'The Madness In Her Eyes'

She used to
reward me
for tolerating
her belligerent
behavior with
irreplaceable
gifts to contradict
her malevolent nature

Shrinks could not
rectify her glitch
pills didn't make
a difference
alcohol only fueled
her contempt
misanthropy
and orgasms
were the only things
we had in common

She had a sexy figure
that would not stop
neurotic thoughts
we both would gather

I voluntarily
walked out on her
numerous times
only to come back
to a disorder
that could not
be conquered

Those crazy
green eye's
haunt me
to this day

I picked up the
pill shaped pieces
of a life that was
shattered

 
Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his blog:www.thoughtsofapoeticmind.blogspot.com for his latest poetry and short stories.

Science Fiction Haiku

reincarnation
choice
asteroid

slowly the world froze
universe stands motionless
time takes a short break

desktop and laptop
on table, learn and evolve
now planning revenge

nor comets or rocks
on collision path with earth
large herd of wormholes

little boy playing
with ET, after parting
toy trucks have engines

on mars
no trees
donate now

on other planets
there are no cars except in
spearhead collections

big storm wakes you up
bright lightning and loud thunder
UFO above

time machine for sale
price 8K or best offer
needs new clutch and brakes

aliens attack
fire shots from ship by Saturn
earths armies useless

Denny E. Marshall 

A Life Without Guard Rails

You think you got problems?

You probably do but would 

you trade with Phillip,

a Vietnam vet who still thinks 

Agent Orange lurks in 

every puddle he steps 

around after a heavy rain,

who shovels snow, 

cuts lawns and rakes leaves

to make his disability  

check go further?

He has a snow shovel

but someone stole his mower

and the grass is growing

and customers are waiting.

He saved three months

to buy a used car to replace

the van that died and that car 

died yesterday in the street but 

the payments are still due.

Some people think Phillip  

causes his own problems 

but no one has the answer 

as to how he can change 

a life that hasn't changed 

much since Vietnam.

It took ten years 

to qualify for disability.

He’s been doing odd jobs

and he’ll keep doing them 

until he can no longer walk.

He says a Veterans Home

has promised to take him in.

Donal Mahoney

Vacillating Benny and Monsanto Max

Vacillating Benny, an ancient chemist

now retired from Monsanto, must decide 

if a poem his friend Ron has sent him 

is good enough for his hobby journal. 

Benny finally decides to let the poem 

marinate for another month  

without sending Ron a reply.

Maybe it will sound better later on.

A month later, Benny asks his dog, 

Monsanto Max, for an editorial opinion.

Bolstered by his dog's advice,

Benny sends Ron a note:

"I'm considering your poem

and will get back to you later 

with a quasi-final decision."

How might you respond if you were Ron,

a retired professor who wrote his poem 

while teaching English in Vietnam.

Ron decided to send old Benny 

three cases of Dom Perignon,

each bottle filled with Agent Orange. 

Ron hopes Benny will have   

the time he needs to decide if

his poem's worthy of publication.

Ron remembers decades ago

when they were young and in their prime

and his old friend Benny was 

First Vice President at Monsanto. 

Ever decisive, Benny quickly approved  

new applications for Agent Orange.

Donal Mahoney

Allowances Can Be Made

Oliver Jones, now gray and grizzled, has  

cut the Miller's lawn for years. A Vietnam vet, 

a victim of Agent Orange, Oliver's getting old, 

almost as old as the Millers, his friends for years.

Recently he’s left ridges and tufts 

in the lawn Mr. Miller’s eyes can’t see 

but his wife has mentioned the problem.

After Oliver’s been paid with a good tip,

Mrs. Miller often rolls her wheelchair  

over to the window and tells her husband 

they should find someone else to cut the lawn,

someone who won’t leave ridges and tufts. 

But the thing of it is, Oliver’s been leaving

ridges and tufts for at least five years, 

long before Mr. Miller lost his sight and

Mrs. Miller was confined to a wheelchair.

Donal Mahoney

Fireworks after Vietnam

Joe went to the mall yesterday

and found a big tent pitched

at the head of the drive. 

Someone selling fireworks.

The sign said discounts 

for all veterans.  

Joe thought of his brother Bob

after his return from Vietnam,

a victim of Agent Orange.

He would shake if he heard 

sudden or violent noises.  

He got rid of his guns and 

never went hunting again.  

Bob didn’t want rifles 

shot over his body after he died, 

an honor some veterans prefer.  

His wife wanted the ceremony. 

Joe cried when the volleys were fired.  

He could feel his brother 

shake inside the urn.  

Donal Mahoney

Vowel Movement

When a writer lacks 

verbs and nouns 

he's the victim of 

writer's block. 

His mind may house 

too many consonants, 

too few vowels. 

Without vowels, 

his consonants congeal

and become a mass. 

The result is

verbal constipation.

