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John Mahoney May 2018
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
John Mahoney Jun 2015
(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
Dec 2012 · 4.1k
a blanket on the floor
John Mahoney Dec 2012
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 2012 · 1.7k
shoveling snow
John Mahoney Dec 2012
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
Sep 2012 · 1.3k
the weight of the moon
John Mahoney Sep 2012
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
With apologies to John Darnielle for stealing some of his beautiful language. I just could not get his song Against Pollution out of my head!
John Mahoney Sep 2012
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
John Mahoney Aug 2012
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
John Mahoney Jun 2012
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 2012 · 1.8k
impulse boys
John Mahoney Jun 2012
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 2012 · 1.1k
summer at Sand Creek, 1968
John Mahoney Jun 2012
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
John Mahoney Jun 2012
i.
the lake has opened
several places where the ice
has come unfrozen
two idiots drove their
pickup into a hole
last night

ii.
the emergency vehicles
woke me with sirens
racing to drag these
drunks off the
ice before they froze

iii.
the beach sand has been
    uncovered
by the blowing wind
which has driven the snow
into a drift over the dock which we
have stored by the
     treeline

iv.
walking the sandy shore
i stooped to pick up
a piece of green, bottle
     glass

v.
the glass is weighty in my hand, and rounded
     smooth
its edges shaped and polished
by the working of sand, water and time
         like an olive,
         like a cherry,
         like a memory,
              of you
Grateful acknowledgement to the Rose & Thorn Journal  for first publishing this poem in their Spring 2012 issue.
John Mahoney Jun 2012
i.
your drunken goodbyes
hang so sweet in the air
filling the space with a
desperate needy embrace

ii.
i stand before you with
no defenses and nothing
i could possibly say except
what do i know about love

iii.
i walk you out into the
East Village night to
see about hailing a cab
sun peeking over the bridge

iv.
everything seems to be
coming apart i wonder
when i surrendered to you
what do i know about pain

v.
i wave goodbye to
the back of your head
and turn back to look
at the pink, foamy sunrise
Acknowledgement: This poem was first published by IMPpress, 2012, Issue No. 3, p. 29, available at http://www.imppress.co.uk/index.html
May 2012 · 1.4k
a walk on the ocean beach
John Mahoney May 2012
and, as i stood there
on an unpeopled shore,
as the waves rolled in, one
following the other, i knew
with certainty, as in a
remembered dream,
that there was no returning
neither a going back nor
a turning away...

i felt the salt spray, cold on
my face,
and now i heard the sea birds
and looked,
to see them wheeling
above the water, now diving
and fighting one another
for the catch

and the beach, a grit of
seashell white, seemed as
the ocean itself, endless,
the evidence of great age
all about me in the sand
quartz ground from the
action of the water upon the
mountains
eroding even these
wearing down everything
in time
am i the sand, always washing away, or
the waves, eternally crashing against
the shore

what was it i was saying?
oh yes, i remember...

then, i walked back to the car
May 2012 · 3.5k
mowing the bird bone garden
John Mahoney May 2012
all day long, their banging disturbed me at my work
startling me from my reverie, lost deep in the world
of I Wish I Had A Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman

the birds, returned early from wherever it is they hide
during the long winter, have come to fling themselves
against the over-sized picture window in my living room,

songbird pitch themselves into my poet's dull daytime
so that i am moved to rise from my desk, to look out,
to seek a bird flying away, or peer down to search for the

tiny body maybe roosting among the stalks of the overgrown
hydrangea, which captured  autumn’s maple leaves, worn
like a Chicago matron's mink to keep the winter chill at bay

and, as the spring surrenders to the warmer days, i mow the
brightly greened grass, innocently cutting row after row,
to turn finally to the narrow strip nearest the picture window,

a mixture of grass, dried leaves and tiny twigs, all mulched
by the power mower, where i discover these dessicated bodies  
exhumed from shallow graves at the base of the newly leafed

hydrangea, their stiff, dry feathers bristly, colored a washed
out grey, tiny feet tightly balled, with all the soft parts missing
and the beaks a startling white, as though bleached, bright against

