Two Poems by Donal Mahoney

A Family Thing

Someone broke in the house

the weekend the elderly couple was 

out of town, a family thing. 

The TV, the couch and 

computer were gone.

Someone took everything. 

Even the silverware,

tables and chairs.

The couple had everything   

insured except for the new

photos of their daughter.

They were in the computer 

emailed by their son last week.

Kate was all smiles in the photos

and the couple wanted to have them 

printed and framed and hung

on the living room wall

above the fireplace.

The weekend of the robbery

the elderly couple was out of town

at her funeral, a family thing.

Alice's House

Redbud and dogwood have blossomed

above the tulips and jonquils where

Alice's house used to be.

A possum and raccoon nose around 

where the garage was before the tornado. 

An armadillo has joined them.

Someone has hung a red feeder from

the old clothesline. No hummingbirds yet.

Spring has brought new life over there. 

Donal Mahoney lives in Belleville, Illinois. He writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html.

Four Seasons in Haiku by Donal Mahoney

Starlets of Spring

After the Spring rain

two doves on a Dogwood branch

preening like starlets

Summer Snow

A row of lilacs

covered with a summer snow.

Ten white butterflies.

Pheasant Wings

Autumn and the leaves

are crisp in the swirling air.

Pheasant wings everywhere

Hope in Winter

Robin on the lawn.

Three hops and stops to listen.

Somewhere must be Spring.

Donal Mahoney lives in Belleville, Illinois. He writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

Alive Just One Week by Donal Mahoney

Alive just one week,

the Luna moth plastered 

to my screen door 

under porch light is 

pale green and beautiful.

It has no mouth and lives 

just a week so it can mate.

The female calls the male

in the middle of the night 

silently with pheromones.

Keep your porch light on 

from April through August 

and open the door slowly

just after dawn when you

step out to get the paper.

She may still be there.

That’s not unusual at dawn.

The male has done his part

and like so many males

his role’s complete 

so he moves on.

Luna moths must work fast.

Alive just one week, they

have no mouth and never eat.






Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html.

And Go For A Birdsong Ride by Donal Mahoney

Spring will eventually arrive,

Tom tells his youngest daughter

looking out the window at the snow. 

Take heart, he tells her, 

and listen for the blue jays when 

they build a nest in the sycamore 

and chase away the other birds 

that fly unwelcome into the tree  

hoping also to start a family.

He tells his snowbound daughter

once she hears the blue jays' ruckus

spring will be here and she can wear 

her jeans and pretty yellow jacket, 

get on her tricycle with the other girls

and go for a birdsong ride.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html.

Coming Home at Midnight to the Farm by Donal Mahoney

Driving down the hill I see the same bend in the road the school bus took me around for years. I can see in the headlights the wildflowers ringing the curve like a necklace--goldenrod, cornflower, Queen Anne's Lace, God's gift to country roads in the fall. You don't see anything like that in the city but I'm getting used to living there.

I see the house ahead, one light on, upstairs. It's midnight and my father's dead and my mother's in that room praying and maybe crying, waiting for me to pull in. She knows it's a six-hour drive from the city.

The wake will be tomorrow night at Egan's mortuary. There will be 15 decades of the rosary to say and I still have trouble getting through five. Then there will be three hours of listening to my mother's friends console her, ancient ladies all, many of them widowed long before her. 

Many times my mother has been in their place so she knows what they will say but she will find some comfort in it anyway. The old farmers still alive will simply say "sorry for your troubles" which serves as both a condolence and a prayer. 

Mass will be at 10 in the morning with Father Murphy in the pulpit sounding like Bishop Sheen. My dad told me long ago that when he finally died Father Murphy would confer sainthood on him at the funeral, no need for any miracles. Father Murphy has a long history of canonizing every farmer who dies unless he committed one of the seven deadly sins in public. My father said he hoped Father Murphy would talk loud enough for God to hear.

After the procession to the graveyard and the consignment of the casket, everyone will drive back to the church hall for the funeral meal--wonderful food prepared by good women and arranged in a long buffet. 

The farmers will assure my mother they will be out to her place tomorrow and the next day to put up the hay. After the hay is taken care of, they will take turns coming to feed the cattle and they'll go to town to pick up whatever she needs. Things will work out, they will tell her. Not to worry. 

After everyone has eaten, the ladies, one by one, will rise and bow to my mother and tell her to go home now and get some rest. 

The men will shake hands with me and ask how long before I have to go back to the city. I'll say I have a week, maybe two, uncertain as to what night I'll have to leave. I know it will be around midnight. And the same light will be on, upstairs.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He writes poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Some of his flash fiction can be found at https://thestoryshack.com/authors/donal-mahoney

Sunflowers by Donal Mahoney

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!

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.

Small Backyard by Donal Mahoney

It’s a small backyard

I’ve watched for years

from an upstairs window

while chained to a computer.

Whatever the weather

the old widow was always 

planting in spring

watering in summer

raking in fall

shoveling in winter

but the yard’s quiet now

the only traffic 

a resident squirrel

heading for the oak

over the tall grass 

the widow’s heir 

has stopped mowing.

She told her son

you don’t have to garden 

but please mow the grass

rake the leaves and 

shovel the snow

or I’ll shake you

at midnight 

the rest of your life. 

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Galway Review (Ireland), The Osprey Journal (Wales), Bluepepper (Australia), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.

Window at the Abbey by Donal Mahoney

Through the window I see

the sun fire up

for the last time today.

There are jays

in the trees near the meadow,

crows in the grass

I cut with a scythe

early this morning.

Still on my platter

corn from the fields,

scallions, tomatoes,

bell pepper and cheese.

I'll remain at my table

with lemon and tea

and look out on the land

that surrounds me.

The psalms a monk 

gave me this morning

I'll read for an hour

before sleeping. 

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at  http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

Death a Bear by Donal Mahoney

Odd the way the very old

pick a winter day to fall,

break a minor bone,

be assigned to bed

and death a bear

napping out the winter

rises in his lair,

instantly aware

here is Spring

and ultimately honey.

Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had poetry and fiction published in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at  http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html

Tenement Scene, Havana, 1962 by Donal Mahoney

Woman in a window

brushing long hair madly

screams at a little boy

down in the street

licking an ice cream cone

some man gave him

some man she doesn’t know

not the man she’s 

brushing her hair for

who doesn't show up.

The man with the ice cream

may have to do.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis Missouri. Some of his work can be found 

at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=

Gardening in Autumn by Donal Mahoney

She’s been a gardener for years

but more and more she brings 

flowers inside to arrange a

new garden on her mantel.

She’s in transition, she says,

but remembers summer fondly

in the autumn of her life

and sees winter coming so 

she gardens on the mantel now.

There, winter’s not a problem.

Her arrangement, she explains,

has a dahlia, last flower of summer, 

bold above hydrangea leaves

burning red in the midst of fall.

The mugo pine warns of winter.

The pine she’s had for 20 years, 

remembers planting it and hopes 

she’s an evergreen as well.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis Missouri. Some of his work can be found 

at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=

The Honey Room by Donal Mahoney

Brother Al, in his hood,

is out in his field

making love to his bees.

From my room I can see him

move through his hives

the way people should move

among people.

The bees give him gold and the gold

turns orange in the jars

that he sells in a room

near the door of the abbey.

The Honey Room, everyone calls it.

Besides Brother Al, only I

go into that room full of honey.

I go in there and bend

and look through the jars

on the shelves and the sills

till there in the orange I see Sue

standing straight

in a field of her own

with a smile

for our garland of children.

 

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His poetry and fiction have appeared in various publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpaj6n6W.dpbs