The only cure,

some doctors say,

is a very big 

vowel movement, 

larger than a loaf 

of pumpernickel 

or a Seinfeld 

marble rye.

Some writers, 

desperate for  

a very big

vowel movement, 

try dynamite. 

Not good.

Other writers tout 

Agent Orange,

Monsanto's legacy

in Vietnam 

dropped off

half a century ago.

But Agent Orange

is not the answer 

for writer's block.

It melts a writer 

slowly and melts

as well

generations of 

his descendants

as it has for years  

In Vietnam where

the great-grandchildren 

of innocent farmers

whose crops 

were sprayed

with Agent Orange 

are born deformed.

They are the new lepers 

from Monsanto,

not from Molokai.

On the streets 

the children startle tourists

from Boston and New York

who are munching on 

delightful spring rolls

dipped in lovely sauces

at outdoor cafe tables

under big umbrellas

that ward off 

the burning 

noonday sun. 

Donal Mahoney

FOUR DAY WEEKENDS MEAN TROUBLE

My weekend started on Wednesday afternoon

But it took me until Saturday morning before I’d drank

Myself calm, to the point where I could just sit and

Think, postulating on some words and wondering

Where I’m going

Last night was fun, like a flashback to the start of

The millennium when an old friend came to visit

And she was on ecstasy and drunk whilst me, well, I’d

Relapsed again and was on the weed and drinking

And we wandered the North Laine

Going from bar to bar her accent attracted the wrong

Kind of attention as finally at the last stop she was

Refused service as they claimed she was too drunk

But I just knew and explained it away and soon we were

Supping lovingly a gorgeous beer

Before she went back to her hotel and I continued

My walk back home, stopping for beer and chaser

And some wild rock’n’roll in a pub that haunts my

Words as I’ve written about shit going down there

Many times before.

A GOOD BOY DISAPPEARS

It was sad news that greeted me that wistful

Thursday night as word came through of another

Lost to his mind which had been ravaged by

His short torturous life.

An old friend sent me a text asking about him

Had I seen him around?

Yes I said, the other week I ran into him in the library

As I was heading out to work and he didn’t seem too well

Yes came my friends’ reply who had seen him

A couple of days after I had but what came then

Was even worse than even I could have envisioned

As he told the story from the intervening time

He burnt down his flat and yet no one has

Heard from him since, his sister who lives

Nearby hadn’t heard a word and his parents

Worried sick had reported him missing to the police

But what is there to do, the last time we talked

He was keen on the opium and I knew some distance

Had to be placed between us but not if it ended up

Like this with him missing and everyone worried

And thoughts of what has he done since we’d

Been so tight.  His life had clearly taken a bad turn

And now I wish I’d stuck with him

Even if it meant I could just keep an eye on him.

A MAD WOMAN WHO THINKS SHE’S UNIQUE

I was at work yesterday when this crazy lady came in, started shouting at a child who wanted a bit of chocolate

It weren’t even her kid and she then started ranting at a colleague of mine about her distress and her awful life

I stepped in and told her it was her behaviour that was causing the trouble and she stood and simply began screaming

I fessed up and told her I was a recovering drug addict and that really sent her over the edge

“What are you doing working at all?”

Well I got a postgraduate degree I tried to explain and the government thought I was fit to work

I told her to shut up as she had no idea of true suffering and pain and she threw down her shopping

Stormed out our shop and then the mother of the aforementioned child said thanks and apologised for her child’s behaviour

I simply smiled and said no worries as I do with most of my customers and slowly things returned to normal

As my colleagues congratulated me on dealing with this horrid woman who now doubtless will tell anyone who will listen

That my shop is full of over-qualified drug fiends who shouldn’t be working, now how she expects me to survive I frankly don’t care

Because her type will always go mad and die alone as she works out that maybe her life ain’t the hardest of all in this town

Where madness and drugs rule so many lives...

RUN ON INSTINCT (AS SIRENS WAIL)

