Attic City

It is a city in the uppermost corner of the mind
Dark and solitary
Sit on the rooftops and look at the stars
through the broken sky
Rain will not come
Rain will not hurt you here
Old memories will.
They will come alive
searching your subconscious
with a vengeance
Toothbrushes and doll houses
Your mother's old photograph
You cannot imagine she could ever look pretty
That old maths paper with a zero
The cobwebs have come home at last
The dust has been shifted
Now there's enough space to sit
and have a good cry
The attic city will always keep your bones in place
There will always be a way to find the breadcrumbs back
Back towards this place.
Back towards this place.
This place with its downtown windows
And upper handed ladders
Reaching for late night monopoly
And coffee by the old stove.
There will always be that spider in the broom shack
The one that lives forever and ever
This place becomes a time machine
The moment you step into it
The years don’t matter
You greet the attic city like a long lost friend.
And a friend it is, rising above the clouds
A nectarine of collected thoughts
Only seen by the telescope of a few eyes
Jaded and black into the summer sky.

-- Nabeela Atlaf

Waiter Boy

There he stands, my waiter boy
A plate in his nervous hands
trembling in their internal debate
of preceding each other.

He swallows a globule of spit
the size of his Adams apple
And serves the couple on his right
holding hands like super glue
And they drink from the same glass.

He dishes out rice
and untangles his buttons splitting sweat
This would never end, he knows
Even if tomorrow should be the Day of Judgement
Announced on the stained television screen
His hands would find new ways
To uncork a bottle
and to swipe a tip.

He sits down in a corner
Laughter filling up the opposite end
And throws away his apron
Deciding his children's menu
Silently in heart beats.

-- Nabeela Altaf

120 Days

Doctors say, it takes 120 days for our red blood cells to die. It allows them to roam freely, guided by the flowing river of blood into places inside us we haven't visited. It makes us red, on the inside and no matter what colour we are by the surface of our skin, the red blood cells unify us all as one.

1, 2, 3

The red blood cells are being born, small goblets just beginning to understand their role in such a short life span that they are granted. My mother says, I plopped right into the midwife's hands like a plunger pulled with mighty force. My sister was born in eight hours. And all through that time, my mother, she huffed and she puffed into bringing a daughter into this world she couldn't recognize.

10, 11, 12

The red blood cells although small in size but as red as ever, follow their ancestors to the burial ground, the spleen. They mourn the mentors, so alive a few hours ago, now just degraded into Rest in Peace stones, one day giving rise to new descendants.
When my grandmother died, I was not yet familiar with death. It was something my eight year old mind could sum up to be a part of story books. I expected my gran to walk right through the door any second. Just before they took her body to be engrained as though a part of the earth.

20, 21, 22

The red blood cells woke up today, the sunlight of the heart shining upon them. News had traveled around the house about a new kidney's first day. Everywhere cells were celebrating. The red blood cells joined in, spilling oxygen everywhere.
When I was 10, my cousin was born. It was hard to acknowledge someone else after a long period of only seen-loads-of-time faces. Today, she is 10 and finds it hard to make new friends. I tell her, it occurs by beautiful and gradual osmosis, how you come to love someone you never even knew.

117, 118, 119

Today, the red blood cells are waving goodbye. Their souls have flown outward, to a place where only coagulated friendship and bonds exist. But their final journey to the spleen took forever.
Doctors say, it takes 120 days for our red blood cells to die.

I ask them;

How long does it take for them to live?

-- Nabeela Altaf

Lightning by the fir tree

Lightning strikes
a cacophony of events
blinding the desert for two seconds.
The fir tree stands positive
in the glow of unadulterated passion.
I capture the moment
thumbs nimble heart racing
I capture the fir tree
by the lightning
so blue and so yellow and so dark
standing resonantly in place
occupying meagre land
yet owning it with pride
straight backed and warm handed
I lean towards the fir tree
I could die.
Today, tomorrow, next year
My ashes could be spread all over the earth
Yet this fir tree will keep standing forever
A soldier in the battle field.

-- Nabeela Altaf

Young Man on a Bad Trip

The stench came first,
the young man remembers.
It was as if someone had
grabbed him by the ankles,
turned him upside down
and dunked him in a latrine.
Not good, he says.

Then all the hissing
and the forked tongues
only he could see,
flickering as if vipers were
slithering around him.
Very bad.

A nurse told him
he was out of it for days,
yelling and cursing
jumping out of bed
running around.
It took three orderlies
to hold him down.
All he remembers is
the stench and hissing.

When he came out of it
he thanked a priest
his parents had called
when doctors said they
could only sedate him.

The priest came back
the next day and asked
if he wanted to pray.
He told the priest
he didn't believe in God
never mind Satan.

