john-mahoney
The temple bell stops -- but the sound keeps coming out of the flowers. - Bashō (translated by Robert Bly) / / / Writer John Mahoney lives in the woods above Lake Minnetonka in Minnesota. / / He practiced law as a public defender for fifteen years and continues his legal research and writing, most recently an article in the William Mitchell Law Review, Vol. 31. No. 2, 2011. / / In the US his poems will be found published by The Monarch Review; Northwind Magazine Quarterly Review; The FutureCyclePress Poetry Anthology; The Garbanzo Literary Journal; Petrichor Review; and Rose & Thorn Journal. In the UK his poetry is published by the IMPress. / / John may be found on the internet through MNArts at http://www.mnartists.org/John_Mahoney
Good Morning John,
How are you and your Family, I know you will be shock to come across my email. I hope my proposal to you will be given a proper attention despite the fact we have not known each other. But I summon the courage to introduce myself to you through this medium. I am Mr. Claude from the Bgfl bank Côte d'Ivoire
we need to claim the sum of 9.8 Million British Pounds by our late investor who died since 2005 leaving no next of kin/beneficiary to his estate. this project is risk and hitch-free as Most of these investors are brokerage accounts holders, The reason I contacted you is to nominate you as the heir to the trust, you claim the money legally and legitimately as a collateral heir then we share it equally. please contact my Gmail address for more explanation details guidelines/ information (claude[email protected])
I will be waiting for your mail
Remain bless.
Claude Issac
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 2:31 AM UTC
(and i found you, already on my mind)
by John Mahoney
the morning sun rushed lazily
down the long, cold winter morning to me
the cold outside, was terribly unkind
the wind howling in the sky so grave
like the day, you wordlessly went away
(and i found you, already on my mind)
then you walked in so gracefully
you took my breath away to see,
as our love, become entirely entwined
my life once again in utter disarray
like the day, you finally decided to stay
(and i found you, already on my mind)
June 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
don't call out her name
she will not
there is a hole in the bottle
a blanket on the floor
the hallway isn't empty
shoes scatter when they fall
don't turn at the corner
or start towards the door
the light from the window
never reaches very far
shadows cast the grey
the grey narrows to a point
meaningless gradual losses
have taken her astray
don't turn away
you can't reach her anymore
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:06 AM UTC
it is winter,
still
although warm days
deceive us
dead branches
brown lawns
desolation
now, finally, in a winter's
black night
giant, sodden,
perfect
snowflakes
drift
the sky clouded
full of snow
to make the night sky
day
we stand
each wielding a shovel
working
sharing the joy
in this
perfect
winter
moment
in which
the universe once again
seems to work
yet,
it is the bond
of the shared moment
which generates an
intensity of
closeness
a perfect understanding
between souls
strung out along
the driveway
shoveling snow
in a cloud of grey
steam
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 2:59 AM UTC
there is no middle of the night
only a beginning,
endlessly recurring,
waked
by the body's vigilance
alert, for that hint of pain
like a woodland deer downwind
from his hunter, wary, agitated
woke last night at two am
walked out into the woods
down the drive to the intersection
all aglow from the blue moon
i can feel you in the muggy air tonight
in the blue of the corona
and in the weight of the moon
when the new day dawns
we will seek visions
fully splendid with glory
but harder to hold, and
we will recognize each other
perhaps for the first time
for what we really are
but for now in the moonlit
street, standing here alone
all losses reassessed
to become as nothing
inconsequential
in the weight of the moon
in the soft blue
night
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 9:38 AM UTC
i.
morning sand chills my feet
damp grains cling between my toes
a predawn morning cold
mid-August summer day
ii.
down the beach
i watch hawks circling
hunting the tree line, they
work the shore grasses
a narrow strip of tall plants
between beach and wood
circling closer and closer
coming to me
iii.
they soar a steady breeze off the lake
hunting prey which i hear
scurrying frantically among the tall grasses
the hawks circle now directly above
white bodies with dark wing feathers
iv.
in the beach house
hang two paintings by a local artist
children playing on this very beach
chasing one another and crouching in the tide-pool
shown in fine detail
especially for water color
yet, i notice, the children
have no faces, merely brown smudges
featureless
v.
that night, sitting
around a beach bonfire
sparks jump from burning logs
about me forms glow red
i see these faces too appear as
smudges,
featureless
like an infant
at it's birth
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 8:07 AM UTC
i laughed and answered, no,
i have not written anything new
it is summer, after all, no moods
no times for reflection, sweet remembrances,
bitter musings banished
summer needs no poet, for
summer should be for the living of it
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 7:13 AM UTC
So we are where we were at the beginning
you and i, amid the waste of so many years
and lives spent living amongst one another
I put away your things in the places I have
learned that you expect to find them and also
I know the places where you like to put away my things
I know that we must not try to eat breakfast together
you must have the newspaper fresh, even if I put it back
so that I have learned to get my news from public radio
You have learned to like my cooking, even when I cannot
seem to remember that you do not like pears, except in salad
and I have started to use ketchup on my turkey at Thanksgiving
Now that we have achieved this balance, we find ourselves alone
again, with no children to referee our lives and focus our attention
so we are where we were at the beginning, and I wonder, how long
Can we learn to fall in love with the people we have become, you and I?
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 9:58 AM UTC
impulse boys
shooting themselves out of skateboards
into the hearts of lovely girls
sitting on the picnic tables
pretending not to be seen
lonely girls
what more is there to say
about these lonely girls, willing
their way through to picnic tables
pretending not to look
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 9:55 AM UTC
i.
standing almost five feet tall
she must have been eighty five
but there she was, great-grandmother
standing on the trunk of an
ancient pine tree that had blown
across the driveway at Sand Creek
ii.
we used a two-man saw
must have been six feet long
with a handle at each end
the handles made of wood
one hand above and the other
below the blade, which cut on
both the push and the pull
iii.
in the garage, below the
house, the wall held a
wicked looking scythe,
just like the one which
death carries, with a long,
sharp blade, which we
used to mow the fields
around the cabin, to keep
the woods away, as a
fire break
iv.
my cousin showed up,
riding on a horse, with
a dangerous looking local boy
who had scar across his cheek
white against his tan face
when her horse tried to
lie down and rest, the local
boy jumped off his mount
and started kicking, viciously,
her horse in the ribs
v.
once, we walked right in
front of two long snakes,
making there way between
the porch and the car, i jumped
and ran back up to the porch,
and would not leave that day
grandmother said those
snakes had no business
being this far north
i agreed
Jun 15, 2012
Jun 15, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC