i.
the rain falls down
in sheets now, blocking my view
as i stand here on the corner
waiting for you
i wish i was young again
i wish i was warmer

ii.
counting backwards
settles my mind
like a surgery patient
waiting for the blade
(although you never use
anesthesia)

iii.
the cab pulls
to my corner
you open the door
i take in your aura
a pulsing
which displaces
the air in the cab
so this is what
heartbreak is for

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

begrudge not
the time of others,
for this, too, shall be taken
from each, expected or surprised,
that from vast indifference
we have sprung
and so, shall return
thereto, with no pity, nor hate,
neither even
gratitude (if there could be such
a thing)
for it is the indifference
to our own fate
which might, eventually, make
all things, even this loss,
bearable

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

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

gold rush days
my California lover
never be another
she is the one
i will remember
she is my now
and she's my later
she is my map
and she's my treasure
she is the debt
i owe forever
very secret lover
agent undercover
she is my
gold rush days

This rain
won't wash the pain away
or give me words to say
but I keep on walking anyway

you came
took my heart for play
but did not come to stay
only here to make me pay

the strain
has made me lose my way
haunts me every day
colors all the world in grey

please explain
how nothingness holds sway
why life came to such disarray
just how the blues I can allay

this rain
won't wash the pain away
but I might find a sunlight ray
maybe, I'll keep on walking anyway

You said
you were never
going back to California, like
a bad Buddhist
with a thousand lives to spare
yet, here I find you,
eating breakfast at Los Bagels
and avoiding the construction
on H Street like a native.

Well, I am never going to write
about burning bridges or
closing doors,
I just want to let you know
that I am yours and
I am so glad to find you
sitting, in the bright,
California
morning sun
eating bagels,
drinking coffee,
and remembering,
that our love is gone.

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

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?

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

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

i.
i draw my fingers
along the scars
you used to cut
yourself, a hidden
language, like a
braille of the skin

ii.
yet, you allow me in,
gently, my fingertips
trace hungrily
your tale which you
stack in the library
of your long sleeves
even in the hottest
summer days

iii.
words never served
your purpose they
admitted no connection
although those around
you noticed that
something seemed
to bother you, you
turned to secretiveness

iv.
you started cutting
so young, too young
really, to cope with
so much change
the power of your
own feelings
overwhelmed your
defenses, stuck in
a home, unsettled
a punishment and
a release

v.
i have no answer
for you, no easy
way to overcome
the compulsions
of the heart so
wounded, but
your own strength
and growing maturity
and the control you
have obtained
all seemed to help

vi.
you suppose that
you have written
manifesto
but, i recognize,
perhaps
autobiography

we had orange juice in jelly glasses
          that taste so fine
and a hundred broken promises
          standing in a line
you touched me with such tenderness
          it felt just right
to see you stretched out on my mattress
          in the morning light

we had white wine and compromise
          to last all night
bundled me off to nothingness
          without a fight
you spoke to me with such finesse
          as though a sign
with a hundred millions empty lies
          none of them mine

in this
great sadness
now
we know,
limits
of endurance

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

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

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

snowfall
on a cold
winter day
stillness
like a memory

suffer, such a small word
only two syllables, six letters
as large as a world

tales of unrest
discord
we must forget
everything we know

who shall answer for us
and what will be the meaning
our deeds, our lapses, and
our should haves too
it has come upon us,
like a great beast
our cities overthrown and
our temples destroyed
thousands die by famine, by sword
and our indifference
the water thick with crude oil and blood
and i saw the beast rising
amid the wreckage wrought
i saw the fire and the smoke
drifting, this way, and that
the pain, sorrow, disbelief
and what shall they say of us
no more than this
it is necessary to hate
those whom we must ****
to live we must conquer incessantly,
we must have the courage to be happy
compassion must replace fear
that is the fight worthy
of the straight gate and wide way
go into without threat
see the beast wounded
lay down and weep

morning spent watering
fall blooming flowers in pots
the bees are still busy!

