Thursday, December 11, 2014

Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Joe Brickle's Estate

 I have spent hours 
lying in the sun 
on Joe Brickle’s farm

waiting for Pedro and Pablo
to fetch Little José
with his sickle and scythe

to cut down the high grass
so Pedro and Pablo
can roar their mowers

over the cowlicks.
I have not wasted time
lying in the sun

watching two doves 
in the grass
walking in circles 

waiting for a sparrow 
to dance on the rung 
of a feeder

Joe Brickle hung  
in his Dogwood. 
The doves need the seed

the sparrow will scatter.
Joe Brickle named goats 
after prophets in the Bible.
He'd be happy to know
that I've named the doves 
Pedro and Pablo

and the sparrow 
now landing  
is Little José.

Film Noir
They had to operate
remove the one
and from the other
take a nugget.
Later in the hall
they said they got it all.
They said how well
she’d be with rest.
Her first night home,
as we prepared for bed,
she turned to show me.
In my mind the cinema of fleet
but fecund years
ran through another time.

Bottle into Glass
Beneath the bowling-alley
bar marquee
the rain tonight
hammers off
the concrete.
Inside, beer flops
bottle into glass.
Beyond the bar,
bright lights
reveal a Bowler’s day:
fluorescent shirts
red, yellow, green,
and everywhere
a roar so loud
one can barely hear
the genocide of pins
slain by balls
a lifetime now in transit.
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. 

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