Poems and Poetry

Girl with a Munch Face | A Poem by JD DeHart

She is the screamer who I imagine
standing at the open mouth of a bridge,
figure trying to leave the rest of the world
and all she knows behind her, the sign post
of familiarity dimming in the distance

I imagine the smell of family life
and common voices fading quickly

She is the elongated face and I wish I could
offer a rescue, not because she needs it
but because I need to rescue someone; simply
put, it is my sensitivity, the desire to hold up

a leaking world that is probably more
in a position to help me instead.

Perfection | A Poem by Richard Kalfus

Was it a blessing or a curse to have parents
whose faith left no doubt that God was always with them?
Looking over their shoulder like a trusted friend
guiding them as they raised their son

But I was the gay son not perfect in their world
I was lost to them
in trying to live within their spiritual values.

Did I let them down?
Taking drugs to feel less imperfect?
Having unprotected sex at 14 to feel loved
By those who also lived imperfect lives?
Who hated a pompous God
unwilling to make room for them.

What pathetic irony: I needed my parents love
their willingness not to be blind-sided
by a faith that turned their hearts cold
blinding them from looking me in the eyes.

Full Height | A Poem by JD DeHart

She used to sit in the corner
rocking in her old-style chair,
an antique they brought in so
she could play her domestic role,
pretending to know how to knit

the results were knotted
chunks of twigs and twine
they, in turn, pretended they might
one day attempt to wear

while she cradled herself
back and forth, the family thought,
My, how tiny

but then she began to flail
her arms one day and burst
the chair into splinters
and revealed her true height.

A Study of the Tantrum | A Poem by JD DeHart

of course, now we record
them using the variegated
lenses we carry on our person

but I remember a time
when a being could thrash
and shout and the only
evidence was the casual
eyewitness or security cam

I even recall a time when,
to my ultimate Chagrin, I myself
engaged in a small tantrum
and thankfully there was no one
to hold it up like hieroglyphs
on our digital cave wall

White Butterflies and Gram | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Gram tells Stella on the phone
her neighborhood is full of old folks.
She hasn’t seen Stella in 60 years
and won’t see her again because
of the canyon of miles between them.

But Gram insists on keeping Stella
current on her neighbors who die
when the seasons change, although
Stella’s never met one of them.

Gram tells her Tom Murphy’s wife died
around this time last year when the
Monarch butterflies took off for Mexico.
And Mary Kelly’s husband died the day
Gram saw her first robin of the spring.
It was a bad year, Gram tells Stella,

pointing out Father Flynn passed away
at the start of winter when the juncoes
came to bicker with the mourning doves
on the floor of Gram’s porch, fighting over
seed spilled by cardinals from the feeder.

The cardinals and jays stay all winter,
Gram tells Stella, and look beautiful
in the blue spruce surrounded by snow.
Too bad you live so far away, she says.
You’d like it here when autumn comes.

Now the only visitors are white butterflies,
Gram says, the little ones most folks ignore
in summer when Monarchs rule the garden.
Monarchs look as if Tiffany designed them
but they’re more beautiful than any lamp.

Gram doesn’t know if the white butterflies go
to Mexico the way the Monarchs do but says
they don’t look strong enough to make the trip.
Then she wishes Stella the best of health,
says she hopes they’ll chat again next year
and begins a litany of long good-byes.

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