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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 Jan 2012
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
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
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 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 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 Oct 2011
John Berryman is dead
all his invitations, rescinded
unlikely as it seems, Pound has not been uncaged
and Pisa remains uncovered by the summer's sky

John Berryman is dead
his cantos have, indeed shaken my courage
expressions have been lifted
and letters signed and delivered

John Berryman is dead
it seems he did not die at too slow a rate, after all
the Washington Avenue Bridge spoke too quickly
and too loud, whispered in his father's voice

John Berryman is dead
released all his demons and avoided all his devils
grieve for this stranger, made friendly and strange
the bells sing too late

John Berryman is dead
bones go all the same all the same
accept our envy O winner of praise
sing your dreams dead poet
John Mahoney Jan 2012
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
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 Dec 2011
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
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
John Mahoney Sep 2011
I have looked upon
the Medusa, unawares
and been turned to stone
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 Dec 2011
the snow has melted
in a midwinter thaw
exposing all the lies
you left so carelessly
in the garden
i see them scattered about
before the breeze
as i look out the kitchen window
i catch them in the yard
trying to pretend that
no one can see them
where they rest.
something has led us
to this day
chasing your lies
out on the lawn
cleaning up after you
(again)
but if we left them
until the spring
what kind of bitter
**** might grow
to choke the garden
with their nettles
John Mahoney Jan 2012
lines so easily scripted
when so strongly felt
messages in rhyme secreted
telling metaphors here dwelt
touching of souls completed
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
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
John Mahoney Jan 2012
to save money
i turn down the heat
when everyone goes off
for the day, i work in a
home office

i noticed that fish
tends to hide in his
ceramic log when the
house cools later in the morning

he peeks out from the hole
to watch me as i walk past
on my way to the kitchen
or the laundry room

i know fish likes his
bowl in the hall where
he can swim and watch the
life of the house around him
but i worry that he may
get too cold during these
short not tropical winter
days

i carry fish with me to the
office while i work, and place
his bowl on the table, next to
the stack of books i have yet
to review, so that he may stay
warm  during the day when
we are home alone
together

fish has no conversation,
and although he has no
patience for the writing
of William Gibson, has proved
a marvelous
listener
John Mahoney Dec 2011
i.
no love songs, now...no lost, no forlorn
no love songs to the mourn
awake (too late) mind racing,
words floating images roiling...
a poet's heart made empty,
boxing shadows in the dark,

a broken dreams club
a bell echoes


ii.
(like a boxer past his prime
sitting in his corner head hung, bowed,
slips his gloves and examines taped knuckles
as though they, too, have defeated him)

a bell echos
a broken dreams club


iii.
the muse abides, and, perhaps, at least
the poet may regain his voice but for now -
no love songs, now...
no laments, no elegy

a bell echos
a broken dreams club


iv.
every poets' muse -
fall in love, absolutely, true love is, for him,
the embodiment of his muse, indistinguishable,
the goddess, manifest in her absolute glory
and the woman, made her instrument -

a bell echos
a broken dreams club


v.
*what do i see?
a bowl with a quarter and a pocketknife
a lamp
a clock with dull red numbers glowing
a book of verse
and in the distance

a bell echoes
a broken dreams club
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
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
John Mahoney Jan 2012
we had everything we wanted
not a care left in the world
we left all our inhibitions
in the hall outside our room
put the locks on the door, firmly

i could hear the traffic
moving on the streets below
but never even wondered
where they might all go
you took my hand so, gently

we had breakfast sent up
orange juice freshly squeezed
the bathtub water running
i wrote your name in the
steam on the mirror, Lesley
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
John Mahoney Jan 2012
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
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?
John Mahoney Oct 2011
O, king
bones ground to chalk
the Herero cry in the dust

The Kaiser had enough
he sent General Lothar von Trotha
to impose his will,
the ending of the Herero
as a people

von Trotha says,
'I wipe out rebellious tribes
with streams of blood
and streams of money.
Only following this cleansing
can something new emerge.'

