Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
The title alone
Leaves me wondering.
Is this lunch?
A  kitchen faux pas?
Or simply a clever way
To teach a chicken
Gravity?
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
Don't Read my poem
Your eyes Will burn
Your children
Will melt
In
Sulfurous
Squamous
Pools
Of Lust
Denied
Or torrid pages
Of words
Worth
Looking
Up.
Danger
Lurks here
When hearts
Speak.
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
I have no Faith.
She left me for Tom
The big guy
In gym class.
But I'll always have Summer...
Tom's little sister
taped up
in my cellar.
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
It is not so much
That you have
Let go of me
As it is
The
Fear
Of
Being
Caught
By Someone
Else.

After all
It's
Not the
Fall
But the
Landing
Can
**** you.
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
When I was wee my feets was small.
They found no grip, I'd trip and fall.
I'd stumble bumble left and right
From morning sun to bed-time night.
But as I grew my feets did too.
They grew out of both sock and shoe!
And when I slept they grew some more.
They grew right out my bedroom door!
They grew right out onto the lawn
And when I woke my feets was gone!
I sat there scared within my bed
Just wondering where my feets had fled.
Did my feets go out on a trip
Along the Mighty Mississip?
Were they stomping Kansas corn,
Or hanging ten in Californ?
Hiking in Saskatchewan
Or Yucatan or cold Yukon?
All day long and into night
I worried of my Feets's plight.
Worried that they'd never phone
To tell me they was coming home,
Worried that I'd be bereft
Of both my feets, the right and left!
And so I pictured my two feets
Just wandering dark Parisian streets,
Or alleys in the south of Spain,
Or freezing in the Russian rain,
Or separated in Des Moins
Without the calf, the knee, the *****!
But wait! Hold on!  What's this I see?
I'm such a goof, oh silly me!
I did not lose my big old feets!
They were just sleeping 'neath my sheets!
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
I know it's been more than too many years
I am not the boy you loved
Nor the man you left
And I guess
You are not the girl I fell for
Or the woman who left me
But I do know that we are still ourselves
And regardless of the winds and hours
And Years and sins
And miles and miles
And tears by the bucket
Eventually drying
Along roadsides we don't remember
Driving
That first kiss
Still drives me wild.
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
She floats above my life with hidden purpose
Casting glances over her pearl white shoulder
Occasionally
To see if I've noticed
To see if I've fallen for the ruse
Taken the bait
Given in to the pursuit.

She knows I want her.
She's aware of my need.
It shines in my scent,
My wounded trail.

She floats above my life daintily
With estrogen seeping
Wiggling and shadow-boxing with my heart
Casting her lures,
Fly fishing,
Teasing me from my mud-******* existance
Only to snag me

Razor barb hook tearing through the soft tender meat of my soul

She checks me out and tosses me back
And as I sink into the murky depths of my maleness
I cry out
"Try again!  Size isn't everything!"

But she cannot hear me above the whir of her own motor.
And she trawls to another pond.
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
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.
copyright 2010 T.P. Mooney
Timothy Mooney Sep 2013
Should I write a poem of sappy love/
Teenage emotion gone on a sneak-away ride/
Visigoth hormones usurping my pen, again/
Sad memories of those girls, oh, those girls/
High School dances like small caliber holes in my heart/
No exit wounds, the lipstick bullets fester in me/
Music so loud I can not hear her giggle to her coven/
About the way I tried to kiss her/
In the gym, in public/
Where all the Cool boys might see?
Or Should I, forty years later, just walk my dog/
And whistle as I bag up her ****/
Enjoying the evening as we walk/
While she wags and is happy to be here/
Beside me, regardless of my haircut/
Or the horsepower of my car?/
Why start now? I never cared then/
About them, the Loud Pretty ones/
With the guns aimed at my heart/
The only thing they knew how to do was shoot and run/
Where's the fun in that?/
Come on back, ladies.../
I have years of dog-**** waiting for you.
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
Wind em and wrap em
come on me brithers
Knop on their withers
An lay the beast down.

