Sibling Reunion

They're getting older,
five brothers and sisters,
all with degrees, jobs, families,
nice homes, good lives, happier
than most except when they must
fly to the home of their childhood
and settle their mother's estate.

They gather in the old stucco
none of them is willing to sell.
They drink bourbon and scotch
and tell each other everything again
that happened when they were young,
what made them take planes anywhere
trying to escape and forget.

A few more drinks and they see the bees
swarming the day Mom knocked the hive
out of the willow with her clothesline pole.
They were young, not yet in school,
happy and laughing, clapping but not
understanding why Father was gone,
why he would call but never come home.

All summer they rode tricycles
into each other, yelling and screaming,
ringing the bells on the handlebars,
trying to figure out what had happened.

Another few drinks and they agree
it's time to go out in the yard and look up
in the tree where the hive used to be.
Once again they hear children
yelling and screaming,
riding into each other, ringing bells,
looking everywhere for answers,
not knowing the questions.

In minutes they realize the reunion's over
and there may never be another.
It's time to pack, get on planes, escape
before someone puts a match to the stucco.
The hive's on the ground bouncing
and they're all bees, swarming again.

-- Donal Mahoney

EXTINCTION

    Nonesuch now as zoological gardens wherein
    roamed five fit syllables in the morphemic jungle of the first word
    and a pair of “ohs” long since extinct
    
    —or transformed as the case may be—

    into that breathy note of wonder:

    Oo!—after the ever exotic “Z”

        Few know the furtive root of the current term:
    “Zo-on”—animal—in the essential ancient Greek
    but essence is not necessary to the spectator in the

    palpitating present

    nor the nature of the exhibit behind steel or steely glass
    but only the entertainment expedient where one syllable
    
    —like the surface scratch of amusement spark—
    
    will do just fine

-- John Zedolik

GHOST OF A THRILL

    I don’t know what little Jim and I
    were thinking when we let these town girls
    —a little younger than us, I think—
    drive us out into the country to a deserted house
    to walk inside on its rotting boards
    lucky to not fall into the utterly black basement
    as we walked up the stairs listening to their
    tale of family murder in this house and
    then clomping back down on those doubtful steps
    following those two in their equally doubtful hysteria
    upon seeing the ax-wielding ghost of the mad father
    —driving back—one dropping off the other at her chicken-farm home

    Nothing was left, only the odor of grass and avian excrement
    in the late summer night, no possibility of
    thrills of any kind. The remaining one dropped us off
    with nary a word, and we in turn kept our thoughts to ourselves

    those ghosts within the cracking frame
    would remain ever
    dubious

-- John Zedolik

INTAKERS OUTSIDE

    They must step out into the world’s wind
    to inhale their tobacco’s same
         
    A tribe of intakers—outsiders along the wall
    in their ribbons and billows, digital manipulation
    of their own magic

    Bearing the cold, the sun
    whose power is only a portion of the shredded vegetation

    these believers

    draw into their needful selves

-- John Zedolik

SMALL BLAZE

    Asterisk—little star—superscript
    implies:
    look below from its lofty perch
    beside the word’s letter cliff
    precarious before the page’s margin chasm
    or jungling fall through ink to
    a sublunary or infernal region
    where lies its lower twin, lording over
    diminutive denizens swarming in
    the morass below

    Then back—ascend—to the favored
    field, edified by your guiding light
    that plummeted us into the detailed depth
    from which we might arise, to higher
    heights than we had known
    before meeting your pharos fire in
    that crowded firmament of the page proper
    where there’s always space  space
    for even more blaze

-- John Zedolik 

WITHIN THE SANCTUM

    Sleeping with the dogs

    —that is—

    sleeping with, sexing their master—
    who, under me undulated in joy
    
    But even so I wondered if
    these two shepherds, couchant like
    black stone jackals before an Egyptian temple
    would turn on their lord-god’s
    lover and rend me to shreds
    as if an aggressor violating
    the sanctity of that citadel,
    offering violence to she whom
    they want to, must obey, under the sheets
    warm and yielding, yes, to my intruder’s
    gentle-secret touch

-- John Zedolik

Another Thrilla in Manila

Two consonants can kill each other
if they have no vowel between them
poised to stop the mayhem.

Consider the word "cacophony."
The first "c" may kill the second "c"
if the "a" between them runs away.

Linguists claim some day consonants
without a vowel between them may
create another Thrilla in Manila.

Boxing fans still talk about the first
Thrilla in Manila, the final bout between
Smokin' Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali.

In the eighth round, Frazier's corner man,
Eddie Futch, threw in the towel,
fearing for Frazier's life.

