no one quite remembers
how this came to be

the little lies
go creeping down the alley
to hide

imagine lips
like delicate peach-blossoms
I await longingly fingertips'
suggestion

snowfall
on a cold
winter day
stillness
like a memory

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

tales of unrest
discord
we must forget
everything we know

distances
here and there
today and tomorrow
you and me

we would
all do better
if we
only
could

Now, may I speak with you
in a lover's language?

the snows
will
never melt
in
the Himalayas

in this
great sadness
now
we know,
limits
of endurance

what sadness is found
lurking in the rainy night

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

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

Dear Lesley,
I'm sorry to have to do this through a letter, but
last time your crying just humiliated
the other couples in your group session.
Although, this might save embarrassment,
and make me look better, now that we are
both sleeping with other people. (If you
can call conjugal visits to your ex-husband people.)
This letter may well be the last memory
you will have of me, if your social worker
lets you keep it as a memento anyway.

I am leaving, and I won't be looking back either.
I am sure you won't be surprised or terribly upset.
It is completely your fault, no doubt about it!
Mainly, it is your long history with lying problems,
even more than your alcoholism, that keeps me
from being even remotely interested in continuing
this relationship with you. (I told you I forgave
you for sleeping with your boss, but I guess I
never really did.)

You would be so much better off finding someone
that can accept the emotional baggage that
you carry around, the ones with the orange tags.
Maybe your analyst can explain that to you better
than I can. I must say, I will miss some of the exciting
times we had together. Like when you got so drunk
and flirted with my father at our family Christmas
dinner. My mom has still not gotten the red wine stain
out of the tablecloth where you puked on it.

I'm glad this is finally done and we can go our
separate ways. I think you will find someone else
with whom to have an unhealthy relationship based
on physical attraction and a passion for strip-club bars.
Hopefully, this will happen incredibly far away.

Good riddance, and Happy New Year.

PS Maybe you should just go back to being a lesbian.
PPS I have no idea where you parked your car.

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

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

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

(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

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

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

let them come
let them all come
in the remaining hours of daylight
i can see them as they run
down to the shore
out on the sands
of the impossibly green ocean.

it had been a hot northern California day
but as the sun sank low in the western sky
the wind picked up and the air got cold
i sat in the back of a rented Ford
when i saw you standing there
among the young surfers camping
on the beach near the parking lot
of the Clam Beach county park.

the most beautiful girl in the world
with your long gold hair
your back so strong
and your legs so long
you smiled at me
as you walked along
to the back of your car
parked three spaces from mine
you pulled your wet suit off
with your eyes on mine
i fell in love at that moment in time.

let them go
let them all go
in the fading black star-filled night
on this western shore
i can feel my heart break
as we drive away
frozen in my memory
the girl in the parking lot
at Clam Beach county park.

i chanced to see a
tin foil car
in the library parking lot
yesterday

the carpet, molding, side panels
all removed
tin foil
had been duct taped
on every surface that
was not glass

even the shift ****
and the steering wheel
wrapped and wrapped
in tin foil
a Volkswagen Faraday cage

i searched the faces
of the people about me
would it not be obvious who
would drive around in a
Faraday cage
listening to voices
chasing around
their mind

tin foil car
reading Julian Huxley
and muttering about telepathy
or reading Faraday to get rid
of those nagging radio-frequency
electromagnetic radiation signals
in a hollow conductor

but, then why leave the radio in the car

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

i.
we drove north
on highway six
the night a perfect black
close about us with
neither moon nor stars
to shine their light and
cut the darkness

ii.
the pines hovered at the very
edge of the narrow road
making a long, dark tunnel
when, after a curve
just north of Nisswa,
we emerged suddenly
in to a birch stand

iii.
the car lights caught
the white birch bark
which reflected the light
an eerie white stand
of bright, white birch
in a pitch black night
the trees on either side
rising in a gentle *****

iv.
i heard the breath catch
in every passenger
and then, just as
suddenly, we are
come upon an
automobile accident

v.
the glitter of broken
windshield glass
flashed in the car
headlights as i stop
a car had wrapped
about a pole, the
driver's door open

vi.
soon, the drama was over
we got in the car to drive home
the whine of the tires on road
filled the silent cabin
the white lines of the road
the white birch trees with
their black shadows
the far-away moon in
the sky exactly over the road,
seemed now living their own life
apart and incomprehensible,
yet very near to man

vii.
it was the beginning of April
after a warm spring day
the night had cooled
a faint touch of frost fell
the breath of spring
felt in the soft, chilly air
the highway ran endlessly
through the northern woods

viii.
on both sides of the road
the night was lit by the
the headlights and birch trees
in the brilliant, peaceful
moonlight night
and all were silent
sunk in thought
everything around seemed
kindly, youthful, akin,
everything--trees and sky,
and even the moon,
and one longed to think
that so it would be always.

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.
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

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.
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 drag the canoes over the granite shingle
of our island's beach the battered Aluma-Crafts
leave my hand a dark metallic looking gray, which
even smelled of metal we walk up to the
campsite, a ridge, overlooking the lake,
spread out around a fire ring set beneath
pine trees so thick that no understory grows

ii.
as the long summer day cools we decide after dinner
to explore choosing one of the island's many
game trails, leading from the water back up into
the woods beyond the campsite, we pack the
food back into the bear proof barrel, grab our
boots and set off down  the trail

iii.
the pine give way to a grove of aspen, the
leaves fluttering as if by some wondrous
enchantment, as the shrubs started to grow
thickly on the ground channeling us into a
narrower game trail with the large, misshapen
granite boulders like a maze stretched out before us

iv.
suddenly we stood face to face with a giant
bull moose with velvet covered antlers that seemed
to be at least four feet across, he shook his head up,
like a horse shying, so i slowly moved us behind a tree
     to give him the trail

v.
around the fire wrapped each in our
own paddle-worn thoughts
we could hear wolves, calling
across the island in mournful howls
such a delicate balance of nature at work,
my moose so full of life and spirit would be
     safe yet from the
wolves

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

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.
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

I.
time to hold, but i am falling down again,
as i call out your name three times,
and a rooster crows, somewhere,
and i am now laying in the dust,
of the road, beyond the wall
that leads into the square

II.
and there are lots of people, who are now
gathering in there, i can see that
they are angry, angry at someone,
maybe anyone, maybe me,
and maybe you, so
i call your name
as the rooster cries again
cries again

III.
but i have fallen, in the dust, on the road,
and i called your name three times,
i can hear the dogs bark at the
sound the crowd makes, in the dust
of the square, beyond the wall,
***** loud angry people shouting,
dust rising all around
your name three times

IV.
and i do not want to die, that is
nobody wants to die, and yet here we are
lying in the dust, and in the dust, and
fallen away, but all we have, for
we have all fallen away, now
and the rooster cries again

V.
and, i know now, what i have done
what have we done, all of us done,
and there is a great nothingness,
and there is an eternity, a darkness
and there is a day, and in fullness
and i know that i called your name
three times, what i would not have done
and i break down and weep

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

anxious to see me
she lies imperfectly
like stones in water

Overnight storms
fill my gardens with sticks
Autumn, unsettled

Hammer fall echoes
the woods have no silences
even the squirrels bury nuts

Uncharted beauty
dimmed night time sky line
chaos among the stars

polishing the varnish
of just finished wooden floor
steel wool gathering

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

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

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