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.

 

 

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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.