Fetch em an catch em
Carf all their hoolin'
Mither needs meat on
The table by dawn.
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
Should we add the words together
Counting up the wrongs and rights
All the sweet, entangled nights
And all the sorrowed mornings?
Or can we simply start anew?
Let loose all those anger-moorings
Tying us to pain-gone-by...
I can try, will you?
See, here, see my open hand
Sweetly offered, angered not,
Gentle callus on the palm,
Strength of Love within it...
See, here, see my open heart...
Throwing words away.
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
I cover my eyes
So You can't see me
Hiding here
Hoping
You'll stumble
And knock
My arms
From my face
So I can
Catch you.

I hold my breath
So you can't hear me
Breathing in
Your air
Your exhale
I hide
From you
In plain sight
So you can
Find me.
Timothy Mooney Apr 2011
I do not worry
About the Hurry-Folk
Who drive by
9-to-5
or
5-to-9
depending on their employment
While I find
Enjoyment
Just peeing
off my front porch.
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
You have been the engine
I have been
A small part
Of your
Exhaust.
I have been
The breather
The intake
Giving you
Air
To
Burn
To
Run
Right
Over me.
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
I wore those things when I was young and hungry
Smiles stolen from young girls eyes
Dances stolen as the band was winding down
Kisses, and even more secret treasure, in the dark parking lots

I wore them proud and loud on my tattered sleeve
Like embroidered badges
Commemorating their broken hearts
Stitched and pinned right there next to mine

I wore those things when I was young and hungry
Moments taken as Time aged by
Promises broken as the clock was winding down...
(promises spoken in the sweated moments of those parking lots of my hungry youth)

I wore those things
And they fit me well
2011
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
How sweet that an unwritten face
kisses me on this last hour
of Now before the
Not Now of tomorrow.

Across the wind of Einstein's count
And upon hopeful pigeon's wing
I kiss you back
And wish you happy sun.
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
I've known a couple Judy's in my days
I dated two or several three or so
And each and every one was quite Herself...
(For every Judy's different, don't ya' know...)

There's several, maybe dosens, that I've known
All Judys in the highest of regard.
All prim and proper, stately or rotund,
(And quite a few I've kissed in my backyard.)

I hold a special place inside my heart
For all those Judys that I've yet to meet.
I've cleared a space out there in my backyard...
For Judy....
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
I will roll myself one more Cowboy Smoke
Risking spilled tobacco
And ride into the
Valley of your words

I will leave my six-gun on the bar
Daring brave young Hooligans
To draw on me
As I seek you out.

These are dangerous trails you've mapped
With Lost Canyons
Deep
And
Dark
Replete with cause to worry.

But I am in no hurry, Madam.
Let them have at me.
The brigands and
Foul desert
All of your
Dark Designs.

I still got me
One good
Cowboy smoke...
I can walk
Into your words
By that
One
Weak
Light.
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
I rescued a dog, named her "Scooter".
A puppy... she couldn't be cuter.
She sleeps on my bed
With her **** near my head
And she smells like an old roto-rooter.
Timothy Mooney Apr 2011
Shhh...
There's something...
Sneaky
Out there.
Shhh...
It's got fingers.
And tooth.
And hungries.
Shhh...
It's dancing
All floppy
And dark
Shhh...
It's just shadow
Thickening
And thirsty
Shhh...
Don't let it know
You know
It's there
Shhh...
Don't wake yourself up.
Or you'll
Miss the monster.
Timothy Mooney Apr 2011
His death did not surprise me
As old men go he went quite well
Happy
After his bride of oh those long years
His final moments were torrid
Reaching out for Her
Hoping she was there

I cried then as I often do still
For his eyes can cry no longer
Happy
His longyear in my soul
His final moments my hope
That past this mudded breath
She is there.
copyright 2011 T.P.Mooney
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
Gosh o gee I think yer neat.
Ya got nice hair.  I like yer feet.
An yer cat. An yer dog two.
Shucks! I think I's sweet on you.

P'raps weel marry up sum day.
(Whens weer old an gettin gray)
Til then heck, o gosh gee wiz
Can I just steel a little kiss?
Timothy Mooney Apr 2011
Me an' my truck
Goin' on down the road
I think o' yer cheatin' heart
And I lose my load

Down in Tennersee
I met me a girl
Her name was Billy Joe
Hot ****! What a thrill!

