Siren of the Streets

Whenever she comes by
it's always the same thing.
I make her comfortable
and then she leaves.

I tell her she's a harlot
hooking up all night
with God knows who
but in her case God

looks the other way.
Curious neighbors
ask if I know her.  
I ask them do I look

like that kind of man?
Peter denied Christ thrice
but I make Peter a piker
when it comes to denying

this siren of the streets.
Once in a while a neighbor,
smitten as I am, takes her in
because she's attractive

and it's peaceful until
some morning very early
she's on my deck again
heartbroken, forlorn,

willing to do anything
for a nosh and a drink.
Since no one is up
at that hour to see me

I sit on the deck
and she leaps on my lap
and I stroke her until
she's a Lamborghini

purring at a red light.
Then she drives off,
leaving me on the deck
heartbroken, forlorn.

She must have been spayed.
Never had any kittens.
What might Pope Francis
think about this?

Her kittens, after all,
would have been beautiful
just as she is,
harlot or not.

-- Donal Mahoney

Photo by Carol Bales

The Lovely Women of My Life

If I met the same women now
I probably wouldn't know them.
They're missing teeth, I bet,
and have gray Medusa hair.

Their eyes no longer dance, I'm sure,
and they have liver spots everywhere.
They likely wobble in their flats  
and haven't worn heels

since adding fifty pounds.
Some of them, I'm certain,
wouldn't recognize me, either,
despite thick spectacles.

They can't recall the picnics
we enjoyed with wine and caviar
under oak trees in Grant Park,
never mind the nights that followed.

Who needs a woman that forgetful?
I need a younger woman now,
someone I can finally marry,
a girl with a figure like Monroe,

Hepburn's eyes and Hayworth's hair,
someone lithe, slim and graceful,
someone strong enough to push
my wheelchair up the ramp.

-- Donal Mahoney  

Take It from Butch

Some men discover 
that all men are equal
in the eyes of a shark.
It's no wonder Butch
memorized this.

When he was a boy,
his dad would yell
"Get next to yourself!"
whenever he got in trouble,
a frequent occurrence.
 
His dad would yell
till the neighbors heard him:
"Make yourself useful!"
Advice like this helped
Butch understand

that life is not comfy;
it's a shark eating a minnow.
So Butch took a sandwich,  
ran away on his bike,
came back that night with

cops who gave him to Dad
who gave him a whipping
bellowing like Pavarotti:
"Get next to yourself!
Make yourself useful!"

Take it from Butch.
He's memorized this:
Some men discover 
that all men are equal
in the eyes of a shark.

-- Donal Mahoney

Combinations

Rain mixed with hail
hit the sidewalks hard
but didn't slow down the boxer.
Jab jab combination,
down George Street,
right left right
hurting his imaginary opponent.
I look as I drive by
and see the determination
in his eyes
and the absolute belief
that their is someone
in front of him
trading blows,
trying to steal his belt
to take away
all that he has left.
Jab jab right right
the fight goes on.

-- Christopher Hivner  

The Pale in My Eyes

I’ll give you one guess
and then make for
the exit,
barred doors,
bouncer named Rock,
the blinding lights of the city,
none of it will stop me
from leaving
so you'd better take your shot.
Choose from column “a”
or number 2 or
an array of bullet points.
Make your guess
as to why
and I'll tell you how,
but never when.
I need you to play along
so I don't get hurt,
I need you to see
the pale in my eyes.

-- Christopher Hivner  

I Won’t Begin

Time is beside me and behind me
at the same instant,
but forward
runs the aisle from overt
to hiding under folds of taffeta.
Strangers are relevant
only as place settings
three braccia to my left
and right.
Circling stars announce time’s coefficient,
I’m listening
for words I still understand,
phrases of peripheral meaning
while space fades
behind me.

-- Christopher Hivner  

Returns

Waiting for the timeline,
a roiling memory
diluted in a solution of
age and red dye #5.
There are dots and arrows
pointing to the past
sending me swirling
in a dance
through jagged branches
with the smell of
fall leaves as reminder.
There I am,
a child,
looking through the window
waiting for your car to pull up,
wondering where you are.
Time allows me to forget
many things
but not you
or what you didn't do.
Time nudges me
like the nose of a dog
and too often
I ignore it,
preferring to wallow
in the muck
of things I can't change.

-- Christopher Hivner 

A Good Neighbor

Cookies for George,
40 years back from Viet Nam,
are the only payment
the man will accept 
to mow your lawn,
rake your leaves,
shovel your snow.

