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