But she broke my heart
It was just my luck
Now alls I got left
Is me an' my truck.
copyright 1973 T.P.Mooney/First song written on my first guitar
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
There are numbers everywhere
(Meter and flow, words in tow)
Getting us from there to here
(Meter and flow, all add up)
Sometimes rhyming, sometimes not
(Meter and flow, all one voice)
Hence the final circled step
(Meter and flow, meter and flow)

All our words come down to this
(Flow and meter, beat and time)
Secular within our spirit
(Flow and meter, add/subtract)
We divinely spill our words
(Flow and meter, after all)
Pleasures lost and songs unsung
(Tear-blood in the meter and flow)

There are numbers everywhere
(Meter and flow, sweetly real)
Hard division in our hearts
(Meter and flow, years and focus)
Speak them gently, let them fly
(Watch them go, watch them grow)
Build the Ages yet to be
(Meter and flow, meter and flow).
For Ms. Poncetrayne  (yeah, I know I misspelled it... But you have to admit, it looks SOOO much more literary and romantic....)
Timothy Mooney May 2011
She moves at quantum levels
You're not supposed to see
And if you sneak a peek at her
She flips from sine-to-three

She changes colors often
Her blue-shift echoes red
I caught a glimpse of her and now
She's dancing in my head

She moves at quantum levels
With paranormal grace
She stands still on the dance-floor as
She jibes from space to place

She doesn't feel the rhythm
Her beat is zero-G
She moves at quantum levels which
You're not supposed to see

She'll dance with God or Devil
She'll dance to any key
She moves at quantum levels which
You're not supposed to see

(she sometimes wears a frilly-thing
  which peeks out from her jeans
  She shakes at quantum levels in
  The spaces in-betweens
)
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
Where are you now?
You called out with pains in your
loud letters
(Frets and fetters)
And I worried
     even against my thinking better
                                                          of  it.

Where are you now?
Still fighting that sad oceans
deep weather
(Frets and fetters)
Still I worry
                 of it.
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 Jan 2011
I often come down here          (cold)
Into the cistern                           (damp)
Into the chalice of                     (holy)
Mouse run dark                          (secret)
Mother and Father                    (power)
Cannot hear me                          (listen)
As I splash quiet                         (deep)
With my friends                         (love)
Fuzzy and wet                              (hold)
And squeaking                            (happiness)
As we                                               (together)
Roil round                                     (joy)
And laugh.                                     (forever)
copyright 2011 T.P. Mooney
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
How many times
Can I lie you your truth?
My honesty is suspect
And my hammer is soft.
How many nails
Must I pretend to pound
Before you see
That nothing holds?
I cannot see your definition
But I can raise my words
And ante up
Knowing that both of our best bets
Are riding on
A bluff.
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
I am aware of these things.
Big things eat little things.
Dogs die.
The young suffer from their parents' ilk.
The earth shivers, occasionally.
The aged pass into memory.

And the stars move.

I am aware of these things.
We inhale and exhale.
We are limited.
Much like empires, on a less grand scale.
We fall in love.
But that love will pass into memory...

And the stars will move.
copyright 2010 T.P. Mooney
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
There are no monsters neath your bed
They are all inside your head
When you sleep they all come out
Singing, dancing all about
When you wake they fade from sight
(But they'll be back Tomorrow night!)
Wrote this for my Daughter back in '79...
Timothy Mooney Jul 2011
There is deliciousness in this empty
This warm hollow
This Sun-Blanket nap
With distant High Speckles
And clouded Moon song

There is sinful patience here
With Dream-scare
With loud slumber
With Baby Death looming

There is Ghost-Waltz here
In the snuggled sheets
In the softened fade
In the parade of wink

Take me, Night
I will pass through you
As you pass through me
Counter wise til Dawn