He sleeps behind
his brother's house
above the garage.
Every two weeks
he shaves and bathes.
His brother takes him
to the Veterans Hospital.

George has cancer again
40 years after Agent Orange.
But he'll mow your lawn,
rake your leaves
and shovel your snow
for nothing less than
cookies for George.

-- Donal Mahoney

Homemade Cookies and Gin

She's always been a caution,
Aunt Matilda has,
what with her passion

for the young man
she lured home with
homemade cookies

and gin to mow
her spacious lawn
this summer afternoon

in the oven of 3 p.m.
She watches Jack
through the curtain

of her picture window
as his sweat drips
in rivulets

like Uncle Tim's.
Tim's been dead
twenty years now

but Aunt Matilda
sees him mowing
through the curtain

as she sips warm gin.
She keeps his martini
in his jelly glass.

She needs ice,
a pat on her fanny,
a grin from Uncle Tim.

Donal Mahoney

Two Cent Well Drinks at Unhappy Hour

Sometimes I’d like to go back to the well
And drink deeply of thought
And the dry wit of philosophers stark,
Ugly and cruel. It must have been something
To see all those philosopher kings in their
Day: Walking around in a daze of confusion
And insanity. Eggs in their beards,
Foul wine on their breath and oh - so many
Bastards they fathered running around
Hopelessly, helplessly orphaned by chance
And idea. Yes, I’d like to go back

To the well and draft my own version
Of hell and discord. I’d tell all you jacks
What for in some existential, enigmatic,
Esoteric way. Meantime,

Underneath all the blood
And feathers would be a very dirty joke.
Nobody would catch the punch line.
The punch of the philosopher’s shadow boxing
Line is far too cruel and rude to be understood.

Underneath it all would be dirt, soot and us,
Naked, shivering and helpless: just bastards
Left to the cold winds of reason and logic.

-- Samuel Vargo  

The Funny Pages

Late at night
I blog until my insomnia
Ebbs and flows
Like the soft waves
Of the river hitting shore
On a breezy, cool spring day.
When I’m done with my space
I look for others, friends,
I guess they’re called,
And comment on their blogs.

Commenting with cynical bullets
And blogging with clobbering
Fingers isn’t an insomniac’s
Means of falling asleep.
- I look for humorous little
Snippets to write, cute
Sayings about nothing and
No one. Later, some early a.m.
Caffeine freak of an animal
Will rage over my comments
With a machine gun of rhetoric,
Hatred and free speech.

Blogging is a soggy way
Of falling asleep – it’s saturated
With connotation and livid half truth.
Denotation has no place in such opinion.

I’m just a partially literate computer
Geek, a B-Boomer with a butterknife
To grind. See how cute and refined I am?
- So much for the funny pages
These days we write the funny pages.

-- Samuel Vargo  

Preacher in the Duck Blind

The preacher in the duck blind
asks, "Why seek succor
when a man need only ask
in order to receive it."

Moles don't have a choice.
They live underground
their entire lives
without a periscope.

The sun is not for them
nor the moon or stars
unless a mole at night
slithers from its burrow

to look around and finds
a gray wolf waiting.
Seeking succor isn't wise,
a mole is quick to learn.

No teat or udder after infancy
provides the succor needed.
Worse, no rocket ship can take
a man or mole to heaven.

The preacher in the duck blind
asks, "Why seek succor
when a man need only ask
in order to receive it."

-- Donal Mahoney

Woodpeckers and Cable News

Simply because anchors
have little to say means
they'll keep saying it
till others believe.
This is America.
They have that right.

Woodpeckers drum
on maple and oak
and redwood trees
hours each day
for insects that
keep them alive.

Matthews and Hannity
drum on noggins
at night for converts
among the faithful
on couches
and recliners.

They're popes without
mitre or crozier, preaching
in America's Square,
infallible for an hour
while in the forests
woodpeckers sleep.

-- Donal Mahoney

Bachelor's Song

When will you understand
it's all about me.
The world we live in

whirls around my axis.
Once you understand
I am the Sun

we can get married.
Until that happens,
step aside while I

hunt for the one
who truly understands
it's all about me,

the one who knows
the world we live in
whirls around my axis.

She must be pretty.
That's how I see it.
Take it from me.

-- Donal Mahoney

Firstborn

Born at the foot
of the mountain
what will you do?

You have time to decide
but some die young.
Others live but remain

at the foot of the mountain
where wind like snow
blows them around.

So what will you do?
Go 'round the mountain?
Fly over the mountain?

Or climb the mountain,
hand over hand,
with fingers and toes

tucked in clefts,
stopping only for water,
then going on.

