Hyena vs. Wildebeest*

I was running late to work the other day--
I don’t have a job exactly, but I felt late
anyway, the way I always feel late
when I accidentally
take a trip through Whole
Foods parking lot and forget
I’m not supposed to
talk to the people with the clip-boards
who always make me feel awful
and dirty
for not having washed
my hair lately, or for not having microdermed
my skin with any kind of special exfoliant
at all.

So the other day, this woman
stopped me—I was feeling late again—
and she said

‘Excuse me, sir. Would you care
to save a young girl’s life today?’

The two of us locked eyes for a moment too long,
me and this eager young woman with perfect skin,
this eager perfect young woman smiling with teeth—

‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I already did.’

In that moment, I swear to you
I felt this woman’s soul
being sucked up into my body,
clip-board and all.

I told myself I no longer needed
that special quinoa cleanse, that
maybe never again would I need
to buy my customary rare-trade
sherpa goat-cheese spread with apricot
that I like.

Not even a glass of Kombucha
could have made me feel so perfectly
on time.

*According to Arthur Rimbaud, a hyena will sometimes begin to eat its prey before having killed it.

-- Moneta Goldsmith

Literatorture: Upon Leaving a Station at the Metro

A beautiful woman strokes my chest, and says she
likes the ‘pretty colors of my boootyful scarf.’

‘Thank god’, I say. ‘I stole it from such an ugly friend.’
And it isn’t true what they say of literature:

That it saves the sick from dying with unlived bodies
still inside them. Outside the platform, we see the same

tedious arguments—clouds tumble over one another,
casting shadows over so many down-turned faces.

And it isn’t true, what they say of literature: That it was
made for the sick to have a language to themselves.

A beautiful woman strokes my chest, and says she
likes the ‘pretty colors of my boootyful scarf.’

-- Moneta Goldsmith

Cerberus Smiling

There is at least one moment each day when I
imagine my own excruciating death. Tomorrow
evening perhaps space debris will fall from the ceiling

while I’m smothered at my desk by a gang of
Italian super models. Or cocktail waitresses will spray
me with gin and tonics as I cower naked on the hard

wood floor. I’ll turn on the faucet and a tornado will
swirl in the wrong direction, searching my body like
an early autopsy—and once again I’ll be under

a wave in the summer of my youth, trying to
make it cover me up like the kind of cheap
blanket they use when nobody wants to get warm.

*

I only own one photograph of my brother
and I together. We are flat on our bellies, framed

by a pile of leaves in a deserted field.
Our best friend sits on top of us, on top of the leaves,

taunting and triumphant, enthroned and embutterflied.
You can hardly make out my sloppy face in the picture.

(There is a dark substance that marks one side of my mouth—
dried blood maybe, or mud, or possibly a shadow.)

But I am the third head of Cerberus peering out
from underneath, arguing that I am there.

All three of us appear to be smiling. It’s not easy
to tell. I hardly remember this day at all.

~October 3, 1996

-- Moneta Goldsmith

Li Po Gets Drunk & Jumps in the River

Tonight I wanted to write a poem about a young girl who
      chases a kite, or a balloon, or some phantom airplane
      off the side of a mountain, plummeting to her death.
The poem I was going to write had to do with the way we all
      at one time or another have wanted something
      as desperately as this.
Li Po, sixty one years old, drunk, jumps from his boat
      looking for fish, or for the moon, or for his own
      reflection in the Yangtze River—
      sinking towards an unknown burial.
The fish I was going to write about were going to be as ancient as
      the moon or as old as Li Po, or the girl who was twelve
      years old, going on infinite.
I was going to write about the way we all, at one time, have wanted
      something as badly as this: the young girl running after her scarf
      or an umbrella or a distant airplane, or toward her own destiny of
      grief.
Then I glanced at the mountain of books beside my
      bed, at the laundry huddled in the corner of the room like a
      judgment—all of the ordinary signs of a full and crowded
      life, branded by unspeakable dirt and quiet disregard.
I walked outside along the landing. I fell into a darkness
      as old as the stars that weren’t there.
I thought of the mountains and of the moon reflected in the sea
     somewhere. I thought of the laundry in the bedroom, the  
     books that will be waiting tomorrow—and the day after that—
     for someone to bring them back to life again.