Ali said the hurricane of Frazier's blows
almost killed him as well.
Linguists fear fists may fly between all  

consonants without a vowel between them.
Since consonants don't have a corner man,
look for death to occur in "accommodation."

-- Donal Mahoney

Superhero City

Fourth grade math, split with fifth graders
The aged eagle swooping over the room
Resting at his nest on occasion, then up again
Back and forth, spreading grey feathers
“Sleep with your math books, class
Practice your fractions, and then practice more”
Last year, the kid had won a division contest
Now he is confused, one number over another
A strange display, another language
With about half his mind, the pencil forms walls
Small figures in tights, vigilante emblems
Of course, the paper is snatched by the talon
“Superhero City,” the pedagogue intoned
“Will not solve your math problems.”

-- JD DeHart

Missing Dog Metaphors

Down the bends of the road, they called his name
Over and over again like a meditation
Small dogs have a flaw in feeling larger
All the world, all people, constitute a friendly place
Surely, there is no harm to be found here
So, the family searches the familiar places
Around them, the homes of strangers are quiet
After two hours, they discover their dog’s betrayal
He has taken up with another family
The new father already purchased food and a bed
“We’ve always wanted one,” the new mother says
The smile spreads across her face like butter
They walk away sadly, members of the old pack
                                                                              Listening to the yaps of the tiny Brutus.

-- JD DeHart

Terminology

17,000 is a large number
more intimidating than neighbors
16,999 and 17,001.
It stands apart in fullness
a round number as termed
though the 1 and 7
may take exception
to this gross inaccuracy
of their sharp physiques.

They may wonder at
the pack mentality
of the zeroes
huddled together
in line behind
unsure why they thought
they could tango
with a pair already
suited for such.

Maybe they are stuck-up
imagining they have
more value alone
or together
than a band
of numerals whose sum
stands for naught.

Whatever the case
the breadth of thought
in a man whose lifetime
of mistakes is summed up
in calculation of what
he should have done
enters upon this threshold
and finds hollowness
in the combination
of stark chambers
fronting his reality
of loss.

-- Matthew Schmidt

That Laugh

It was stupid of Walt
not to show it to Joan
before they got married
but he was too shy.
He had no idea
what to expect
but he never expected
her to laugh.
Not a laugh exactly,
more of a cackle
children might hear
from a witch on a broom
Saturday morning
in a cartoon.

Joan's laugh rang out
the first night
of their honeymoon.
Walt never got over it.
The marriage was over
even if it continued
for six kids in ten years.
Like many men, Walt
had no problem
copulating from afar
unencumbered by love.
It was dark in the bedroom.
Joan could have been
any woman.

Had he shown it to her
before they got married
and heard that laugh,
he would have left town,
embarrassed, you bet,
but there would have been
no wedding, no kids,
no divorce, no years
in a hotel room mailing
alimony and support.  

After the divorce
things didn't improve.
Walt heard the laugh
in his dreams, in cabs,
on elevators, in diners,
everywhere he went.
He heard it after the kids
earned degrees,
got married, did
well on their own,
escaping the pyre
of their childhood.

At Joan's funeral
Walt told the kids why
the marriage had failed.
He said he shouldn't
have shown her
the poem the night
they were married.
She laughed because
she thought it was funny.
She knew nothing
about poetry,
nothing of his
efforts to write it.
This was his first poem,
the first of more than 500
published after the laugh.

Who'd believe a laugh
could end a marriage
before it began?
Over the years Walt asked
critics and editors
for their opinions
about the poem.
None found it funny.
The consensus was
the piece was tragic
in theme and imagery.
The experts were right
in more ways than one.
 

-- Donal Mahoney

Did You See Adam Lanza?

You don't know me but
maybe we should meet.
I'm your neighbor now,
just moved in
the big house
down the street.
Yesterday I waved twice.
I guess you didn't notice.

Mother's at the store
but she'll be back
in half an hour.
I know she'd like
to meet you.
Now as I said,

you don't know me but
maybe we should meet.
I'm your neighbor now,
just moved in
the big house
down the street.
Yesterday I waved twice.
I guess you didn't notice.

-- Donal Mahoney

What's Gonna Be, Asks Billy?

Tell me, Grandma,
what's gonna be
when Grandpa dies?
He's layin' in bed
and he ain't movin' and
he ain't sayin' nuthin'
so tell me, Grandma,
what's gonna be?

Grandpa told me
come next Spring
we'll go fishin' again
down by the river
and in summer
and we'll trap rabbits
and have a feast.
No one else goes
fishin' with me.
Tell me, Grandma,
what's gonna be?

And Grandma says,
Billy, I don't know
what's gonna be
except to say  
when Grandpa dies,
you and me and all
the neighbors will sit
around the fireplace,
poke the embers
and tell our stories.
Everyone will cry
oceans about
your Grandpa.

