DONAL MAHONEY - POEMS

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs

(Photo: Carol Bales)

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​                                          Metastasis
 

I am sorry to hear the news. 
I lost it when I heard about hers
and now to hear about yours. 
 
I’m livid at times, peaceful rarely. 
If you prefer, I won't forward emails 
about her until you recover. 
 
I thought you should know 
how the doctors say she is doing.
Meanwhile I write about anything 
 
rather than yell about everything.
Some days I go to the basement
and yell when no one is home.
 
 
 
 
 
 
                                 Father the Chameleon
 

Father the chameleon was lime green 
the first day I saw him peering into
my crib smiling and he remained  
 
lime green until kindergarten
when a nun called the house and said
I was disrupting the class and would 
 
he come and have a talk with her.
He remained wildfire red until
the college he paid big money to 
 
expelled me as a senior for sending 
chickens clucking in big crates
to a French professor who gave me 
 
a B instead of an A, thereby killing
my chance for an Ivy League law school.
When I got home and told Father 
 
his face glowed purple as eggplant 
and he began taking huge pills 
day and night, even when a small 
 
law school finally gave me a chance.
The day I passed the bar exam Father 
was whiter than his pills in his coffin.
 
 
 
 
                               A Portrait of Society
 

Red, yellow, brown
work well together in 
a portrait of society.
Add black, no problem.
 
But if we remove the red,
yellow and brown 
and then add white, 
white and black clash.
 
No simple answer but
white and black should talk.
Talking never killed anyone.
Might be worth a try.
 
 
 
 
                           High School in the Fifties
 

In my all-boys school
sixty years ago there were 
two boys who were different.
All four years they walked  
to classes together, books 
clasped to their chests 
the way girls walked home 
carrying theirs.
 
I never saw another
classmate talk to them, 
perhaps because like me 
they didn’t know what to say
or they had nothing to say.
But I never heard anyone
talk about them either.
It was as if they weren’t there.
 
Now 60 years later 
the school sends out 
alumni updates and lists
the two of them as missing 
and asks if anyone might 
know where they are. 
I doubt that anyone does.
We didn’t know where 
they were back then.
 
 
 
 
                  House for Sale in Shady Acres

 
The question isn’t why 
your little world is
suddenly going to hell.
The question is what 
can you do about 
the black couple
 
touring the house
on your block where
the sign just went up
day before yesterday.
The neighbors are calling 
and everyone’s asking 
 
what can be done
before they buy it.
Old Smitty is barely 
cold in the ground
but he can roll over
as often as he wants
because it’s his kids
 
who own the property. 
They live miles away
and want money instead
of the house so why
wouldn’t they sell 
to the first buyer 
 
who meets their price
and can get a loan.
That’s the American way.
Maybe you don’t care if 
the couple moves in
but what can you do 
while flames of anger 
rise around you.
Not a damn thing
 
at the moment because
the neighbors burn
like Agent Orange. 
But if that couple 
buys the house you can 
go over and ring their bell 
at high noon some Sunday,
 
take a pie, shake hands 
and say welcome to 
the neighborhood
and tell them there’s 
no place on Earth 
like Shady Acres,
something they’ll
discover too soon.