Ten-thousand heavily-armed men
and a plan for war

von Trotha says,
'the Herero, who in their blindness
believed that they could make successful war
against the powerful German Emperor
and the great German people
I ask you,
where are the Herero today?'

twenty skulls gather dust
in the drawers
of Germany
monument to anthropology

O, king
skulls in drawers
the Herero cry in the dust

Is our language ever rich enough
to name
the evil man has levied

Is sin enough
to encompass
the vast, the richness, the full
depravity

of our visits
to the Herero

O, king
bitter herbs, unleavened bread
the Herero cry in the dust
In the 1880s, Germany acquired present-day Namibia, calling it German South-West Africa. In 1904 the Herero, the largest of about 200 ethnic groups, rose up against colonial rule killing more than a 120 civilians. The German response was ruthless. The Kaiser sent Gen. Lothar von Trotha to make war. The general signed a notorious Extermination Order against the Herero, defeated them in battle and drove them into the desert, where most died of thirst. Of an estimated 65,000 Herero, only 15,000 survived.

In 1985, a UN report classified the events as an attempt to exterminate the Herero and Nama peoples of South-West Africa, and therefore the earliest attempted genocide in the 20th Century. In 2004, Germany's ambassador to Namibia expressed regret for what happened.

The skulls belong to 20 people who died after an uprising against their German colonial rulers more than 100 years ago. They were among hundreds who starved to death after being rounded up in camps.

Some of the dead had their heads removed and of these, about 300 were taken to Germany, arriving between 1909 and 1914. German scientists took the heads to perform experiments seeking to prove the racial superiority of white Europeans over black Africans.
The skulls gathered dust in German archives until three years ago when a German reporter uncovered them at the Medical History Museum of the Charite hospital in Berlin, and at Freiburg University in the south-west.

German researchers believe the skulls belong to 11 people from the Nama ethnic group and nine from the Herero.

They were four women, 15 men and a boy.

This September, German officials held a ceremony to return the skulls to a delegation from Namibia.
John Mahoney Dec 2011
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
John Mahoney Oct 2011
go to the market
see what a quarter will buy
with no time to suffer
no time to cry
you have to imagine
just how a future will
taste
a little bitter, delicate and
fine, something
beautiful and true
on the night wind
blowing stars through
vast darkness
clean, across the sky
not the whole world,
just a small piece for you
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 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
John Mahoney Dec 2011
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
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 Jan 2012
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
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 Dec 2011
in the end
when corridors
stand empty
lights turned low
linoleum buffers
working
back and forth
promise me
no lingering
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
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 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 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 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
John Mahoney Jan 2012
hot cheeks burning
tears salty and sweet
run like wildfires
burning off the undergrowth
chasing woodland creatures
down to the streams
someday, we won't remember this

passion drained us so sweet
clear the pathways
ravage all the fields
burn down the bridges
pull down all the monuments
someday, we won't remember this

souls entwined as lovers
brought down to her knees
drained of all blood
stripped of dignities
laid bare to each
but never felt so free

i don't care what's right or wrong,
i won't try to understand.
let the devil take tomorrow
lord tonight I need a friend


light the match,
stoke the heat
feel the burning
(no one here will get out of this alive)
and, someday, we won't remember this...
lyrics by Kris Kristofferson "Help Me Make It Through The Night"
John Mahoney Oct 2011
After all this time, the rain has come again
soybeans bursting in the pod, dry brown fields.
The lake as low as it has ever been
clouds pass, thin wisps, withholding all they wield.

We too have dried, mere husks, once plangent
await cadences, intimacy's desires.
A chair rests on a deck, first child's salient
artifact of family life once resonant.

Not first love, but founded in maturity
enough, perhaps, to defy time's ravages.
Embarked with proclaimed mutual surety
to weather all a life's uncertain passages.

But, for now, we tender loves rebuff
and find the rain must prove to be enough.
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 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?
John Mahoney Oct 2011
come to me, silently,
    during the night
speak my name, softly
    pretend it's all right
go to the fountain
    wish for insight
depend upon constancy
    keep a hold tight
tomorrow find trauma
    let your spirit take flight
come to me, lonely
a surrender outright
    trust in your nature
*now just turn out the light.
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?
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 Nov 2011
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
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)
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
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