But first, Billy,
the angel in his chariot
has to tap the horses
and swoop down
and take Grandpa
off to heaven.
Your mom and dad
are waiting for him.

The angel's in
no hurry, Billy,
but the horses are.
They have other
calls to make.
Grandpa's not
the only one
who has to
say good-bye.
Soon, Billy,
you and I will know
what's gonna be.
Now we can hug
and wait and see.

-- Donal Mahoney

The Food Stamp Cafe

Being out of work
during the holidays
is twice as bad and
twice that's happened  
now to Wally Ballew
who calls his kitchen
The Food Stamp Cafe.
Both times Wally convinced
Beulah and the kids
hot dogs are haute cuisine

provided you
vary the preparation:
Boil them one day,
grill them the next,
and bake them
the following day
after you split them
down the middle
and fill them
with Velveeta.

As a rule of thumb,
Wally says to toast
the buns and change
condiments every day
until a turbaned genie
rises from the mustard jar
waves his wand
and hires you again.
But save the recipes.
It can happen again.

-- Donal Mahoney

At Bus Stops on Thanksgiving Day

Before dawn, people
who work on Thanksgiving Day  
wait in the wind for a bus
to arrive or maybe not.
It's too cold to talk  
so the people stand
like minutemen and plan
a revolution that would shock  
nice families who drive by later,
children tucked in scarves
and mittens, laughing
all the way to Nana's house  
for turkey, gravy, stuffing
and later in the day
a ballerina of whipped cream
twirling on pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving is the day
America asks for seconds
and sorts its servers
from the served.

-- Donal Mahoney

If There Is a Simple Way to Avert

an age of iron, an age of cut.
If you’re feeling kaleidoscopic, come in.
If you see a vanishing point, look further, then
be sure to try to escape somehow, prolix.
And maybe an age of iron’s an old decade
that doesn’t know how to throw its arms open.
There is a way to avert this.

You think there must be a way. Insist
on a little qua quartz,
so small and yet so happy there,
content to simply say what it means.
You insist on a gaze that you can find.
You insist on arms that open to embrace you.
You insist on a sonata’s middle,
a part with heart.

If there is a simple way toward,
what’s been left out of external,
then an age of cut is no more—
there’s no need to worry about what a heart
might need to select all for herself,
for you don’t have to quickly close the door.
This is simply a way to avert
and this is simply a way to find peace
and if you can see a vanishing point
then do not focus on that point, but
find a way to wonder somewhere.

— Laura Carter

A Bodhisattva’s Last Nature

A Bodhisattva’s last nature:
pour a last diamond into ocean,
he says, and you will see truth.
He is wearing orange robes
and looks rather cartoonish, to
me. After you have released ocean,
he says, smiling,

then you will
be prepared to go into
changes that a Buddha will prepare.
You’re a bit afraid
that you’ve been secularized
and have a hard time being straight-faced.
Will he hit you with a big stick
to teach you lessons of abstinence?
You become a rabbit again,
watching for

a hunter’s glint of
silver, an edge of perfect.
The Bodhisattva does not answer me.
You remember that you’re not nest,
then turn away and
descend into a world of real people,
perfectly impure.

— Laura Carter

Museum Lore

An emperor
           distrusts scholarship,
                      and agape with
                                 a Bergsonian hive
                                             he learns to trust what has been given to him by elderly:
here is a box of nouns, here is a box of verbs, here is a box of pronouns.
Will you take them
to an opera for tea?
            It was Wagner’s world,
                         you see, that most astonished what
                                     was left of a Chinese empire and
                                                   an intangible expanse of Japan elides with him in evenings
as he hunkers down in his bunker, once again underneath all….
You pull him close.
He slips out of him.
              A world falls away.
                         For a time, flowers
                                      prick at light.

— Laura Carter

In a Beginning, a Dandelion Looks Like Spinoza’s God

Perhaps too much sex is lack of
a full world:
rasa
is to tabula what you are to
a King of Corners.
Your message is exactly what you say.
What’s left is drawn in chalk—
not unsought,
blending in with a vowel
you become new again.

— Laura Carter

Spinoza’s God Falls

It was everything:
        you gave it all
you had because you
couldn’t eat rust.
You’re not saying rust.
You’re not saying buy back
or open—

but a culture
of cruxes is
            crucis is
            a conservatory.
            No one ever says yes in autumn because it’s so
            almost abstract, like leaning into a syllogism.
Tell your friends
             what you believe, and tell them as rivers run through your little vesicles!
O,
             once you were an A, and then you became something new,
a peach,

it was everything.
             You gave it all
because time was new.

-- Laura Carter