceiling,

I dream and sing of absence.

I am cursed with the gift of shatter,

but am unable to use it for myself.

A.J. Huffman

AFTER ‘TRILICE’ for Vallejo [Stefanie Bennett]

 

 

No! I will not describe these trying times

In order to please

A referendum of lies

Any child, with ease

Can annunciate.

                 Perception

Is what you made it.

 

If distinction’s a saving grace

                 - Say so!

If doubt crossed

Your safe

Hearthstone,

                 Question

Who invented

Indifferent suburbs.

 

Objecting to a ‘morbidity tax’

Libertarians

                  By decree

Have already

Taken

Attached mediocrity.

Gone are the days

 

When poets, under heaven’s

Gaze, saved

Cities...

Reading Seamus Heaney

The Second Commandment

is pretty specific: Thou shalt not take 

the Name of the Lord Thy God in vain.

It’s one of the few commandments 

I seldom break but the other night 

I was reading Seamus Heaney

and was torn by the beauty 

ringing in my ears and “Jesus Christ!” 

slipped out of my mouth but I 

don’t think I said His Name in vain.

I spoke in high praise of a poet who 

has left behind a body of work that 

leaves me gasping for a respirator.

But the Second Commandment

is pretty specific so I plan to ask

Father Kelly if my "Jesus Christ!”

while reading Seamus Heaney

was a mortal sin, and if he says yes, 

I’ll be careful reading Heaney again

because if I find better poems

and "Jesus Christ!" slips out again 

I might have a heart attack and die

pajama-clad in my old recliner.

I could wake up ablaze in Hell.

I'll have to be careful reading 

Seamus Heaney again.

Donal Mahoney

Subway Sarah

Sarah works lunch in a Subway shop

building sandwiches for construction men 

putting up a skyscraper down the street.

The men pick their own bread and meat and let 

Sarah pick their cheese because instead of a cookie

with their lunch they’d prefer Sarah after work.

Every month or so the crew changes and Sarah picks 

the man who looks the best, says the nicest things 

and agrees to meet him for coffee later at Starbucks. 

If he passes muster over lattes, Sarah takes him home 

and finds herself an hour later staring at the ceiling while

he pulls on his boots, says he’ll call and goes home. 

None of the men has ever called or is seen again 

except at Subway where he now picks his own cheese. 

Donal Mahoney

Old-Timer’s Disease

Under his pillow he keeps

a pistol not to shoot the man

coming through the window

with a bazooka at midnight

and waking the wife who later  

asks him why he shot the burglar 

instead of asking him what he wanted. 

It might have been something she 

planned to give to Goodwill anyway.

He keeps the pistol under his pillow

to take into dreams that wake him

every night in Cinemascope 

where he again is the lead actor 

in films 50 years ago surrounded by 

lesser men in supporting roles

who drove him nuts when he was

young and handsome and now 

they’re back again because they heard 

he has Old-Timers Disease 

and they want to badger him 

about their wives who chased him 

all over Hollywood on Oscar Night.

They’re mopes, he tells his wife,

who never had a lead role, mopes

who would have been shot on set

if he hadn’t feared execution 

but now in his dreams every night 

these mopes had better duck. 

The worst sentence he can get is 

dreams for life without parole.

Donal Mahoney

"We are already vanishing. The Curse of it all cries benevolently. Circumstances stand and remind us how love has cut us. Cut us clean." Stefanie Bennett. "The Vanishing."

"What else is causing ‘the decline’ in people! First up, the ‘everyday ones’ are lied to, humiliated, and rightly feel ‘used’ by governments, their ‘Leaders’ and the powerful top-end of town. Even those not usually politically aware want to know why billions of bucks will be given to Iran to continue doing what they’re doing... nuking-up. [Even if the US hadn’t agreed to everything they asked for, Russia is on record for saying it would supply what was needed; China – ditto.] And what with the rest in a ‘spin’ Putin can move in and take what he wants and work his way through the Baltic States [that are on alert] because most of Europe is ‘free game’... and Germany won’t do anything. Who’ll lift a finger? Well Israel’s got to... because they understand what the Balts know. Even ‘down under Australia’ sits on this powder-keg [again] what with North and South Korea at it again. Ah well... the so called ‘religion’ reason for all the rest of it can’t be swallowed either. Women and children being raped, the aged murdered, very little medical attention, millions ‘on-the-run’ – Good God, how can the Western countries NOT move against the obvious? Iran and its ‘sister’ country are too alike even if [at the moment] they are opposing one another. It’s a mess. Nasty for the world itself, my friend. Obama must move along with the UK, Aust., New Zealand, Canada, and sections of the Continent who want the peace everyone deserves."