the dullness of the little corpses which seem to have sunk into
the mosses of the yard, so that they lay preserved below the blade
for the first late-spring chore -- mowing the bird bone garden

i sleep with the bedroom window ajar despite the overnight chill
and dream of the memory of birds, their shapes, their white beaks
and, still, the bird songs wake me in the cool green spring morning
May 2012 · 1.3k
forms of water
John Mahoney May 2012
1
we ran outside
          gathering the hailstones

before they could return
        
to rain

2
spring thunder storms
        refreshed the

runoff ponds
        
the spring peepers
        chorus chirps


3
soon, to be Indra, Lord of Heaven,
        the God of War as well as Storms and Rainfall,
starter of war

a war which shall engulf
     the planet and

        perish all

4
in solid,
ice
       which shall melt

and drown the littoral lands
lands peopled in the
        billions
and so shall follow
disease plague typhus dysentery
death
         in its many shapes and sizes

5
in drops
       flows from your eye


6
according to religion
        holy water
May 2012 · 1.0k
i woke up again
John Mahoney May 2012
1
when i woke up again
on the bathroom floor
the tiles were so hard and cool
you stood over me looking
into the mirror with the long
flowing hair hanging down,
which surprised me, as your
hair had not been this long since
1984, why did you let the house spin so,
just, please let me have
a glass of water

2
the owls call a warning
the moon creeps over
the lawn and crosses the
threshold of the window,
the moon has waited so
patiently behind the
line of maple trees along
the ridge,
to wake me now, with the
owl calling, the moon,
the moon

3
the next time i wake
sitting on the edge of
my daughters bed as
she whimpers and jerks
in her sleep, i try to slip
away, and she grasps out,
again, for my hand, soft
her hand is so soft, and
small, in my hand

4
your long hair, the owls
hooting for the moon,
my daughter's soft hand,
whimpering, softly too,
in the night, and the
bathroom tiles, so pink
and so cold, i wonder
did i choose this
wallpaper, or did you?
John Mahoney May 2012
Hey Fragments! a Haiku Contest!!

Spring is everywhere.

We want everyone to contribute to the first, "Quarterly Season Greetings Haiku Contest!"

We will select a panel of judges, who will send me their three favorite haiku submissions. The haiku with the most selections will be declared the "winner" and enjoy a warm feeling of satisfaction.

Please, have those haiku in by the end of May

No limit on the number of submissions. Your haiku should follow the traditional form, but as always, the poem is more important than strict observance of form.

Write Every Day!

John and LP
John Mahoney May 2012
i.
we crossed the river
avoiding the worst of
the strainers and yet
you pinned us against
a boulder almost midstream

ii.
i leaned against the wave
hoping to avoid getting
     pushed under
slowly we spun against the side
and emerged to shoot across a
     bow wave

iii.
i turned to cheer you for
clearing this first hazard
only to see the oars drift past
and you were gone

iv.
we pulled into a *******
at the next eddy
to laugh and scout
the rapids below

v.
i walked back, wading on the
river's edge, a view downstream
showed me eternity, the river flowing
to the sea, and yet,
i could see my feet on the stones
     of the riverbed
Apr 2012 · 1.1k
the unexpected gifts
John Mahoney Apr 2012
1
         i watch the ice
melt from the roof,

in slow drips, the one
     chasing the other down,

slipping to the pool of
water, edging out onto

  the driveway, where, tonight,
i expect it will refreeze

2
        and,
i wonder,

if i have given you something
and you have given me something

         a gift neither expected
nor intended

       will the sun shine any warmer?
Apr 2012 · 775
seeking out the night
John Mahoney Apr 2012
1

              is it enough, ever, merely to wait

upon the coming of the night, or
     can i seek it out in places in which
it might be
              lurking

2

         look for the stars

but not the moon, for the moon
shall hide her face until the stars have swept
    
                 the sky clear

3

         these thoughts crowd my mind as i sit

the desert cold and the air clean as a
   coyote sings for his brothers, or his sisters, or
just calling,
              calling for the moon, again

4

          in this ancient place, above the river

which flows, even at night, swift and brown
     carrying its life mournfully to the ocean
down and down and down through this ancient
         canyon

