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Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
Mom passed
Some years ago
Dad a year later

She hovers
On the mantle
In her urn

(Silver and Rosewood)

Watching over the house
Whispering to me
When I'm not paying attention

Dad sits next to her
Silent for the most part
Adoring her for their eternity.
copyright 2009, T.P. Mooney
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
The nun told me
"God has been keeping a little book
Of your Life,
And he will make you
Read it
OUT LOUD to Him
When you get to
The Gates Of Heaven."

And I answered
"God can't read?"
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
I was asked to identify and apologize
For my youthful sins
But I was just a kid
Way back then.

I really can't remember
Most of my
Naughty adventures

Well, maybe a few
A sin here or there
Just enough
To get me here.

And I have no apologies.

My sins are my reward.
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
I often softened my hours waiting for her
By reading Cummings or Plath
Or other dead poets.
Still, she took her time arriving.
Usually dropped off a block down where mom and dad didn't see her
Getting out of her Big Brother's car.
A '71 Pontiac.

It was blue, like her eyes, and noisy, missing a muffler.
Like her...
But I waited.
Anticipating her secret roar and rumble.
Just waiting to crawl into the back-seat of those Pontiac eyes.
copyright 2010, T.P. Mooney
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
dark is not just
the absence of light
but the
lack of
the shadow
right
behind you
sneaking...
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
I stepped outside for a moment, simply to catch a breath on my porch,
and I saw that slivered Moon scooting behind those shivery clouds.
In a brief half-second I felt Her eons,
Her aged gravitational tumble,
Her pained and painted-on pagan sins of yore,
Her holy rejoinder of light against the darkness,
Her catechism of magic,
and the cold
empty doctrine
of Her orbital destiny.

I closed my eyes for a moment, to shut out Her history...
to try and catch that breath...
But She would not relent.
She was insistent, pulling my eyes open and up
and She offered me her memories
and begged in Her dry eternal voice
to allow me Her touch.

     I accepted.  Felt Her fear as our rockets bruised Her dusty flesh
     upon their uninvited landings
     and scarred her with their burning departures.

     When I had taken it all in, She disappeared behind one of those
     shivery clouds
     and I was able to
     catch that breath
     I had almost forgotten
     I had meant to take.

I watch for Her nightly now.
Even when She is obscured by clouds
or maybe just on the other side of this earth-she-cannot-touch,
Her eternal dance partner.
I open my eyes and gaze up.
With awe and wonder and respect
to let Her know that in my small gravitational way
that there is at least
One son here who thinks of her
and who understands and appreciates her tidal Motherhood

who smiles  beneath Her transient reflection,
holding that light dear,
and who, in turn,
reflects some of that light
back to Her,
with promised eye.
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
In my youth I'd often slip
and milk or juice would slop and drip.
"You're all thumbs" my Mother'd quip.
And I'd be sent right back to bed.

Little would stay in my cup.
I spent my days just wiping up
The slobbers that I'd often make.
"You're all thumbs" my Mom'd berate.

One dark morn my mother said
You're all thumbs!  Go back to bed!
(I dropped a rock right on her head.)
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