 HILLARY BALL
     Hillary, at bat, with her personal Blackberry,
Or switch hitting, for convenience, with an IPad or IPhone,
     Striking out while swinging away at a "handful" of "typical" private e-mails,
Trying her "easiest" to steal her way "home."

 

     But throwing a variety of pitches, Republicans,
Enough GOP hopefuls running for Captain to more than field a team,
     Cleared her dugout of all but drama? No! Seeing the septuagenarian Sanders surge, others encouraged...
..."Serving" to make it harder for Hillary to "secure" the party pennant and her White House dream.

 

     And then there's the injuries, part and parcel of hardball,
The self inflicted wounds can take a toll...and may accumulate...
     ...Become career ending...Democrats have no other power hitters to call up,
Perhaps making this Presidential season, the cellar, their fate.

 

     How many times have baseball owners paid a huge salary,
Just to see "inevitable" expectations for the post season dashed,
     Beware donors to the Clinton Foundation, those who forked over inordinate speaking fees,
A change up! A competition! The top of the lineup on Opening Day's coronation is being crashed!

     As we prepare for the 2016 Fall Classic, minor and major leaguers in Spring training,
Dr. Ben...Carly...the Donald...Ted...on an outsider league roll,
     Investigations threaten to place Hillary on the DL; time to recruit a reliever to close down the stretch?
Not fan friendly, sinking fast...nostalgia and name recognition can only get her so far toward her goal.

 

Karen Ann DeLuca

They Call It Euthanasia

We took a feral cat

we'd been feeding to the vet

when it stopped eating.

It was lying on the deck

too weak to object.

The vet said tests

would cost $400

to figure out the problem.

Or we could euthanize the cat.

That would cost less.

It was up to us, he said.

I asked him if old and sick

cats and dogs were still 

euthanized with gas

and he said no.

It’s by injection now.

They don’t feel a thing.

Perhaps that will help

if the Court decides

some day to cull

the herd of old folks.

Donal Mahoney

Political Debates

Over the years

I have found the best way

to watch political debates 

on the telly is with 

my back to the set

bent over at the waist.

Thanks to new laws

enacted recently

In Ireland and America

one can get married now,

if one has a mind to,

without standing up.

Donal Mahoney

Library Card

Emily went to the library

to sign up for a library card

so she could take out books

and use the free computers

but the clerk ask for identification

and Emily didn’t have any

so the clerk suggested she 

sign up to vote instead.

Donal Mahoney

REQUIEM FOR A WORKING MUSICIAN

He was a tiny footnote—one

lost horn player—just one too

many—admired but forgotten three

years after dying on stage. He played for

food, played for love. He flatted fifths

and bopped hard—eight to the six—

fell onto motel beds at six

in the morning (checkout was always one).

He played in big bands or with five

guys he didn’t like—as long as one or two

could really play. He made four

records and played on three

famous dates, but only three

reviews mentioned him. In sixty-six

he got real lucky—he opened for

Miles. Then that deep dark one

spoke and said,” Don’t play Two

Bass Hits on my bill. Only five

cats play it as good.” Only five.

Most players would take that over three

weeks at Birdland. He’d done that, too.

Downbeat spelled everything wrong, called his “six

work very hot, very saxy. One

of the few, maybe tre or four

young palyers we’d stand in line for.”

Interviewed him once. He said, “If I’ve

played real good—I ‘member one

night—hot, June night, blowing at three

a.m.—only about two chicks and six

guys left standing. Soloed for twenty-two

choruses of ‘Night in Tunisia’—other two

cats laid out—just the rhythm beating four

into eight—not one of those six

even heard it. Packed up at five.

I remember that night. Maybe three

others like it.” He didn’t say one

word more. Five old players, just two

he knew, and three ex-wives were there for

the service. One piano played him over the Styx.

Mark J. Mitchell

FUGUE: DROUGHT

Don’t move piles of pebbles.

—Sappho, Fragment 143

A mountain escaped leaving

one pure tear—

a small lake just

to tease the city.

