—Poetry by Donal Mahoney (1938-2017)
—Photos by Carol Ann Bales, St. Louis, MO
—Photos by Carol Ann Bales, St. Louis, MO
WHEN MY WIFE IS IN HER GARDEN
When my wife is in her garden,
she becomes a ballerina
moving with the morning breeze
through hollyhocks and roses,
peonies and phlox.
There is music only she can hear.
It's been that way for 30 years.
I never interrupt her dance
not even when the house caught fire
early in the morning. I didn't holler out
the way another husband might
if he had never had a gardener for a wife.
Instead I called the firemen,
and while they were on their way,
I poured water from the sink
on the growing conflagration.
My efforts proved to be in vain.
The firemen arrived too late and so
the house is now a shell of smoke.
The garden still looks beautiful
yet I have no idea what I'll say
when my wife comes back inside.
But if she's toting roses to arrange
she may not notice any change.
When my wife is in her garden,
she becomes a ballerina
moving with the morning breeze
through hollyhocks and roses,
peonies and phlox.
There is music only she can hear.
It's been that way for 30 years.
I never interrupt her dance
not even when the house caught fire
early in the morning. I didn't holler out
the way another husband might
if he had never had a gardener for a wife.
Instead I called the firemen,
and while they were on their way,
I poured water from the sink
on the growing conflagration.
My efforts proved to be in vain.
The firemen arrived too late and so
the house is now a shell of smoke.
The garden still looks beautiful
yet I have no idea what I'll say
when my wife comes back inside.
But if she's toting roses to arrange
she may not notice any change.
THE LOVELY WOMEN OF MY LIFE
If I met the same women now
I probably wouldn't know them.
They're missing teeth, I bet,
and have gray Medusa hair.
Their eyes no longer dance, I'm sure,
and they have liver spots everywhere.
They likely wobble in their flats
and haven't worn heels
since adding fifty pounds.
Some of them, I'm certain,
wouldn't recognize me, either,
despite thick spectacles.
They can't recall the picnics
we enjoyed with wine and caviar
under oak trees in Grant Park,
never mind the nights that followed.
Who needs a woman that forgetful?
I need a younger woman now,
someone I can finally marry,
a girl with a figure like Monroe,
Hepburn's eyes and Hayworth's hair,
someone lithe, slim and graceful,
someone strong enough to push
my wheelchair up the ramp.
THREE WAYS OF LOOKING AT A FATHER
Dead these many years,
Dad's still there for me
every day, pointing
from a star
toward excellence,
the goal we shared.
I missed two free throws once
at the end of a high school game
and we lost by a point.
On the way home
after the game, he said,
"Why did you miss
those free throws?"
Years later in college
I came home with all A's
and one B. I showed him
my grades and he said,
over his newspaper,
"Why did you get the B?"
After graduation I was thinking
about getting married but I
wasn't certain. So I asked him
what did he think. Once again
he was there for me.
Sipping his tea, he said
"You asked the girl, right?
Follow through."
SIREN OF THE STREETS
Whenever she comes by
it's always the same thing.
I make her comfortable
and then she leaves.
I tell her she's a harlot
hooking up all night
with God knows who
but in her case God
looks the other way.
Curious neighbors
ask if I know her.
I ask them do I look
like that kind of man?
Peter denied Christ thrice
but I make Peter a piker
when it comes to denying
this siren of the streets.
Once in a while a neighbor,
smitten as I am, takes her in
because she's attractive
and it's peaceful until
some morning very early
she's on my deck again
heartbroken, forlorn,
willing to do anything
for a nosh and a drink.
Since no one is up
at that hour to see me
I sit on the deck
and she leaps on my lap
and I stroke her until
she's a Lamborghini
purring at a red light.
Then she drives off,
leaving me on the deck
heartbroken, forlorn.
She must have been spayed.
Never had any kittens.
What might Pope Francis
think about this?
Her kittens, after all,
would have been beautiful
just as she is,
harlot or not.
Fuzzy
CATS ARE POETRY (Maybellene)
In your mind you hear
words snarling
all day long
but no poem arrives.
The words are locked
in a cat fight,
syllables flying.
You hope the words
sleep well tonight and
wake in orderly fashion,
the way your cats
stretch at dawn
and wait to be fed
with feline decorum.
