—Poems by Donal Mahoney, St. Louis, MO
(with anonymous artwork)
THIS DARK MORNING
If I were a possum
with a tail that long
I too would hang
from a tree limb
this dark morning
and hiss to frighten
the cats off the deck
away from the food
and water, and then
I'd drop from the limb
and eat as soon as
that fat raccoon
climbing the steps
with the lurching sway
of a hungry Grizzly
washes his food
gobbles his fill
and rumbles away.
________________________
SO MANY HUMMINGBIRDS
This August evening
so many hummingbirds
helicopters of the garden
hover and dart
iridescent in the dusk
flower to flower
sipping perhaps
a last supper
then flying South
before the leaves
before the snow
us at the window
praying they'll stay
knowing they can't
praying for spring
_______________________
RUBY THROAT MADNESS
He paints hummingbirds not
for people to praise them,
ogle and grovel and buy them.
He paints them because
the birds come fluttering
one after another
and won't go away unless
he paints them, every hue.
They line up like planes
at a busy airport, hovering,
waiting their turn to be put
on canvas, made immortal,
one bird at a time,
framed and hung on a wall.
After hanging each painting
he cleans his brushes and whistles
and waits for the next one to come
and hover in front of his eyes.
He prays the last one will perch
on his brush and stay.
If I were a possum
with a tail that long
I too would hang
from a tree limb
this dark morning
and hiss to frighten
the cats off the deck
away from the food
and water, and then
I'd drop from the limb
and eat as soon as
that fat raccoon
climbing the steps
with the lurching sway
of a hungry Grizzly
washes his food
gobbles his fill
and rumbles away.
________________________
SO MANY HUMMINGBIRDS
This August evening
so many hummingbirds
helicopters of the garden
hover and dart
iridescent in the dusk
flower to flower
sipping perhaps
a last supper
then flying South
before the leaves
before the snow
us at the window
praying they'll stay
knowing they can't
praying for spring
_______________________
RUBY THROAT MADNESS
He paints hummingbirds not
for people to praise them,
ogle and grovel and buy them.
He paints them because
the birds come fluttering
one after another
and won't go away unless
he paints them, every hue.
They line up like planes
at a busy airport, hovering,
waiting their turn to be put
on canvas, made immortal,
one bird at a time,
framed and hung on a wall.
After hanging each painting
he cleans his brushes and whistles
and waits for the next one to come
and hover in front of his eyes.
He prays the last one will perch
on his brush and stay.
RIDING SCHWINNS IN '56
You had to have a Schwinn
to lead this pack of boys
riding bikes full speed
baking under the Chicago sun
laughing after senior year
heading to the local park
to play a game of ball
or lob a cane pole
in the park lagoon
with stinkbait on the hook
to catch a bullhead,
cousin of the catfish,
small but just as tough.
Riding Schwinns was High Mass
in the summer after high school
before everyone would join the Army
or wait to be drafted.
Maybe one or two of us
had sober fathers working
and we would go to college.
I was one of those.
Going to college was something
I was told I'd do from third grade on.
So do the homework, my father said,
or he'd wash up and visit the nuns.
Korea ended not too long before.
Two guys ahead of us
would never ride a Schwinn again
or go to college on the GI Bill.
One guy did come back.
For years he walked in circles
around his family's back yard
smoking real Pall Malls,
unimpaired by filters, very long.
Butch was shell-shocked,
neighbors said.
We'd have to pray for him.
They didn't call it PTSD back then.
___________________
THE SAMARITAN CAN HANDLE IT
Ebenezer woke to find
rats in his basement
so he called PETA
to take them away
and the lady hung up
so Ebenezer prayed
and the doorbell rang
and there stood a preacher.
He waved a Bible,
yelled and screamed,
"All you must do is believe
and you will be saved!"
and Ebenezer replied,
"I do believe but
what about the rats?"
The preacher smiled,
turned to leave and
tripped on the stairs.
He never moved,
his head a Vesuvius
lofting a spume of blood.
Ebenezer closed the door
and said to no one, "I believe
the Samaritan can handle it."
OBSERVER OF CURRENT EVENTS
It's not de rigueur
to believe he's there
behind the sun,
the stars, the moon
watching us
holding a burnt match
from the first Big Bang,
a souvenir, and
holding another
yet to be struck
the day he says
"No more!"
_____________________
SEAMUS AND THE REST OF US
After Reading 'Blackberry-Picking' Again
For many years
Seamus Heaney wrote
while the rest of us typed
none of us striking
keys as grand as those
in "Blackberry-Picking."
Not a sour syllable
nor bruised word
in any verse.
"Blackberry-Picking" tells
the rest of us to keep typing.
Excellence never dies
although it may not be ours.
We will hear poems
Seamus is writing now
when we sneak into heaven
and Seamus gives them to
the Seraphim to sing.
_______________________
Today's LittleNip:
A BANQUET IN AUTUMN
In the wind
a butterfly clings
to a marigold while
a bee hovers.
A hummingbird stops
then darts away.
The garden is still
a banquet in autumn.
_______________________
—Medusa, noting that we have another new photo album on Facebook: SHINE FOR WEED by Annie Menebroker. Check it out!