-- Moneta Goldsmith

A Fairly Public Vow to Be More Monastic

I don’t know what true love is
but last night at the Cafeteria
I overheard a woman order a
‘Thousand Island Iced Tea.’

A THOUSAND ISLAND ICED TEA.

Now, from where I was sitting
I couldn’t see who this woman was
but it would’ve been clear to anybody
that she was first/second/third wife
material.

So what I did, I sidled up close to her,
real cozy like, and I said, ‘Excuse me, miss.
What do you say you and I
make a train wreck of these next
fifteen months or so, then
go our separate ways?’

-- Moneta Goldsmith

Nearing the Finish Line

Walking very slowly, ancient Wally's
right behind his ancient Molly who's
stepping down the garden path,
her first time out in weeks,

wobbly still on her new knee.
She's been housebound far too long,
leg propped up, reading books, gazing out
the window for some sign of Spring.

She wants to trust her Wally when
she sends him out to check her garden
and he comes back bubbling to say
"Spring has sprung, my dear"

but Molly needs to see that for herself.
Wally may have missed a sprig or sprout
and it would not be the first time.
On a lovely day, many years ago

when they were young, didn't Wally claim
a patch of dandelions were crocuses?
So now Molly hobbles out on a silver cane
and leans slowly down the path

toward the first of seven gardens with
Wally right behind her, arms outstretched,
ready to catch her if she slips, a man 
wearied now by many weeks as caregiver.

He's a man of many years, most of them 
spent in a hurry until his stroke, a factor
that's a hallmark of their lengthy marriage.
Molly's always careful, Wally not so much.

In fact, he still roars into everything,
a second stroke waiting to happen.
But for the moment he forgets the present
as his memory darts into their happy past

and he whispers over Molly's shoulder,
"Let's take our time, my dear. 
Let's make Robert Frost a prophet.
Let's have many miles to go before we sleep."

-- Donal Mahoney

Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son

The older I get the more I realize
the importance of getting things done
before your mother announces another

assignment to roust me from my hammock.
As you know I've never been much
around the house, my skills limited to

raking leaves and shoveling snow,
menial tasks I haven't missed in years.
Probably not since you lived here.

Your mother, of course, grew up on a farm
and has always liked getting things done.
But she's getting older too. In fact,

she recently had a big operation
and I've pitched in beyond my skill set
despite new stents and a pacemaker.

But even though we just put away
the walker, cane and wheelchair,
all three are on alert so I believe

it's best to let you know that
one of these days the one who's left
will ring you up and let you know.

-- Donal Mahoney

Just the Sheep and the Goats and the Shepherd

We all know the story but who'll believe it?
Big Bang creates something from nothing
but who struck the match is a mystery.

Another Big Bang goes off at the end
and everything becomes nothing again
except for the sheep and the goats,

the sheep on the one side, the goats
on the other and the goats disappear
and the sheep follow the shepherd.

We all know the story but who'll believe it?
Not the people who moved to Mars. Just
the sheep and the goats and the shepherd.

-- Donal Mahoney

Aren't You?

So here you are
Let’s have a look

A bit on the plain side
Aren’t you
Little
Rough around the edges
Scuffed here
Scratched there
Your manners
Could be more
Refined
Perhaps
Little
Too familiar
Feel
Of the mass-produced
About you

Yet
I see
There is more
Isn’t there
Something
Not quite
The same
Little
Special
Aren’t you
There that
Little
Glint
That subtle line
Curving unexpected
Quirky phrase
Scent of surprise
Tease of possibility
Hint of force
And withal
Yes
You are
Altogether new
Aren’t you
Well then

I am
Glad to meet you
Welcome
Be yourself
Make yourself at home
You are
Completely
Acceptable
Lovely
New
Moment

-- Tom Rubenoff

Possum

Driving to work
shortly after dawn
I saw a possum

on the asphalt
curled like a fetus
in a bucket

following a procedure
not covered
by insurance.