Millions are now
on the side
of the mountain

halfway up
with grappling hooks
and the finest gear.

So what will you do?
Parents can pray but
God only knows.

-- Donal Mahoney

Postpartum Depression

A wound like that
doesn't leave a scar
because it never heals.

Fifty years ago
the doctors didn't
have a name for it

but that's no help
to Jimmy now.
Ginny's dead

and their six kids
have children of their own,
some of them in college.

The doctors know
how to treat it now.
They tell mothers

what to watch for
after giving birth.
They tell fathers, too,

but that's no help
to Jimmy
in his wheel chair

sitting in the lobby
of the nursing home
watching silent

movies of his life
flicker through his mind.
A rerun every day.

He can't even
speak about it
since the stroke.  

A wound like that
doesn't leave a scar
because it never heals.

-- Donal Mahoney

Monsanto's Gift to War

Smitty isn't Schulte.
He doesn't drive a Cadillac
and doesn't hit his wife
often any more.
Schulte, on the other hand,
drives a Cadillac
and hits his wife
usually on weekends
for no good reason.
He's been doing that for
more than 40 years
ever since the boys
came home from Viet Nam

not knowing they had been
touched by Agent Orange,
Monsanto's gift to war.
They had a double wedding with
girls they liked in high school.
Smitty says therapy
has helped a little.
He hasn't struck his
second wife in years.
But Schulte hasn't changed.
The police have come again
tonight, sirens blaring,
gumball lights swirling.

Two big officers,
matched like bookends,
march Schulte out in cuffs.
He's cursing at his wife
who's in a nightgown
bawling on the porch
as if Schulte's going
back to Nam again.
Smitty swears Schulte
never left the paddies, that
he's still knee-deep in water
bright with Agent Orange,
Monsanto's gift to war.

Donal Mahoney

Marcia and the Locusts

Marcia was 17 the first time 
thousands of locusts rose 
from the fields of her father's farm 
and filled the air, sounding 
like zithers unable to stop.
Her father was angry 
but Marcia loved the music 
the locusts made. 
She was in high school then 
and chose to make 
locusts the focus 
of her senior paper. 

At the town library 
she learned locusts 
spend 17 years 
deep in the soil, 
feeding on fluids 
from roots of trees 
that make them 
strong enough 
to emerge  
at the proper time
to court and reproduce. 
Courtship requires 
the males to gather 
in a circle and sing until 
the females agree
to make them fathers.

Courtship and mating 
and laying of eggs 
takes almost two months 
and then the locusts fall 
from the air and die.
Marcia remembers 
the iridescent shells 
on the ground shining,
She was always careful 
not to step on them.
She cried when
the rain and the wind 
took them away. 

Now 17 years later Marcia is 34 
and the locusts are back again.  
Her dead father can't hear them
and Marcia no longer loves the music 
the way she did in high school.
Now she stays in the house 
and keeps the windows closed 
and relies on the air-conditioner   
to drown out the locusts.
Marcia has patience, however.
She knows what will happen.
She reads her Bible 
and sucks on lemon drops,
knowing the locusts will die.

In the seventh week,
 the locusts fall from the air
in raindrops, then torrents.
 "It is finished," Marcia says.
She pulls on her father's boots
and goes out in the fields
and stomps on the shells 
covering the ground
but she stomps carefully.

At 34 Marcia's in no hurry.
Before each stomp, 
she names each shell 
Billy, John, Chuck,
Terrence or Lester, 
the names of men 
who have courted her
during the 17 years 
since high school. 
They all made promises 
Marcia loved to hear, 
promises she can recite 
like a favorite prayer.
She made each man happy
as best she could.
They would grunt
like swine the first night,
some of them for many nights. 
But then like locusts 
they would disappear.

-- Donal Mahoney 

Easter at the Nursing Home

When bread
is this good
a morsel

will suffice
and when wine
is this good

a sip is enough
for the wraiths
and specters

coming toward
the altar now
on crutches

walkers
in wheel chairs
celebrating 

the last Easter
some of them
will know

as they await  
a resurrection
of their own.

Donal Mahoney

“The Wood”

He left on a Wednesday

Half of our lives, the best of mine, suddenly ash

I had carried my anger for some time

I had been settled, ready

He had stepped back, hopelessly dreaming

of taking flight among the tree tops, bursting

through the white clouds to climb aboard his Jolly Roger

Something snapped

All was divided, bitter and common

The clouds would soon break

Leaving only a soggy and crow-filled wood

-- Deanna M. Jessup