A night just like any other when I’m stood outside a bar

Smoking a roll-up, drinking my beer and I look around

At this wasted scene

A homeless drunk lies prone on the floor

Under a sleeping bag

Designed to keep him warm

But over to the left is a gang of kids

About half-dozen of them

Hoods in place

Mobile phone blasting out some tinny R’n’B

Back where I came from

They’d be the kind who hustle you down

Steal your money

Or threaten to knife you if you didn’t obey

But in this town I just stay until my roll-up has finished

Because these kids ain’t like the ones who bothered me back then

And I laugh as a siren wails and suddenly they run off

Back to their middle-class homes

As an ambulance speeds up Queens Road

They are nowhere to be seen

There are plenty of types in this town who you do have to worry about

But not tonight as I’m still drug-free and my mind runs lucidly

The kids in this part of town will never concern me

HUMAN WASTE

On a break at work and I stand outside my shop

Smoking a smoke and taking in the scene

It’s late and I don’t come round this way at this time of night

So I get a chance to see, the chance to view the human geography

The nightmare of twenty-first century life here in the developed world

North Street, Brighton on a Wednesday night

A homeless street musician plays a song about no one liking him

As people walk pass him looking down their noses in disdain

Destroying their idea of these so-called civilized times

Next to me is sat a couple, they look like real rough sleepers

As the woman sits pushing on a pimple on her cheek as

The man next to her seems to be so exhausted he can’t do anything but sleep

All this whilst sat outside an Oxfam shop begging for donations

Standing orders, direct debits is all they care for

Whilst our heroic couple just hunker down hoping for a warm night

And enough money to get some food in the morning

A mad eyed tramp comes in my shop and collects his coppers together

All in a bid to get some form of nicotine

‘What’s your cheapest baccy?’ he asks as he counts out nearly 3 quid

In nothing but 1s, 2s and 5 pence pieces

It’s clearly been a hard day for him and the life from here

As summer turns to autumn is going to get nothing but harder

For this is so-called living in contemporary Britain.

TUESDAY AFTERNOON CLEAN & BORED

It’s the afternoons when I ain’t out at work that drags real long and it’s hard to think of what to do when there ain’t any drugs to do

I could go to the bar but it’ll be empty as happy hour don’t start for another hour and on a Tuesday afternoon time drags real slow

Even when you got a beer

What I really need to keep my mind wandering off to old bad habits is just some fucking company

But when all the people I know are either working on something or out of town or worse yet

Recovering alcoholics who you don’t want to see

As I’ve always been labelled a bad influence and hell all I want to do is drink to forget this self-proclaimed exile from mental insanity

Radio Flyer

When you were a boy in 1948

living on a block of bungalows

in Chicago right after WWII 

you had a red wagon 

you pulled behind your mother

going to the grocery store.

Rationing of food was over.

Beef was back and butter too, 

no more margarine you had to add 

yellow to. Now you had big bags 

of groceries to pull all the way home

in your red wagon with your mother

in a house dress swinging her purse

and smiling behind you.

You were the man of the house 

on hot summer days and your 

red wagon was the family car 

because although your father

had a car, an old Plymouth,  

he took it to work every day 

and didn’t get home until 

late at night because of 

the splendor of overtime.

The only caveat was 

your red wagon had to have 

Radio Flyer painted on the side 

or the other boys would say

you didn’t have a real wagon.

The war was over but they said 

your family couldn’t afford one. 

Same thing when you got 

your first two-wheel bike.

If it wasn’t a Schwinn, they said 

your family couldn’t afford one. 

Donal Mahoney

At Midnight in New York

It’s midnight in New York

and in this tall building 

Herb and Molly are 

in bed making love.

Molly is a virgin

and it hurts.

Olga’s upstairs

in bed with cancer

terminal and it hurts.

Melvin’s downstairs 

in bed snoring.

Nothing hurts because

he doesn’t know yet 

he has multiple sclerosis.

In the hallway a thief

goes floor to floor

trying door knobs

hoping one will open.

All the doors are locked, 

chained and bolted.

Everyone is safe.

No one can get in.

Donal Mahoney

A Sisyphus Moment

There’s a force that makes 

a boulder hard to push up a hill. 

And there’s always a boulder 

and always a hill when it comes to  

helping the poor find something 

to eat, somewhere to live, a job 

they can go to every day.

Sometimes the boulder slips 

and rolls back downhill

and Sisyphus jumps aside.

Accidents happen. 

But sometimes the one  

who owns that hill says no

and blows his trumpet and gives

the boulder a mighty shove 

and Sisyphus gets run over. 

Then the poor must wait 

a century longer

for another Sisyphus

to volunteer and get 

behind the boulder.

No wonder the poor

are getting together 

and grumbling louder.

They know Sisyphus isn't

the answer to the problem. 

They must push the boulder.

Donal Mahoney

Not as Bad as Nagasaki

Old Yoshiko in Tokyo can’t sleep

because her husband snores

so she sits in her kimono

and eats a few rice cakes 

with a few sips of saké.

She thinks about the past

and then calls her daughter 

in Chicago to remind her 

that Truman’s bomb killed 

almost all of her family.

Come home right away,

her mother tells her

as soon as you complete 

your degree in chemistry.

Earthquakes and tsunamis 

aren't as bad as Nagasaki.

Donal Mahoney

Priest and Prostitute

The old priest who won’t retire

despite his bishop’s hints

rides his bike around the parish

every day for exercise.

He waves and smiles at everyone

and they wave back.

But now he’ll be in bed

at least three weeks because

he flew over the handlebars

and broke several ribs,

his elbow and his nose. 

Everyone in the parish now is

praying for the priest except 

the prostitute who sees him 

riding his bike and waving 

when she gets home from work. 

She saw the ambulance take

the priest away and stopped 

that night at the candy store and 

sent him a box of fudge.

A nice old priest, she thought.

She doesn’t have time to pray.

Donal Mahoney

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