Cleaning Up

The sink fills, the hot water turns the Dawn to suds,

To slight bubbles; these are last night’s dishes,

The ones we left undone, so now I make the clatter

And scrape of doing the undoing of the mess we made

Last night; things stick when left too long; the sponge

And steel wool scratcher help; pasta past its time

Begins to harden, clings to the plates, the tomato

Sauce becomes as much stain as substance, too much

Like blood left this long to even think of that analogy.

This is the morning after a meal that ended like this,

So much to clean up, so much to put away; I’m here

In the midst of it, a memory turned to this, the dishes

Emerging like new as the water cools, as I look off

In the distance wondering what else I could possibly do.

 

                                                            J.K. Durick

      Remembering

What vague generalizations

we’ve become

 

descending those stairs

silently crossing the hall

 

crossing over the sill

looking back    

 

one more time

 

and finally

closing the door.

 

                     J.K. Durick

              In Retirement

 

There’s a silence all around today,

Like yesterday, all along the street

The neighbors’ houses sit, quiet as

Grave stones, cars in driveways stay

Silent, lending a solemnity to it all

 

The birds and squirrels, the only

Other citizens of our world, are absent

Their presence would disturb this

Oddly perfect Thursday morning;

It comes down to this after all

 

After all the planning and loud voices

The choosing and choices, the things

We set in place and counted on, counted

Off, all the things we tried to be but

Never were, come down to this after all

 

Life becomes oddly perfect Thursday

Mornings, our calendar fills up with them,

Nothing to distract from the silence of

Them, even memories have failed us in

This morning, this presence we have become

 

                                                J.K. Durick

Galactic Mix

Gaseous nebula’s and clouds jettisoned
Joined by a dance of multi-shaped galaxies
The spiral motions swirl about
Like powdered colors in a glass
Stirred by a magic finger
Churning together an unyielding blend
With ingredients that never seem to mix


Science Fiction Haiku

mars evolution
history long ago hid
by meteorites

aliens attack
humans eliminated
want the parking space

the star exploded
in the universes hand
fireworks of awe

landing UFO
destination the South Pole
looking for ice cubes

recent twitter message
attack of earth will start soon
tech savvy Martians

the little green men-
Sightings all around the world
Could they be insects?

maybe aliens
do not contact us because
still a little green

entering orbit
not a spaceship, a creature
eats space satellites

loud firecracker
who lit big bag fuse, unknown
or dark gravity

passing above
ship or star
both answer


Iceland Ceremony

Long before man
Stood one world
Us like ants with sticks
Lines are drawn in sand
Each set or sides
With different rules
Ants that think like gods
Gather pretend visions
In all the long wait
The clouds with the air
Laugh
Seas and mountains
Make jokes about us
Lets have all the sticks
Too, destroy and carry
Thrown in a volcano
In Iceland ceremony


Two Tanka

while on Pluto
commander sees an object
glow in the distance
walking up to find a sign
in red ink, not a planet

do aliens dream?
of inhabitable planets
with other life forms
do they call them aliens?
or do they call them neighbors


Spaces Dreams

See billion specks
Of fast moving stars
On the edges
Speeding by clearly
Slowly slowing down
Upon a world or place
In a point unfathomable
Descriptions get lost
Once touched by rays
Human hand disappears
A dance of dreams
With unnamed galaxies

Denny E. Marshall 

Stroke

 

      Ireland to America, long ago

 

In this Kerryman’s eyes

big ships sail

and lighthouses flicker

light years away.

He’s 70 today and sits 

tombstone straight

in his caneback chair,

waves at a flake

hanging from his nose,

misses and curses.

It’s his first curse of the day

and he’s ready for anything,

an ancient ram braced for the British

climbing through the mist.

His children, parents themselves now,

sit in his parlor, silent around him.

When they hear his first curse,

they know it’s 20 years earlier

and Father is calling

a meeting of the family.

They shift in their chairs

as his eyes and his words

whiz around the room

like bees liquored up

looking for something to sink into.

