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 (claude­issac.de@gmail.com)
I will be waiting for your mail

Remain bless.
Claude Issac

(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

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

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

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

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

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