The young man said
the problem was a guy
had sold him bad stuff.
Simple as that.
But if it happens again,
he hoped the priest
would come back,
light his candles
and work his magic.
He’d appreciate the help.

-- Donal Mahoney

Thousand-Legger at Midnight

I rise to pee at midnight
and it’s nice to see
no gunman in the bathroom
waiting to shoot me

but there’s a thousand-legger,
a centipede, if you will,
in the tub, disoriented
by the light

walking in circles
like an unhappy cat.  
He’s obviously upset
he can’t escape the tub

because of the high walls.
A mystery how he got there.
The walls won’t let him go
where life might dictate.

Now that autumn’s here,
maybe he’s come to visit
or maybe spend the winter.
He doesn’t know it but

he won’t survive my wife
well known to other insects,
now deceased, as Big Foot.
Every once in awhile

he tries to crawl the wall
but falls to the floor again,
the longest centipede
I’ve ever seen, a caboose

suddenly left behind,
deserted on a railroad track,  
going nowhere till my wife
applies her heel.

-- Donal Mahoney

Let’s Solve These Problems, America!

The poor are hungry in America.
Their numbers would fill stadiums
throughout this prosperous land.
And feral cats are running wild,
eating songbirds in our yards,
plucking koi from garden ponds.
What can Americans do?

We can trap those feral cats,
knock them on the noggin, skin
and marinade them overnight,
barbecue them in the morning,

visit homeless camps
and invite the poor to stadiums
across America to feast at halftime.
Let them eat and give them traps
to catch their own feral cats
and become self-sustaining.  

Next, to solve the problem of Ebola
we can make Liberia the 51st state,
send food stamps to our new citizens
and enroll them in Obamacare.
There’s room in Texas should
they decide to emigrate.

-- Donal Mahoney

Helping a Blind Lady

"Sometimes I want to sit down
and never get up," she confided,
tapping her cane as we crossed

the street, her Shepherd
towing us on its leash,
the light ready to go red.

“But then I have to pee,
and I'm thankful I can  
make it to the bathroom."

-- Donal Mahoney

Folks You Can’t Forget

There are people
I hope to see
lolling on a cloud

in Heaven some day
but hope never to see
on Earth again

when I go out to buy
a cherry Coke
at a drugstore counter

with silver stools
and red seats
and a girl

named Norma Jean
on one of them
legs crossed

but not a blonde yet.
These are people who
have been a problem

in my life
nice people
I hope to see

lolling on a cloud
in Heaven some day
but hope never to see

on Earth again.
Too many homicides
as it is.

-- Donal Mahoney

Midnight Conversation in a Bar

The dapper young man tells
the homeless man one stool over,
After I get my law degree,
I’ll get an MBA and go to Wall Street
and make a million before I’m thirty.

And after that?
the homeless man asks,
sipping the longneck
the young man has bought him.

I’ll start a business,
says the young man,
and make another million
by the time I’m forty,
buy a nice house in the country,
then franchise the business
so my kids can earn
as much money as I will.
You want your kids to do well.
Otherwise, why have them?
They cost money.

And after that?
the homeless man asks,
almost finished with his beer.

I’ll retire and buy condos
in Paris and London,
go on safari to Africa,
buy gold against inflation.
Once I retire I want to have fun.

And after that?
the homeless man asks,
lighting another cigarette
the young man has given him.

I’ll die when I get old
unless they invent something
that stops death, maybe a drug.
I’ll arrange my funeral
in advance, some big church,
don’t care which one
as long as they have a choir
to keep the wife happy.
And I’ll hire a good lawyer
to handle the estate.
Don’t want Uncle Sam
getting rich off me.

And after that?
the homeless man asks,
looking for another drink.

-- Donal Mahoney

UNDER THE RED MAPLE TREE

Just sitting here
under the shade of
the red maple tree
wishing all was plain and simple
like the way it used to be
although I guess it
never really was simple
now was it?

Just sitting here
I remember
the way you used to push me around
nights you’d come home drunk
oh, how I loved you
or did I?
maybe I was too scared
to think otherwise.

With your hands around my neck
so close to me
I could feel your breath
upon my cheeks
and the sweet smell of whisky
tickling my nostrils
could you see the excitement
in my eyes?

Your clutch hastened
as your hands moved downward
my heart beating faster
anticipating what would come next
as we made love
or was it war?
just sitting here under
the red maple tree
I remember…………

-- Cindy O'Nanski

Pastor Homer Toots His Horn

Pastor Homer is a jealous man
and Opal gives him fits
through 40 years of marriage
dancing, laughing
kissing other men
on New Year’s Eve  
when midnight strikes.