-- Donal Mahoney

Wife After Showering

Niagara Falls
her silver hair

so long it
bounces off

the swan
of her back

and off
her buttocks

as she laughs
and waves

a towel too long
saluting the sun

and us
who share

another
golden morning

-- Donal Mahoney

Grounds for Separation

There's nothing wrong with you.
We both know this is true

but there's something wrong with me
and you know what that is.

It's the elephant in the room
standing on our mantel

trumpeting "I'm here!"
I'll call when I find out

what's wrong with me
and then I'll buy a yo-yo

a shiny one with rhinestones
the kind we had as kids

and we can try that trick  
"walking the dog" again.

-- Donal Mahoney

Growing Old Together

Bill lost his mind the other day.
No idea where he left it.
He asked his wife who said

she hadn't seen it.
She took him to a counselor
who said therapy might help

but the cost was in the clouds
at least a Benjamin a visit.
He said he'd think it over

but how can he do that?
He lost his mind the other day.
No idea where he left it.

-- Donal Mahoney

For The Wine Maker

She had no knowledge of your plans
the tools you'd use to escape
wanting only to bask in this year’s vintage
she asked no questions
held no suspicions
and when your demeanor calmed and you called to her
she unfolded
sweetness flowed
not knowing the ticket had already been purchased
bags packed
departure time confirmed.
tonight you'd make sure she felt it
knew it
breathed it
so easy to do
one last kiss for old-time sake
fingers entwined you'd talk of wine
and other loves
she'd drink in your darkness
heavy until dawn
until her day began  (a Saturday like no other)
and yours ended
the smell of gunpowder lingers
but it doesn't bother you at all.

-- Barbara Caceres

Tell Me Why

You can’t find beach glass on this beach anymore
the artists have taken it
carried it away by the bucketful
hidden it in the closets of their bungalows
convincing themselves
it can no longer be shared with the world.
And the beach combers cry for the lack of it
empty pockets at the end of a summer’s day
stories made up to pacify the children
“Giant whales are using it for missing teeth
and eyes”
but the artists understand suffering
behind painted windows
they blow their fears up chimneys
and toss handfuls of glass into the fire.

-- Barbara Caceres

Bulldog Puppies

bulldog puppies
faces like aging tugboats
nudge their momma

roller coaster
               you reach
the high notes

embarrassed   our hammock    gossips

homemeow

upon this huge stump
            I, too,
           am oak

looking into each other
we have seen so much
it is possible to live
within our own code

fifty years together
‘what I forget’ she states
‘he won’t remember’

-- Ayaz Daryl Nielsen

First Warm Day

Great joy today.
The sun and the breeze
have the mockingbird
flitting from branch
to branch, warning
the other birds.

My wife fills the feeder
with thistle and sits
on the bench with
the cat at her feet
making ablutions.
From the kitchen
I watch goldfinches
thrive on the thistle.  

An old stewing hen
bubbles on the stove.
Tonight it will arrive
with a cast of dumplings
big as the clouds.   

The radio bleats
the Cardinals have lost
to the Pirates.
On a day like today
who can possibly care.
 

-- Donal Mahoney

Same Old Story

When Martha gets home from
cooking class this afternoon,
Martin will be gone

after 30 years of marriage.
Martha won't know why
but it's the same old story

another woman
this one young and beautiful
but deaf and mute as well

a woman Martin likes
because her body speaks
a language all its own

a woman who stays home
unless Martin chooses
to walk her

along with Sparky,
an old sheepdog his wife
gave him as a pup.

--  Donal Mahoney

Suggestions

I have created a small box with a slot
Anyone can drop in folded sheets
The opportunity to share their thoughts
    This is what we call nurture
Do not open the box
We want to sustain anonymity
    It is practically our motto
If it sounds like there is a shredder
Inside, it may just be the gears
Of your own grinding guilt and shame.

-- JD DeHart

The Official

He is in charge and you can tell
From the stick he carries
It is large and full of venom
    Puffed up adder
Plus the badge with the fancy letters
Golden spirals of digits and codes
So complicated they must mean
Something important
The universe of a black bag to place
    You in, heedless
Plus the car, all trappings of authority
Siren light and blaring noise
Speeding on the night street breakneck.

-- JD DeHart