We dream of water here

and wake up

with dust tears

coating our pure lips.

So we take turns

kissing that lake.

We may taste it but—

teased—we can’t swallow.

Someday we’ll escape dust

like the mountain and we’ll drop

real tears in to the heart

of a dry, impure city.

Mark J. Mitchell

THROUGH THE FRAME

First there’s a picture, both awkwardly hung

and poorly framed. Now reach. Don’t break the glass.

Your hands are precious as the spectral face

in front of you. Neither can be replaced

these days. Your arms sport gooseflesh. It won’t last.

Now stroke the flesh awake. It’s firm, soft, young.

It was never that young before this frame

enclosed it. Now remember all you’ve done

to her. Good. Now watch your slow breath erase

the image and your sins. You may trace

that smile with a damp finger one last time.

Don’t speak. They don’t use words here. This is mime,

not drama. You only dream you feel her lace

collar, her loose hair. You wake in framed space.

Mark J. Mitchell

FLASHBACK

The rain gleams and is gone.

I can make nothing of the lion

but a small shape scraped in bone.

The plague arrives

knocking on my forehead.

The door yawns.

Mark J. Mitchell

CONVENTIONAL REPUBLICAN SONNET

I guard a door and consider the Grachii,

sorting reformers from programmers—none

may pass without electric blessing. Some

try. Most fail. Weary vigilance is my

lonely duty: I must hold these gates firm

against some temporary citizens,

make a holy space for denizens

of this digital republic. I turn

back all who speak my tongue. Where is the land

that troops are owed? Will our crops grow themselves?

Only coffee is sold within these walls.

The masters of technique, their soft white hands

unused to plows, must still be fed. Their cell

phone guide them. They’ve made an app for the fall.

Mark J. Mitchell

TIMELY

The stars are a memory system.

—Diane di Prima

Notes on the Art of Memory

Today the calendar

counts only days.

It pretends to map stars

but can’t chase their memories.

Pages are empty of festivals.

Mysteries are no longer hidden.

They are missing.

The sky is almost empty.

Tonight’s the moon’s covert smile

sports one star—like a tear.

Mark J. Mitchell

No More Toilets for Lupe

If The Donald gets his way

Lupe will no longer 

clean toilets in America

working in hotels

following her husband, 

Pablo, as he follows  

produce ripening 

on vines and trees 

and in fields from 

California to Alabama

picking peaches

and melons every day

week after week

during the harvest

for you and for me and

The Donald who says

if he gets his way,

Lupe and Pablo will 

go back to the village 

where a toilet has

yet to be seen.

Donal Mahoney

Casserole Candidates

When candidates stop 

applauding themselves

I decide which one 

in this odd buffet 

of strange casseroles 

is saying what he or she

thinks will get them elected 

and not what they will do 

if they are elected and then 

I vote for the one I think

is least apt to make things 

far worse than they are.

Donal Mahoney

A Matter of Pride

I first heard about

the Seven Deadly Sins

in grammar school

back when kids

memorized almost 

everything.

Wrath, Greed, Sloth,

Pride, Lust, Envy,

Gluttony skipped off 

my tongue in third grade 

even though I had 

little idea of what 

they meant.

As I grew older

and learned what

they involved

I came to think Pride 

wasn't as deadly 

as the others

since most Americans

inherit Pride

to some degree 

in their DNA

but then I listened to 

a political debate 

the other night

and heard someone

with terminal Pride

preach on television, 

someone who should 

have been in hospice 

rather than on stage.

As Americans we’re 

lucky terminal Pride 

is not contagious.

We know it’s an

autoimmune disease.

No cure for that.

Donal Mahoney

Take Me to the Taxidermist

I told my wife the other night

when she came back to bed 

my feet were cold so now's 

the time for me to tell her  

not to bury me or burn me 

or give my body to science.

Take me to the taxidermist 

and have him dress me in  

Cary Grant's tuxedo, a pair 

of paten leather shoes

from Fred Astaire and a 

straw hat from Chevalier.

Once I'm a Hollywood star, 

stand me in the garden with 

that chorus line of blondes, 

brunettes and redheads 

I stationed there the day she

flew home to Mother in a snit.

Years later now, my dancers still 

kick high enough to lance the sun. 

I plan to hold a last rehearsal 

once my wife motors into town 

and finds a priest who'll say 

a thousand Masses for my soul.

Donal Mahoney