And in the Bright of Day
I will remember you
Long for you
Yawning and Bluish
On my next horizon.
For Hemingway
Timothy Mooney Jul 2011
Life is funny
Hurts to get into it
Hurts to get out of it
Hurts a lot
In the Middle
Of it
Hurts to keep it
Hurts to lose it
It's always
A struggle
Just to hold
Onto it
We sleep
Through
A third of it
Eat to ****
Then eat some more
Because of it
And yet
We desperately
Seek to
Keep hold of it
Funny or not
It's all we got
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
Word.
Thing.
Stuff.
Trouble.
Heart.
****.
You.
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
There it sits
Hollow
Mildly reeking
Of yesterday's fare
Teasing me
(like that **** squirrel)
With empty promise
With hope that You
With your thumbs
Will soon see fit
To fill it

I will wait
Wagging
I'm still waiting
Do you see me here?
Being good?
(Unlike that **** squirrel)
Yet still it sits
Licked clean empty
Unholy vessel
Staring at me
Here I wait

Horrid Bowl!
Old crock!
I will move you
With my nose
And my paws
(Oh!  That **** elusive squirrel!)
Yet there it sits
I should leave
Go smell something else
As foul as you
To roll in.
Timothy Mooney Feb 2011
The ghost who sometimes haunts my attic
Is not up there
tonight.
She's lost
at sea
again.
For rather than terrify the household
she'd sooner bathe...
But she could never swim.
Hence her prior demise,
and why I cannot sleep...
We are tied, her and I,
by some promise where
I would rescue her
from the briny deep
in exchange
for rattling chains
and midnight howls.
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
Ride high on your
Blue horses
into Into.

I don't mean that.

Fix the hole I have
In my blue wall

I have no wall.

Scream happy no sound
here in the gallery

(Look!  You got a wall!)
tp mooney 2011
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
chal, o eru.
raigh nu wandh' heh
cu aj i tdju o.

o eru
raigh wa nacca yeh
o ama, ama nay?

o At Ka tona.
ko hok ton chal.
sey o eru.

Ha, waka se
O
Ha, waka se
O
o eru
o na
o.
Timothy Mooney May 2011
O, mi corazon! Que has hecho a mi?
O, mi corazon, necesito saber...
Una vez te senti,
Palpi tando
Hando dento de mi...
Para ahora me siento tan vacio
Y solo...
O, mi corazon,
Where have you gone?
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
It's not about the rhyme
but the time spent
bending the words
to fit
you
You fit
To the words, bending
Spent time.
To rhyme?
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 Jun 2011
It's a logistical rule I own
To attempt a poem
Every day
Based on a word
Or a feeling
But I wasn't
Feeling much
Today
So I gambled
A gambol
In the Webster's
And it was my thumb's fate
To find "Palpitate".
Funny that the previous poems
Both deep and sincere
Had the Heart as their center
So clear and unpretentious
And ****-near annoying
Relentless in their calling
Out to a Lost Love or three...
Old "woe is me"
Always attempting to
Circumnavigate the heart.
To go around the push-pull
Of Love lost denied
And surf away on the curl
Of swollen palpitate.
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
Pay attention to the dirt!
Make the effort to Jump when the Big Fingers snap!

     I see you walking with your head in the clouds, looking up
     when you should be looking down,
     your hopeful imagination miles and miles away from your
     Here And Now.

Pay attention to the dirt!

     You!  With your eyes rolling 'round in youthful indignation
     playing in your happy little Tomorrow-Never-Land
     with those greedy little fingers on those greedy little hands
     talking your talk while walking blindly through a land filled
     with obstacles which have been moved around beneath you,
     by Big fingers, while you ignorantly slept!

Mind your step!
Pay attention to the dirt!

Do the math which you think you believe in,
while the gods you don't believe in
laugh at your stumble.
Go ahead...  Hold your head high in false pride
listening only to your own mumble
of self awareness as you go fumbling
through your pockets
jingling your worthless
change.
Best you dig deeper to secure the coins you'll need
when you come to YOUR final crossing.

Pay attention to the dirt!

"Life is short",  you often say.
But you're wrong.  Life is long,
And so very very wide.
    
     And yet you ride your time on one little narrow strip,
     always looking behind you as you stomp backwards
     in a foolish attempt to delay the arrival of your own
     inevitable.

     But even when that fateful day comes, you won't see it.
     You'll be too busy looking up.  Looking behind you.
     Tripping myopically along, blissful and unaware of
     Why.  Or Where.