i.
one dark night as
i left my silent house
the long driveway
lay itself before me
i looked back, down
from the driveway's
apron at the street
the house unlit
seemed almost
brooding back in
it's dark wood

ii.
the half turn at the
ancient oak, which leans
out over the driveway,
aching for light, and then
the gentle sweep of curve,
along the line of
stately maples, which
turn such a lovely
golden red in autumn

iii.
i could just make
out the main
entrance and chimney
side, the bedroom wing
hidden behind the
dense understory
of viburnum
it seemed to me
that Maple Ridge,
secreted as it was
back in Darkwood,
was much like the
life of the people
dwelt within

iv.
the dark and the brooding
had touched those lives,
like mourners on the edge
of some young lover's grave,
there in that dark wood,
the woman had believed
the man who dared
that love might conquer all,
and that being subdued,
had seemed better than
mere surrender

v.
but now, that bitterness
had leeched into
these very walls,
i had paused, in this
heart-stopping notion,
to ask myself what if
these mourners dwelt
there in this dark wood,
unobserved and naked,
now buried, in this silent
wood

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

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

what sadness is found
lurking in the rainy night

she
is a love poet
     sentimental
composing beautiful
wondrous
     poems

of romance
longing which
     emerge
in particularized, idiosyncratic
rhyme schemes,

and
     stolen
is such a harsh
word

once again
dawn awoke
with a simple
grace
life's breath

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

poet's
confession
a heart's possessions
bleeding
all over the page

(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

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

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

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

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

O, Death,
thy softly gripped hand,
has reached for me
with such deliberate
sweetness,
embrace me now
fully,
while I have been
spent in my
finest moments

Between rivers
there is a sadness
a cool, calm
waiting
for life to come
or death
I am not sure
which.

in the end
when corridors
stand empty
lights turned low
linoleum buffers
working
back and forth
promise me
no lingering

sometimes
i lie awake all night
practicing my French on you
pretending i am over too

those nights
they seem to be so long
with everything gone wrong
remembering all i was with you

these days
they rush at me so fast
a woman hiding from a past
keeping me from finding you

the little lies
go creeping down the alley
to hide

Uncharted beauty
dimmed night time sky line
chaos among the stars

you said
the sky would never reach you
the pressure seems to increases
no goodbyes and no good reasons
just a time to pick up pieces
no good time to face the music
once we were not future seekers
the lightening serves to defuse
the energy defeats
the sky would never reach you
you said

anxious to see me
she lies imperfectly
like stones in water

i burned off the brush pile today
the last of the fall chores
although we have had a first snow
as well as a killing frost
i wanted to wait until our woods
were not so dry, it has been a dry
summer and autumn

watching the sparks fly
i turned back to look at the house
and saw you standing at the
kitchen window i waved
but you did not see me

watching the house lit
in the dark night, warmed
by the bonfire in the chill
i felt a deep contentment
as though it would be this
small moment in time i would
wish to keep with me forever

for it is these moments
out of which a life is made
without room for regret
for regrets are useless
standing before a bonfire
on a clear, cold winter night
a life of these small moments,
and i was glad of it

snow on the evergreen
becomes rain on the window
at once, being and not being

no one quite remembers
how this came to be

almost true
seems to me your words
although endearing
are not really you
that now you seem
as partially hidden
almost blue
as though i have
said something
i can't undue
some vague trouble
haunts my memory
but i can't see through
what we say to one another
now seems to be just
almost true

abandon your lost innocence
and come to be my lover
maybe in that instant
you will know another

cling to me so fiercely
that we no longer wonder
what it is that makes us
feed the hungers

so meet me in this mystery
hold on to me tighter
abandon your lost history
and let us light the fire

a hot night, a cool breeze
static down the wires
forsake all your promises
throw them on the fires

can you feel the heat
sever the last fetter
we will not be free until
we get lost in our desire