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 Jan 2012 John Mahoney
Keith Ren
lay me out as your clothes,

ever closer to you than me were the threads.


lay me out as your clothes,

a soul guarded with those colors to fade.



write a short, folded sorry
hidden in this pocket,

before you
lay me out
as your clothes.
what memory paints is never truly told
yet what we find are more than ghosts of care
since every sunset turned the green trees gold

we do our best to praise and not to scold
to bring about a time that is more fair
what memory paints is never truly told

there was less good in crazy days of old
when crudity and harshness were laid bare
since every sunset turned the green trees gold

we thought less then of hearts cruel and cold
ruling a world in fetters of despair
what memory paints is never truly told

but now the tale is starting to unfold
the outline's wholly visible out there
since every sunset turned the  green trees gold

there's no more talk of how much has been sold
nor or the price to put upon the air
what memory paints is never truly told
since every sunset turned the green trees gold
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 Jan 2012 John Mahoney
Madeline
what poetry is:
a cacophony of tangled-up images
and slashed-to-the-bone words.
a waterfall of bitterness and
passion and
(words, just words).
a jumble of unorthodox punctuation,
and spacing,
and spelling,
a painting with verses of rainbow-colored years.
foggy-eyed venting,
bitter-mouthed shouting,
soft-hearted pleas
to the people
(hearts and love).
not-quite sentences,
half-finished ideas,
cliches and brutal originalities,
shocking in their genuine
and raw
and profoundly inspired power
(things we didn't know we were capable of).
cravings and achings and wantings and knowings and
(words, just words).
so won't you read between the lines?
it's all so much simpler



than it seems.
I wonder if I
can build a wall
so tall it becomes
a well and people
who pass will throw their
pennies with scraped chunks
of wishes onto my head
like copper rain and no one
will find me because they only search
the ground level never
below, deep inside this tower,
my castle, and if one day
they give up I can kick out
some stones and they will all
give way to the spaces and
bury me forever in all the fears
I hide from, heavy heavy heavy
under my tall stone well.
 Jan 2012 John Mahoney
OnlyEggy
Stared at a clock today
   it was broken
it ticked slower and slower
until it's time seemed to be frozen
     Even in it's current state
It would be right twice a day

                                                *  I was reminded of lie I was once told
                                               it had left me broken, bitter
                                                          ­    battered and cold
                                                        But even this lie would've been made true
                                                     if it was left to sit unfixed
                                                                ­   and I let those emotions brew

I stared at the clock, unimpressed
the clock had stopped,
         twelve o'clock it read
but I knew that it was taunting, teasing
   and I believed what it said

                                                        *Th­ere, I stood, alone and naked
                                                           ­    debating with myself if I stood
                                                         broken      and      forsaken    
                               ­                                  or if this was the start of the new
                                                           the beginning of the path less taken
                                                   for whichever I stood to believe, this I knew
                                                            ­where I stood then, that was the catalyst
                                                       and where I will be next can't be presumed
                                                        ­     but for this moment, this second in time
                                                        is the only time it will be my center, my middle

                                                         ­                   my noon

And with a taunting tick, this clock
began to move again
tock, tick; tick, tock
     and without a show of face
I stared in surprise
the clock began to run backward
         began to mock
Turning back time
  seconds, hours
     whispering, shimmering
tempting with the ability to rewind
                                                   time
                                                            ­              
                                                                ­           *   ...and her face began to focus in my thoughts
                                                        ­                                      the ringing in my ears became clear
                                                           ­                        became screaming
                                                       ­                                                    and the pain I had wrought faded
                                                           ­                  and the scars done to me dissipated
                                                                ­                   just for a second, I was watching myself
                                                          ­                                          holding her, touching her, * despising her
                                                           ­                         
                                                                ­                                                           ...and I awake alone
                                                           ­                                     sweating                    ­
                                                                ­                                                                 ­        yearning                
                                                                ­                                            scars burning                   
                                      ­                                                                 ­                                                 stomach turning
           
*And   down   the   hall   the   clock   can   be   heard   with   it's   ominous,   taunting   tick-tock   ticking   into *    
                                                      ­                             *oblivion
(AIP)
and the moon came down from the sky
long enough to listen to your story.

did you remember to give voice to your dreams?
were you brave enough to speak them aloud?
 Jan 2012 John Mahoney
Kyla
Change
 Jan 2012 John Mahoney
Kyla
Have you ever known me to hold my silence?




I call into the light night.
               I beg for the sky to pull down its shades.

   Pain like this shouldn't be painted on the light purple sky.

Anger like this shouldn't fall so gracefully, so pure, so...
                                                                                          


                                      clean.






I try again. This time
                    Closing my eyes.
                              

                                I paint my sky dark,
                        forgetting the holes to heaven.
I let my anger fall heavy mixing with all the mistakes
                               I've brushed off like dust.





But when I open my eyes
nothing
has changed.




And as the soft wind
wanders around me without a care.

I swear I hear it tell me

                                                                                "some things never will."
you taste like candy
and i am starving and swallowing your tricks
i dreamt of a greasy hotel and
a box to sleep in.
i am not a cannibal,
i am not a sky diver
& and i am not a pilgrim,
but i hunger for your body
and i'm falling for your holy curves.
i will hang from your window and dance in the sunlight
even though i am not a pink velvet curtain.
i am a garbage-collector poet,
fresh from the allabaster market
who has found the words once lost
in a dark fox hole
near the bend of a lazily flowing river.
all i need is a dime and a glass vase,
a short story and a wet cigarette.
i've come back to town--i climbed right out of that stop sign
standing on a shotgun bullet-holed volkswagon
with a 7 day hangover
holding burning grace in my hands and you say
"lead me to the garbage"
carrying with you a bag of soggy french fries
and i stop to show you a dying tulip,
and we watch as it floats into a cloud.
we'll hide all our money in a glowing furnace
and as i try to write this with a water logged pen
you show me pictures of shirley temple with her head in a noose.
my name is not moses, and i do not want to be remembered.
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