Timothy Mooney

Timothy Mooney Jan 2011

Cats is funny
On the floor
Too darned quiet
They don't snore
Silent even
When they yawn
Bite and scratch
When stepped upon.

Dogs is better
When they *****
Wake 'em up
And they so happy
They ain't jealous
While you're at
The molling of
The Scornful Cat.

Timothy Mooney Jan 2011

For Emily

Every time I pass by the old empty house there on the corner-
I wonder-
Had I been there, in that time- not so long ago-
One sunny Sunday- in the spring step of her youth
Would she have seen me on the walk?
And if I had- with bouquet in hand- climbed those five wide steps to the door
And knocked...
Uninvited-
Would she have danced with me on that day-oh, not so long ago?
"Here but for a picnic" I would say-
Would she laugh and take the day with me?
Or would my presence there-
Uninvited-
Disturb her from her untitled words
And change things too disturbingly?
Alas it is only a romantics dream
That Miss Dickinson would allow an idyll of mine own
To enter into her pre-scribed theme
And so I put aside the thought of my hearts truth
And turn away from that empty window-as I pass by-
I will not be the one to steal those words from the World-
I will avoid those five wide steps to the door-
Uninvited.
And I will dismantle my time machine.

Timothy Mooney Jan 2011

They Stomped On the Queen!

He was all of fourteen when they stomped on the Queen
(Such ungainly, undignified bounces)
And he sat, wide of eye, while up there in the sky
Those two men juggled pounds weighing ounces!

He dreamed that night of their glorious flight
(Of the WHOOSH! and the ROAR! of those rockets!)
And laughed when he learned that they later returned
With nothing but rocks in their pockets!

Timothy Mooney Jan 2011

Two- On Poets

1
All the little beasties
Writing to-and-fro
Playing with symbologies
Like veggies in a row
Thinking their importantcy
Of self is Oh! so So!
Building meals with condiments
(but where'd the sandwich go?)

#2
Most things do not want to rhyme.
Take, for example, Space, and Time.
They do not have a common syntax,
Only a parallax entrusted
To one another
Like home-fries at the Waffle House,
Smothered and splattered and covered... Encrusted.

Timothy Mooney Jan 2011

Sonnet 10/31/10-1 (Indeed I trusted...)

Indeed I trusted her with all my heart.
Her eyes, they seemed to bleed an honest truth.
Her hands were soft and Soothe! I fell, indeed
Into her trap, her dark and dreadful part.

She glammed me in and lied with honeyed verse.
She led me down her lovely, mottled path
With lemon tea and scented candle laugh...
I fell into her subtle diatribe.

Oh heart! You have deceived me once again!
Yet still I follow all your promised hope
And end up with your noose just dangling there...

And all the while she pulls me on and on
With beauty hiding just beyond her Vow.
So now, dark heart, I walk the final stair.

Timothy Mooney Jan 2011

A Comma's Plight

I play with these words out of boredom and habit.
There's so many of them! From "Aardvark" to "Zoo".
And then you add in all the odd punctuation
Like semi-and-hyphen; And Oh! Exclamation!
(and poor little Comma:  He hops like a rabbit...
He's never quite sure if a Colon would do.)

I play with these words like a cat with a twitching
Small mouse in his grasp all squealing and itching
(the cat... not the mouse... for the mouse is a wreck...
With *****'s teeth grasping the small of its neck.)
The cat is quite happy!  It just takes its time...
While Comma allows the Ellipsis the rhyme...

I play with these words and the dots and the dashes;
Parenthesis  [brackets] and to/or/from slashes-
With all of the keys 'neath my ten little digits
"Somewhat like the cat with the mouse as he fidgets".
I've learned to write well from my Pa and my Momma:
Yet still I feel bad for that poor little Comma.

Timothy Mooney Jan 2011

Upon This Flight of Errant Heart

See the faded fabric, there?
The stitching pulled, the tattered thread?
The fabric of my heart is gone;
(I wore it Loud and Ostentate!)

Now, forlorn, I am without
Its quilted beat, that woven flag,
That banner of my hopeful youth;
(my sleeve is raw; the wound runs deep.)

Shall I ever find a loom
To weave another, just as loud?
Or suffer hence a make-do patch?
(some homespun thing, with burlap beat?)

Should I fashion on my own
A stronger, more defensive badge,
Breaking needles as I sew?
(A heart of Tin that does not bleed!)

Wait! What's this? O! Say it's true!
I grieve my loss too soon, it seems,
Upon this flight of errant heart.
(I wake from imprisoned dream!)

There's a seamstress caught my eye,
With linen pure, and gilded string.
She adds to this new heart some wings;
(my heart is prone to flight, it seems.)