And It’s Not His Fault

Deep in the city

where the poor wait

for the Second Coming

suicide is uncommon. 

No one leaps off skyscrapers

because hovels are short.

But many poor die young.

Some sit in the kitchen 

next to an empty fridge

until their stomachs 

stop growling and 

they fall on the floor.

Others sit on the porch

when the weather’s nice

until a drive-by shooting 

kills their hunger.

The only one with money

in the neighborhood

is the undertaker.

And it’s not his fault.

Donal Mahoney

A Debate Before the Debate

A woman was seated next to me

as we waited for the debate to start.

The candidates were late taking the stage.

She said she shouldn't have come 

because she couldn’t vote for either man.

Neither of them, she said, believes

men and women are equal. 

She asked what did I, as a man, think.

Are the sexes equal or not?

I gripped the armrests and said men 

and women are equal but different 

just as dogs and cats are different

but I meant no comparison.

I could tell she was not impressed

with my response. Then she asked 

how I thought men and women

were different and I said I thought 

a woman would do almost 

anything for love and man 

almost anything for sex,

present company excluded.

Her mouth fell open.

I could tell she was ready

to set me straight but when

the candidates came on stage, 

I thought I heard an Abyssinian meow

while I stifled a Great Dane bark.

Donal Mahoney

Blind Artist

The blind artist paints life

as he wants it to be

a tranquil sky 

a big sun smiling

everyone laughing.

He hangs his paintings

on the walls of his mind

and the gallery is open. 

No visitors yet but 

admission is free.

Donal Mahoney

An Unusual Woman Not So Unusual

Linda's on TV this morning

being interviewed by

someone who specializes in 

interviewing unusual people.

Linda’s a smart woman but

her story isn’t that unusual.

There are more like Linda than 

folks would like to think.

She’s in love with a man

in prison for life for a murder

he says he didn’t commit.

Linda was his pen pal till  

she flew out to see him

on a two-week vacation.

It was love at first sight.

She has two degrees

and makes a good living

but until now she has not

met the right man.

She sends her man books 

and magazines 

and he calls her collect

twice a week and talks

for an hour or more.

Linda wishes he had 

a chance to be paroled 

but that’s not the case.

He says his attorneys

are filing an appeal.

Linda's brother says 

if she had met this man 

in a cafe at work she 

might have walked away.

Who knows, either way,

but he’s locked up for life 

and hasn't hurt her the way 

other men have so often.

Linda tells the interviewer

with a shy smile she knows 

this man is hers for life. 

A collect call from him

is better than a hug 

from any other man.

Donal Mahoney

Always the Salesman

On the road all week

finally it’s Friday

and he’s almost home

so he calls his wife

and says it will be

about an hour

and she says

you must be hungry

what can I fix

and he says

nothing fancy

a nightgown will do

Donal Mahoney

Ecumenical Fellow Arrested and Charged

The police have announced

the arrest of an ecumenical fellow

who in less than two weeks

in the middle of the night set fire 

to seven churches in St. Louis.

Baptist, Catholic, Lutheran,

Pentecostal—if they hadn’t 

caught the man, he might still

be incensing the skies.  

An accelerant-sniffing dog

and a video camera led to his arrest.

Charges were quickly filed.

The first six churches are black

congregations. The seventh

is largely white but some thought

it was burned to distract the cops 

because of the location of the churches. 

Some media suggested a racial component.

The cops said that although no motive 

has been established, no hate crime 

in this strange case has occurred.

The culprit is black but apparently hate's

not required to burn Christian churches 

if no synagogue or mosque is involved.

Donal Mahoney

http://www.stltoday.com/news/local/crime-and-courts/suspect-charged-with-setting-two-in-the-string-of-seven/article_98672cca-39ad-54d9-9ab5-67905b4ff4ad.html

  Man goes 118mph in a 50mph zone

Things are often better than what the newspaper says about them;

There was a moment when he felt invincible, almost invisible

As he passed the first cop car who timed him at 118 mph and

Decided to give chase, to fill the night with the shriek of siren;

They never understand that nights like these need flight, even

On these backroads, going nowhere, a few beers deep into

The darkness of late night, it just seems right, even the early

Morning eggs him on; cars are built for this, engines need to roar,

Need to feel their destiny fulfilled, the manufacturers’ suggested

Retail speed, even if only for a short time, times just like this one

Wandering these anonymous roads, the blank stare of dark houses,

Of endless trees, like ghosts speeding by on either side, begging

Him to race, to save face, to make his mark, even alone it seems

Monumental, and now it becomes public, 118 in a 50 zone in print,

But they missed it all, the feel of it, the wind, the wheels, the curves

The straightaways, the darkness all around him -- finally taking notice.