5

     again the coyote calls, again

where is the moon,
     the great, vast mesa of desert sand
stretches before us, and, on the horizon
a sandstone tower rises,
     distant, austere;

6
        
         and in the night, as far as the
eye could see, fading and falling, in low pleats,
     the grey sand dunes,

         with the wild prickly desert plants on them,
which always seemed to be
         running away, to some moon country,
uninhabited of men
Final stanza adapted from Virginia Woolf's "To The Lighthouse"
John Mahoney Apr 2012
i.
the blood scared me
would mother be angry
maybe stitches
the hot anger of betrayal
mixed like a bonnet pepper
to spice the fear
and the confusion

ii.
playing with friends
in the neighborhood woods
the oldest of three brothers
threw a wooden potato
masher and struck me
in the back of the head

iii.
the root cellar seemed
a good place to hide
i ran out of the wood
across the open field
across the street
in through the
open garage door
the kitchen entrance
to the mud room
and down the back
stairs to the laundry,
might she be there,
and into the root cellar
filled with mold, dust,
and musty mason jars

iv.
hiding there, i forget
how long now, but the
had the blood stopped
running warm and sticky
down the back of my neck
i felt a swollen lump
and an aching head

v.
i do not remember
now how long i hid
there in the root cellar
but the feeling of betrayal
the sense of exclusion
the intense longing
to be a part of that
boyhood group
all seemed lost

vi.
some things are
not forgivable
deliberate cruelty
is not forgivable
i hope that cruelty
is the only real thing
i lost, crying, in that
cellar, so long ago
deliberate cruelty
the one thing of which
i have never been guilty
John Mahoney Apr 2012
six and a half months ahead of schedule
the sky above me is turning black

nobody seems to notice it yet
the weatherman would have said

i leave on all of the televisions
and the radios in every room

i stay inside all day listening
trying to keep ahead of the plan

trying not to be taken by surprise
i wonder why nobody has noticed it yet

(if only i could see their eyes)
it seems to be happening every night
John Mahoney Apr 2012
the Diabelli Variations play on the stereo
     you in your world me in my own
with off-beat accents and a grand and solemn glow
     no one has come to see us, alone,
the theme in time begins a timeless, elegant echo
     although we might not know
maybe a little pompous as the mock-heroics grow
    our reflections come and gone
five, six, seven play in their various allegro
     we may never need be shown
matching our own Tempo di Menuetto moderato
     what has come to us unknown
Apr 2012 · 698
on shifting sands
John Mahoney Apr 2012
lost

on shifting sands
            as the sun sets and cool damp
         rises

   no moon yet a pulsing, rolling wave
               echoes and is lost

awash in sound
                 and salt
John Mahoney Mar 2012
the lake is almost thawed, already
the grey ice turns to slush in the sunlight

water pools along the surface lying
in low spots and along the shore

there should be snow and storms and
days on end of slate skies, and waiting

standing at the picture window in the
living room, to look out on the garden

thinking about spring, about the chores
spring will bring, when the rains stop

and the spongy ground has thawed
and dried enough to share my weight

soon we shall return to the lake shore
John Mahoney Mar 2012
the farmers, hard, winter toughened
Minnesota plains, quiet men
have been spreading manure

the wet fields sink the
green or yellow tractor
wheels into the muck

that the melted snow
has given to us once again,
stuck almost above the rims

(maybe that is why they paint
them such a bright yellow)
but these men press on

as though maybe denial, hard
work and quiet lives could let
them, too, walk on water

against this last assault
of winter, these men
work to renew the life
of the fields with compost

every spring, like tulips
pressing up through the
frozen slush, reaching for

the promise of warmer days,
too early, once more, asking,
has this gift been received

with thankfulness?
Mar 2012 · 1.0k
three junes
John Mahoney Mar 2012
i.
you fought like a tiger -
to stop me from rubbing
sun screen on your delicate
skin, you hated the greasy
feel, and so ran into the ocean
then rolled in the sand and
kicked sand in my face,
               at four
Great Hollow Beach, Truro
     June, 1994

ii.
you never could resist -
if we turned our back
even for a minute you
were off to find the largest
boulder, you would climb to
the top and raise your arms
in victory, and always, always
land in the water, wet and cold,
              at eight
City Beach, South Lake Tahoe
     June, 1998