 

Donal Mahoney

Dingle, Ireland

The bathroom carpet,

wall to wall, is blue,

the lightest blue,

to complement

the bowl and ceiling.

Apropos the moment: 

I bend the waist

and heave the gristle

from last evening's steak.

Tomorrow I shall row again

to see those ancient men

in caps and coveralls

stand like statues

while they talk

and tap gold embers

from clay pipes

forever glowing. 

I'll go there

at the dinner hour

and see them once again

fork potatoes,

whole and steaming,

from big kettles filled

at dawn by crones

forever kerchiefed

and forever bent.

At dawn you hear 

these women

sing their hymns

like seraphim

a cappella

as they genuflect and dip

big black kettles

in the sometimes still

sometimes foaming sea.

Donal Mahoney

An Irish Christening

 

Thomas said

you can’t go home again

but I did for my sister

and the christening of her first.

Everyone, on folding chairs, against

the whitewashed basement walls, was there

for ham and beef and beer, the better

bourbons, music, argument and talk.

Maura came; she hadn’t married. 

Paddy, fist around a beer, declared

I owed my family the sight

of me more often.

Hannah, thickset now,

gray and apronless,

rose beside the furnace,

wolverined me to the coal bin door

and asked me in the face,

with sibilance and spittle,  

who or what it was

that kept me anywhere,

everywhere, but there.

 

 

Donal Mahoney

Ocean of Love
Forget the sadness
seconds are ticking.
Smile in the present
even thinking about
the past.
Love was a wave
surging forward
pulling you under
coming up gasping for
air. 
There was always someone on
the shore watching and caring.
She happily watched the vast ocean
of love.

Lily Tierney

To the Lost Children

At night I hear the cries,

mostly ignored

by fellow citizens

of dwindling moral sway,

too preoccupied

with their fears

to stem the flow of tears

from tormented children,

screamed at, beaten by Mom,

tortured by the boyfriend,

murdered for gobbling candy,

for not using the toilet,

getting in someone's way,

easier to remove

then to comfort, educate,

give a chance

to become a person,

survive a daily diet

of indigestible abuse

shocking the brain cells

until they no longer learn,

shattering the heart

until it no longer feels,

locked away in prison shell

a simulacra of youth

amputated from humanity.

The shattered discards,

punished for being born,the wrong place, wrong time,

to the wrong people

unfit to raise children

whatever the reason,

corroding the minds and souls,

destroying the bodies,

creating twisted creatures

who cannot adapt

and succumb to rot of the street

in indifferent cities,

arbitrarily denied

the right to join the system,

with hopes, dreams, aspirations,

consigned to urban trash piles

for a tarnished existence.

Yet they watch the same tv

as the rest of us

and cannot comprehend

why they are deprived,

with no structure

to provide guidance

turn to crime, violence,

a desperate attempt

to get the goods they crave

dangled tantalizingly

out of honest reach.

But they never see beyond

the nearest store to rob,

the nearest victim to mug,

oblivious to the system

that manufactures monsters

from what should have been humans.

I do not sleep well at night

having seen the suffering

of so many children,

helpless to alter their fate,

knowing it is worse

in third world countries,

but the anguish never leaves me

that I cannot prevent

the horrors that go on

all over America.

Gary Beck

Entertainment Industry

In ancient Rome

the games entertained

rich and poor alike,

the only difference

the rich went home to comfort,

but both equally enjoyed

barbaric bloodshed.

Other empires before Rome

gave the people festivals,

the Olympiad in Greece

the most notable

non-religious event,

substituting games for war.

In modern times, radio

spoke directly to millions,

a rapid revolution

in mass communication

and the airways were innocent,

except for some of the news

bringing distant horrors

to avid listeners.

Once a picture was worth

a thousand words

and television briefly

confirmed the exchange rate,

when people tended

to believe what they saw.

Then new technology,

fueled by the computer

developed the power

to alter images,

so we can no longer trust

whatever they show us.

Twenty four hours a day

cable tv

provides diversion

for most appetites,

the spread of sex and violence

consistently guaranteeing

attentive audiences.

 Gary Beck