                                                                              

                                                                                   J.K. Durick

                 Crime Scene

 

That friendly street, that comfy corner

Get generalized now, like the ones we see

So often on the news, yellow police tape

Stretched, fluttering, various lights flashing,

Blue and red, police huddled in small groups

Discussing details of what happened and

What will happen now, now that the body

Is gone, except for the marks they drew

On the sidewalk, victims leave shadows

Of themselves, like this briefest reminder,

And so the hours of talking and measuring

Begin, details become important we know

From our ample training on endless TV

Police shows, but this time it’s nearby, on

That street we hung out on so often as kids,

On a corner we waited for friends on, and

Never guessed the violence in it all, the danger

Living around us; late night, early morning

Two people arguing, till one shot the other

And now that friendly street and that comfy

Corner are theirs, forever haunted, forever

A crime scene, yellow tape fluttering, lights

Flashing, groups gathering, measuring it all,

Like we see every night on the national news.

 

                                                  J.K. Durick

                         After that, What?

 

“What if?” “And so?” “And then what?” Partial questions,

Like these, lay claim to us, define us, and set so much of

 

What we do in motion, we imagine outcomes, sequences

And consequences, one thing leading to another and then

 

Another, dominoes falling, tap one and watch them all fall;

They bring on a kind of preemptive guilt to stop us in

 

Our literal and/or figurative tracks and plan ahead

Foresee the aftermath of this or that; we know how the

 

Future works, experienced it in our past: the phone call

We made or didn’t make, the truth we admitted when

 

Remaining silent would have worked better, the turn

We took with that bridge to cross, the storm warnings

 

We didn’t heed, didn’t ask “what if?” as we set out and

Learned the answer to “and so?” and “and then what?”

 

                                                              J.K. Durick

the enlightened.

she melts

into the music

as the wine flows

and the night grows darker.

she captures the essence of life

in her tiny body

and leads me along

with every twist and turn

on the dance floor.

she floats

into the rhythm

detached-

in some kind of trance

escaping from what constantly

holds her back

creating

envisioning

discovering the enlightenment

we all endlessly desire.

tattoos. piercings. scars.

what a turn on:

tattoos. piercings. scarification.

there is nothing you wouldn't do

to release whatever is torturing you.

as I explore the depths

of your body

I read the story it tells.

all your anxiety.

your pain. your loves.

your hatred.

it all is written out

in color

like the desires you have

for me

it shines brighter

than the red in your hair.

your message rings clear

and I know every feeling

you express to me is true.

now-

do you trust me with your soul?

a beautiful stranger.

a beautiful stranger

dancing to the band

a enchanted vision casting your hoodoo

enthralling me with your movements

pulling me further into your spell.

a beautiful stranger

a six foot redheaded bombshell

motioning me closer

with the pulsating of your body

capturing me

holding me hostage in a prison

from which I have no desire to escape.

a quiet heroine.

she writes love songs

sitting at the piano

while I look on with drink

in hand

watching her fingers and toes

work at the tools

as she belts out the vocals

for only my ears to perceive.

she's my safeguard-

a quiet heroine

wrapping me in a protective blanket

keeping me tepid

as I fight thru this world

breaking the borders

of the freedom I speak

in my poesy

trying to make it

in a society of literary giants

writing their academic poetry

leaving out the reality

of the hatred

floating to the surface

from the bottom

of this burning hell

we live and die in every day.

she writes love songs

to the sunlit mornings

and birds singing in flight

holding everything together

as I slowly succumb to the demons

that rip my soul apart.

the recluse.

he spends most of his time

locked in his room

hidden away from people-

the crowds that he fears.

sheltered away from the outer world.

his mind is weakened by the pills

and his body by the booze.

no one misses him

no one cares.

he is a ghost haunted by himself

and the pains that plague him

day in-day out.

when he leaves this place

nobody will know

and as his gravestone is consumed

by moss and debris

he will decay alone

with the peace he could never find

on this dark and ill-starred earth.

look beyond.

stop looking for solace

in the normal people.

cease relying on the innocence

of the middle class.

the gardens overflow with the dead

and the newborn.

the cave may seem like a dark

and endless grave

but you will find life

if you search hard enough

avoiding the obvious places.

Keith Wesley Combs

THOUGHTS

Reality had second thoughts

as  fantasy entwined itself around

perceptions triggered by emotions.

_____________________________________________________________________________

PERCEPTION

Smallest one so near

venturing toward the tallest

that seemed closer still.

Lily Tierney