iii.
oh, how Mt. Baldy called to you -
the giant of a sand dune,
moving inland as a glacier,
a sweep of sand blowing
from the peak ridge, like
the banner of heaven, but
i carried you all the way
back to the house after
you cut your foot on a shard
of glass, carelessly abandoned,
              at eleven
Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore
     June, 2001
Mar 2012 · 697
school bus
John Mahoney Mar 2012
i know without turning
     to look
that the school bus waits
         on the corner
for the neighborhood children
        
i hear the chimes
announce the open
     door

loosing forth life
     back into the neighborhood
John Mahoney Mar 2012
1

         do you remember the first death?

unlooked for
     when we are
unprepared, have no reason to wonder
what death will mean to anyone
         and the gripping power of grief

(or, the guilt, if you have no particular
              feelings of grief, at all)

2

         and the spring rain

as it washes the brownness of winter
     from the yard and into
the street, the gutter running with
          snow melt
the boys plugging the storm sewer
to make a pond in the dead end circle

          where they still play
John Mahoney Mar 2012
i.
we spent the autumn day wandering
above the great river the woodland
of the bluffs as dusk fell, shots echoed down the
river canyon, we had completely forgotten
the deer firearms season had opened
down the old logging trail,
a glorious stag eyes wide with confusion
lurched from the wood

ii.
despite our noise, he stumbled ahead
down the  road, and toward the hunters,
we could not turn him into the safety of the park

iii.
as the black night descended we
were surprised by a glow racing towards us
a man on  a bicycle, brightly lit, not with just a
headlamp, but a whole string of lights,
wrapped around the tubes of his
bike frame, like a Christmas tree,
he nodded at us and rode past

iv.
as we sat around the fire back at camp,
silent, pondering the odd events
we had witnessed that day,
and the stag we had maybe sent off
to be killed by some hunter,
i wondered at the strangeness
of it all, this day, and all the days
like it, and all the days to come,
would they have been strange
without my being there to see them,
or, was the strangeness my seeing
              them,
and my being, at all
              stag, still, i am so sorry
John Mahoney Mar 2012
1

          i must have missed something

all the neighbors have left
     their yard light on overnight
filling our woods with the
     insidious dull blue glow of
              mercury vapor lights

2

i stand in the yard among
          the sleepers but not of them

apart, distinct, set aside by
   my own inability to sleep
and now they have taken
         from me this too the night's sky
         
     has no stars

3

     the sun has sent us messages

across the reach, a reminder,
         a storm, a simple burst of
        
radiation, which spills across
the magnetic skin of our
   home, to light the sky with

ethereal glow, but hidden
         from me by these neighbors

with their mercury vapor

4
               fear of night
John Mahoney Mar 2012
a sliver of
         moonlight
causes the buddah
to cast his long shadow
     across the garden


amid blown down
          limbs
of ancient maples
bare against the
     winter chill


the obituary
appeared in the Saturday
and Sunday papers
          with a picture
and a name
     i knew
Mar 2012 · 1.2k
the bright afternoon sun
John Mahoney Mar 2012
i leave all the pain
         out on the counters
like ***** pots and pans

ready to be scrubbed
        clean in the sink and
put away

stacked to size
         hidden in the pantry
the bright afternoon sun

melts the icicle
         that has formed
against the house

where the coil turns
         under the eave
or, maybe i will soak them

overnight
Mar 2012 · 1.0k
poem, 2
John Mahoney Mar 2012
is it
         that the winter nights are so long
that has me sitting
here, before the window
looking out at the stars

or, watching the deer
          sneak up on the
     dried stalks of Desdemona
that keeps me
awake
so late at night

or, maybe,
it is you, there, thinking of me,
here
that keeps me awake
     so very late
into the night
John Mahoney Mar 2012
i.
we bundled in the car
wet wool and *** roast
the car that my father
brought home as a surprise
a big 1970 Buick Electra 225, four door sedan
     in pale yellow

ii.
winter, the sky an eternal black
the stars all about us
the woods, my parents silent
as if they, too, know
not to break the spell,