And every year when Opal
kisses other men
Pastor Homer in his party hat
toots his party horn
and hollers from his wheelchair,
“If Judas had a sister,
Opal, you'd be it.”

-- Donal Mahoney

Nightmare

I used to dream
in black and white
but now I dream in color.
Blood is red and real
puddling on the pavement
not some shadow
from the past.

The further back I go
the more the blood puddles
becoming ponds
becoming lakes
becoming oceans
suddenly a giant seiche
foaming across the sidewalk

throwing me back  
to where I have to go
to find the hand
that held the knife
decades ago
when the blood
began to flow.

I'll tell the bastard
after all these years
it’s easy to forgive
harder to forget.
The time has come
to pray before
all is said and done.

-- Donal Mahoney

An Atheist on Sunday

On Sunday his wife
and children walk
to Mass

and he goes
into his garden
to work

all day
primping roses
lilies, dahlias

weeding, pruning
making things right
on his altar of life.

At dusk he brings
his heaven home
in soiled hands.

A big bouquet  
for a wife
suddenly in tears.

-- Donal Mahoney

Direct Current

Courtesy is a stream
flowing downhill
gathering force,
effecting change,
softening reality
abrading the kindness
necessary for survival
of congested city dwellers.

-- Gary Beck

bob dylan in a skirt

i wonder was she the one
i gave money to at the
bedford/ north 7th street
stop?
she was singing a beatles song
and it sounded
soulful
or, maybe it was at grand
army plaza
as i was heading for the 3?
she was doing a motown ditty
i met her at union square
buying a jimi hendrix button
she believed he was
killed by a conspiracy
just like i believe
new orleans was killed by katrina
the bureaucrats let it die
so it could be disneyfied
into a playground for rich white people
like her, the radios
in my house were tuned
to different stations
my tastes beyond eclectic
she's got opinions
but, as my grandmother always said
" i'd rather have an opinion
than be an onion
maybe i'm weird
but i've stopped going to open mikes
sometimes, just writing poetry
is enough
next time i see her
i'll drop some money
in her guitar case
the kind that doesn't make a sound
i won't let her know
about my weakness for cute jewish girls
but that her song means something
to me
                                                         

-- erren geraud kelly

Splash

Two black cats
come over the fence
this morning

circle each other
all over the yard
hissing and leaping

into a ball
rolling like sagebrush
into the pool.

I fish them out
with a trout net.
Two wet mops

lie
in silence
drying on the lawn.

-- Donal Mahoney

Underage

Around here it’s still beer and, of course, the time of year
whole carloads crowded loud with music, speeding along
end the night in a number of ways: get pulled over, police
blue lights flashing, sirens blurring, the driver carted off and
parents called, something they’ll recall, joke about later; or
they crash somewhere, head-on, into a stray bridge abutment
an oak tree by the side of the road, oncoming traffic, or even
upside-down in a river, the ambulance and police, parents and
survivors create a haunting scene; or other nights they come out
okay in the end, wake late the next day, recall only parts of what
went on, becomes a joke of sorts, something to brag about, part
of their legend, their mythology; around here it’s still mostly beer
and the chances we take being young; I remember waking late
wondering where I left the car, remember police cars out front
and trying to explain what we did, trying to make it sound better
than it was, and I remember another time the police at the door
to say my brother ended his night, his life head-on into oncoming
traffic, at least he was alone that time, a scene I never saw but still
imagine, sirens, red and blue lights flashing, the truck he hit, and his
body lit up, crushed; my brother on the road, forever underage.  

-- J. K. Durick

Presents

We pile them up, pile them on, but disguise them
As best we can, dress them up in colorful paper,
Ribbons and bows, carefully selected or not

We arrive at the door with one under our arms
Wait for just the right moment to present them,
The presents our presence demands, our offering

To the moment, our present settling the future;
Presents unwrapped become desperate pen sets
And/or ties, become earrings or bottles of wine

Of perfume, become things we thought would
Fit, would appreciate the moment our presence
Brings with it, a gift, an explanation of sorts of

How things are, we wrap so many things like this,
Some good paper, ribbon and bows, disguise
Them that way and hope they work some magic.

-- J. K. Durick 

They Don’t Know I’m Listening

So here I am, all decked out
in a new suit from Brooks Brothers,
haberdasher to corporate stars.

My wife just got here, rattled.
The kids have been here for hours,
flying in for the occasion.

My wife will make certain  
I look as spiffy as possible.
The oldest boy just told her

a neighbor has agreed
to cut the grass, rake the leaves
and shovel the snow, chores

I performed for decades in return
for a mug of coffee and wedge of pie.
Now my wife is asking the undertaker  

to puff out my tie, something she did
before I’d go to the office, armed
with a thermos and brown paper bag.

-- Donal Mahoney