In the morning
the poem arrives
word by word,
chips off a diamond,
so you stop shaving,
grab a pen and
take dictation.
You write the words
as you hear them,
tweak a line or two,
and go spelunking
in your mind for
the right title.
Later, in celebration,
you tote a blast horn
to the roof
of the building
and announce
what agnostics suspect
and atheists know:
Cats are poetry.
Dogs are prose.
In your mind you hear
words snarling
all day long
but no poem arrives.
The words are locked
in a cat fight,
syllables flying.
You hope the words
sleep well tonight and
wake in orderly fashion,
the way your cats
stretch at dawn
and wait to be fed
with feline decorum.
In the morning
the poem arrives
word by word,
chips off a diamond,
so you stop shaving,
grab a pen and
take dictation.
You write the words
as you hear them,
tweak a line or two,
and go spelunking
in your mind for
the right title.
Later, in celebration,
you tote a blast horn
to the roof
of the building
and announce
what agnostics suspect
and atheists know:
Cats are poetry.
Dogs are prose.
.jpg)
Maybellene
ANOTHER CHRISTMAS ALONE
Widow in a rocker
pets her calico cat
long strokes slowly.
With the cat purring
and the widow humming
Beethoven fills the house
with memories of
the many years
of mistletoe
and aftershave
as snowflakes
dot the window.
HOLIDAY PARTIES
Millie comes home bawling
from another holiday party and
Willie asks what’s the problem.
Millie says her friends are cheese balls.
“They’re all widows, short and round,"
and she’s afraid when Willie dies
she’ll eat everything in the fridge
and become a cheese ball, too.
Willie hugs his beloved Millie
and assures her with a kiss,
“You’ll never be a cheese ball, Darling
You're too tall. A cheese stick, maybe.”
SUNFLOWERS
No one has to teach a field
of sunflowers how to worship.
Before dawn in high summer
their necks are bent
in silent prayer like monks.
But as the sun comes up
sunflowers rise as well.
At noon they adore the sun
the way monks in pews
adore the Host at elevation.
Listen and you may hear
sunflowers sing Alleluia!
No one has to teach a field
of sunflowers how to worship.
Before dawn in high summer
their necks are bent
in silent prayer like monks.
But as the sun comes up
sunflowers rise as well.
At noon they adore the sun
the way monks in pews
adore the Host at elevation.
Listen and you may hear
sunflowers sing Alleluia!
Today’s LittleNip:
OLD STAG GIDDY
—Donal Mahoney
Elmer's an old stag now
shedding antlers
snorting among the trees
but sometimes Martha
after her shower
is a doe beckoning
and he becomes giddy
and heads for the salt lick
happy in the breeze
OLD STAG GIDDY
—Donal Mahoney
Elmer's an old stag now
shedding antlers
snorting among the trees
but sometimes Martha
after her shower
is a doe beckoning
and he becomes giddy
and heads for the salt lick
happy in the breeze
_____________________
SnakePal Donal Mahoney first visited the Kitchen in March of 2014, and he was a regular contributor and good friend from then until he passed away in 2017. Since Donal’s passing, his wife, Carol Ann Bales, together with his son, Brian Mahoney, have put together a collection of his work, entitled In Break Formation and Other Poems (New Morse Publishing).
Today’s post is a smattering of the many poems he posted in Medusa’s Kitchen over those three years; three of them, “When My Wife is Working in Her Garden”, “Sunflowers”, and “Three Ways of Looking at a Father”, also appear in the new collection. Occasionally, Carol Ann would contribute photos to his Medusa features, and today she has sent us some more of her photos to go with Donal’s poems. Thank you, Carol, for these, and for putting together this fine collection of your sprightly husband’s work. Carol has three books of her own: Kevin Cloud: Chippewa Boy in the City; Chinatown Sunday: The Story of Lilliann Dor; and Tales of the Elders.
For interest and inquiries about Donal and his book, go to www.donalmahoneypoetry.com/.
_________________
—Medusa, wishing Sacramento a Happy Sacramento Poetry Day!
Donal Mahoney
Sacramento Poetry Day will be celebrated
in the Tsakopoulos Library Galleria
starting tonight at 6pm—for those who were
lucky enough to snag tickets!
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
in the Tsakopoulos Library Galleria
starting tonight at 6pm—for those who were
lucky enough to snag tickets!
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
three deer
silently slip
back into the forest