iii.
only the whine of the tires
all the way home from
my grandparents, down the
long rolling road, cozy
my sisters and i on the
back seat bench, the heater
blasting the car to an
     overwamth

iv.
feeling safe and loved and
knowing we could ride
     like this
forever, chasing the full
moon all the way to its
     home
but we all knew that spring
    was coming
John Mahoney Mar 2012
feats of angels
try hard not to stare
lonely wild men
only partially aware
struggle down the alleys
of our new neighborhood

found your hiding place
when i came home today
try not to think too much
about what has become
of these darkest dreams
which we have undone

someone is going
to call the cops
maybe this time
they will show


the evening news comes on
we hardly seem aware
you nurse bitterness
like a lost child
searching everywhere

always misunderstood
try not to think too much
about what we have done
of these dark dreamers
and what we have become

try not to think too much
about what has become
of these empty lives
and these dreams unwon

*the city burns tonight
a horizon red glow
nobody cares
just another blow
Mar 2012 · 705
reaching shore, again
John Mahoney Mar 2012
different rivers
different seas
reaching into unknown lands
from the green hill
unbidden
sounds, evoke
some other place
some other reason
another time
different season
John Mahoney Feb 2012
i had a poetry reading
last night, well not
just me, but i read
some of my poems

it did not go well
this fellow in front
would not stop
talking into his mobile

as though everyone
wanted to know
what time his girlfriend
was going to arrive

and why she was
such a ***** in the
first place just because
he would not pick her up

when she knows that
she lives on the
completely opposite
side of town and

would make him late
late? to a poetry
reading, i thought,
why don't you hang

up the phone then
and what kind of
a woman puts up
with this **** anyway

so, i paused, and
asked him to stop
talking on the phone
people clapped, i said

that i know i am not
exactly "on" tonight
but did not think he
could do any better

i was wrong this
**** was brilliant
he stood and began
reciting with clever

lines and impossible
rhymes he did not
even stop to breathe,
well, my fault i guess

his girlfriend showed
up and of course she
turned heads as she
walked past to sit with

him, and i heard her
apologize for being late
then they left so i
just stepped off the

stage and sat down
then i left just as
soon as i thought
no one would notice
John Mahoney Feb 2012
i.
i awake, startled,
as though falling out of bed,
the clock read one a.m.
but something must have
awakened me

ii.
as i walk down the stairs
my eye catches movement
just outside the window
at the corner of the house
down the steps, into the living
room, as i see someone step
past the window again

iii.
looking out the picture window
the garden stands like a negative
sharp contrast in full moonlight,
shining on a family of white-tail deer

iv.
one stands at the corner
of the house beneath
the window there just
feet away from me
as I close with the window
my deer freezes in alarm
staring back at me

v.
he must not see through
the window in the dark
for my deer goes back to
eating the dried remains
of the chelone lyonii
i have left standing, through
the new-fallen snow
John Mahoney Feb 2012
i spoke your name with a lover's breath
     while morning stars still filled the sky
now, i wish that i could fly

i knew that i had dreamed of you,
     sweet imaginings of loves reply
now, i wish that i could fly

content that i would find your love in
     all my day's routine, on this i will rely
now, i wish that i could fly

i'm so sorry, i'm so sorry i never should have
     let you go, so far away from me, goodbye
how, i wish that i could fly
John Mahoney Feb 2012
i have wandered these forests,
     ancient redwoods enshrouding the foothills
          rolling back from the great Pacific to the Sierras

this ancient range of the coast redwood
     tallest trees on Earth. i walk a path well trodden
         above Mill Creek water flowing to the estuary

turning around to head back to the trail-head marker
     ferns and rocks protrude from the walls
          sediment of time, written in the canyon walls
          
i ramble into a growth of California rhododendron
     in full bloom, their flowers bursts of red and yellow
          against the dark green leaves

here, i pause, enchanted by the consuming
     majesty of this ancient place abounding in life
          entirely indifferent to my passing, enduring

and, once again, i am able to return to nothingness,
     suffering comes from the desire to exist, and, i remember
          that there is a path that leads to the end of suffering
Feb 2012 · 869
the moon seeks her
John Mahoney Feb 2012
my love
seems a creature of the night
the moon seeks her
     as she sleeps
to wake and write her verse
     for me