Pay attention to the dirt!

Turn around, bend down.
Dig into that loam of home
with those greedy little fingers...

Linger awhile there, study the sift,
let it drift through and around your
knuckles...
And Feel the Real!
Look ahead, not behind.

     Observe the curve and swerve of the Glory Road
     stretched out before you and never-you-mind
     what fades behind!

     The Past at last has passed on and Tomorrow's Now
     awaits your feeble crawl towards the Wide.
     Into the Long.
     Beneath a sky which does not forgive,
     or even promise a firm footing.

Pay attention to the dirt!
  
     let me ask you...
     what is the price for dignity?
     the cost of respect?
     There is no lay-away plan.
     No six-month-same-as-cash agreement
     on a bargain basement consignment
     thrift shop deal-of-the-day.
    
     No red-tag blue-light special
     on a slightly used one-owner
     runs-well, cleans up OK Life.

     You can Not wheel and cajole a sneaky deal
     for a piece of pride on this ride into your
     particular continuum.
    
     There are no coupons.

     There is only Not Yet
     and Self, one day/per/day,
     as you plan and execute your
     next mistake.

     As you buckle your OWN boots and walk your OWN walk
     smiling,
     into the wind of contention.

So, Pay attention to the dirt!

Pay attention to the dirt!

And you mind your step.
You mind your step.
Timothy Mooney Apr 2011
We found comfort in His hand
Solace in His song
a small one-note
the final note...
We found Joy in His dance
Rhythm in His stillness
a quaint quiet
a final peace...
We found Happiness attended
Balance in His whisper
a small movement
a final step...
We, who were once of mud
And breath
And need
Are freed
From those confines
From that war...
The Hero Peris saved us
By His sword
Swift
A final kiss.
copyright 2011 T.P.Mooney
Timothy Mooney Apr 2011
We found comfort in His hand
Solace in His song
a small one-note
the final note...
We found Joy in His dance
Rhythm in His stillness
a quaint quiet
a final peace...
We found Happiness attended
Balance in His whisper
a small movement
a final step...
We, who were once of mud
And breath
And need
Are freed
From those confines
From that war...
The Hero Peris saved us
By His sword
Swift
A final kiss.
copyright 2011 T.P.Mooney
Timothy Mooney Apr 2011
She was a pale direction
I had foolishly taken
One mistaken hollow night
on a backward road
(one of many)
One mistaken turn
A downhill flight
with both eyes squeezed
narrowly open

She was a wan point
I had drifted towards
offering me dumb luck
and succor
(a sucker's lean)
All tall and mean
and dangling
Lost promise
In a slit-to-the-wish-bone dress

She was a pit-bull in *******
straining at her chain
and I was the last
worried and weak link
(she was fast)
She grabbed me by
my heart-pant leg
and yanked me
down sweetly down

I hated her
as hard as
she loved seeing me fall
(I could hear)
thin brushes on snares
and a deep rumble
(her laughter)
or a stand-up bass?

She was a pale direction
and I had
nowhere else
to go.
Timothy Mooney Jan 2011
I don't rhyme stuff just to rhyme it
Though I do it all the time.  It
Seems to follow some odd pattern
Though it doesn't seem to matter.
Words just fall into their spot.
It tends to happen quite a lot.
Take this here, for one example-
Use it as a simple sample-
I can't help it; It's my nature...
Syntax, meter, nomenclature.

(And if I've offended thee
with my skewed-phonology,
     I bow and beg and plead.
For it is only silly rhyme I
Tend to write from time to time
     To make your eyeballs bleed.
To make your eyeballs bleed I do with verse obscure and all askew
     And dire opinion spake)

So if I have offended thee
Just take a nap and you will see
My meaning when you wake.
copyright 2010 T.P. Mooney
Timothy Mooney Jun 2011
Eventually
Everything
Will be said
And written
In every language
By everyone
In every possible
Combination
Of beat
And meter
And ...  
...pause.
Eventually.
Then
What will
Poets do?
(And then
God whispered
In my ear
And Said
"Silly...
They will
Invent
New
Words".
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
Next page