     my love
would be a child of the lake
a sweet water
     pirate
having stolen my heart
to bury as her
     treasure
John Mahoney Feb 2012
i.
there is a cold, against which
i have no defenses
an early-morning, black
night, kind of cold when
the air is so still, as if the
wind itself was too cold
to blow, ice crystals
float suspended in the air
brightly reflecting my car's
headlight beams, twin
seekers of the way ahead

ii.
you slipped out of bed
trying not to wake me
i lay wondering if you
acted from courtesy or
embarrassment

iii.
i sit in the coffee bar
in town watching you
work, maybe the way
you see without looking
attracted me to you in
the first place, maybe
you just make a good
cup of coffee, but, could
be that i have always
had a thing for
     hippie chicks

iv.
as i leave, you walk to the
kitchen without saying
goodbye, guess i will
have to find a new place
     to write

v.
i walk back out into
the still cold morning
perhaps the cold is not
the predator from whom
i require a defense
     after all
Feb 2012 · 866
star filled sky
John Mahoney Feb 2012
have you
     somehow
filled the night
with new
     stars
and beckoned me
to stand under
winter's sky
and watch them
dance to your
secret tune?
Feb 2012 · 682
i send my dreams to you
John Mahoney Feb 2012
i send my dreams
     to you
during the night

i wake you at odd hours
i trace my love poems
on your naked belly

with my fingertips
my gentle touch
arouses you in your

     sleep
wakes you across
time and distance

fills you with both
promise and desire
made whole and

     separate
John Mahoney Feb 2012
i woke last night
listened for some sound
that might have disturbed
     my sleep
the moon hangs low
over the treeline, just
     past full,
moonlight floods,
reflected by winter's
snows, to light the
house with a silver,
        incandescence

i step down the
stairs and stand at
the picture window
overlooking the
     gardens
wrapped against mid-winter,
nighttime chills i see that,
    overnight
the pane has been lined with
     frost
and i know

reaching to the pane,
the frost is most excellently
cold, and i come alive,
burning with
     desire
frost melting beneath my
         fingertips

for i know, now, whose
distant thoughts have
     sought mine
to wake me
at this new and
     wondrous
hour of the morning

looking out the
     window
the garden rests,
deep in snow, with
bits of straw poking through
and burlap wrapped
         shrubs

imagination brings forth
a summer's growth of
Victorian roses
for my distant love
as she thinks
         of me

here, burgundy, to say
she is beautiful to me;
there, the yellow of
joy and friendship;
next to a pink,
a wild rose bush,
the color of gratitude
     and grace;
and, of course, the
     red,
for passion, standing with the
white rose, the mix which
conveys
             unity
Feb 2012 · 596
me and you, this
John Mahoney Feb 2012
me and you, this*
a phrase simple in it's truth
    and plain in meaning          
like a soul's kiss

yet simple sometimes
     best conveys, those words
which give hearts another youth

     
    almost bliss
Feb 2012 · 715
promises kept
John Mahoney Feb 2012
promises kept
               alone
night approaches
     as though
treading on soft pine needles
an invisible nature
          without order
     or time
propelling before itself all things
          intimate and benign
meaningless, a hide and seek game played
               alone
Feb 2012 · 924
loose screws
John Mahoney Feb 2012
you told me
     that you
had a ***** loose
     it took me a long
time to realize that
you keep most of them
     in jars,
lined up in the
garage, above the tool bench
sorted by size,
rather than
     function
John Mahoney Feb 2012
never wanted it to happen this way,
did not really think it could,
don't know what i was thinking,
now the blues have come, to paint
my whole day away, now i wake to
the blue walls all around me
what did i expect, never really
gave it much thought, not
known for being this way, did not
even clean off the brushes, or put
the tops on the cans, left it all
lying around, tripping over on my
way to the bathroom at night
wake you up with a start and
find that you never can fall back to sleep,
greet the morning this way, not after
being awake before dawn again, cause
the blues have come, to paint all my walls
(for you, just because you seem to be awake at two most mornings)
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