Donal Mahoney
donalmahoney@charter.net Bio (auto) | Donal Mahoney, who now lives in St Louis, MO, has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press, McDonnell Douglas Corporation (now Boeing), and Washington University in St Louis He has had poems published in or accepted by The Wisconsin Review, Revival (Ireland), The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, Commonweal, The Beloit Poetry Journal, The Christian Science Monitor, The Davidson Miscellany, The Goddard Journal, The Pembroke Magazine, The Chicago Sunday Tribune Magazine, Sou’wester, Salt Lick, The Mustang Review, Obscurity and a Penny, The Road Apple Review and other publications | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Donal Mahoney nd may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
McDiver’s Creek Autumn’s over Wheatcake odors flood the wood
front porch Andrew Stock,
in mackinaw and overalls,
tamps first tobacco of the day
and estimates his morning
In an open field beyond McDiver’s Creek
a colt, palomino apricot
and snow, nips grass between
great gallops and the shock of trees. First published in print in
The Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine
September 28 1969
In Break Formation
The indications used to come
like movie fighter planes in break
formation, one by one, the perfect
plummet, down and out This time they’re slower But after supper, when I hear
her in the kitchen hum again, hum
higher, higher, till my ears are numb, I remember how it was
the last time: how she hummed
to Aramaic peaks, flung
supper plates across the kitchen
till I brought her by the shoulders humming to the chair I remember how the final days
her eyelids, operating on their own,
rose and fell, how she strolled
among the children, winding tractors,
hugging dolls, how finally I phoned and had them come again,
how I walked behind them
as they took her by the shoulders,
house dress in the breeze, slowly down the walk and to the curbing,
watched them bend her in the back
seat of the squad again, how I watched them pull away
and heard again the parliament
of neighbors talking. First published in print in:
The Beloit Poetry Journal
Vol 19 No 2 Winter 1968-69
Envelope in the Pigeonhole
This evening
when I return to the hotel
I see in my pigeonhole
Angela’s writing
on a yellow envelope. What excuse
will she have for not writing?
Too busy, perhaps,
stirring cauldrons of soup
while the cats dash about
licking her calves. Or don’t the cats know enough
to lick at her calves?
Would that I were the cats
and the cats were taller First published in print in:
The South Carolina Review
December, 1971 Vol 4, No.1
|
Sian Lindsey
nachtjenevel@gmail.com Bio (auto) | My name is Sian Lindsey and I recently retired from the Air Force and moved to Killygordon, Ireland, where I spend my days writing, picking blackberries, cooking, watching the sheep and cows in adjacent fields, and taking classes toward my M.F.A in Creative Writing Beautiful, rugged County Donegal provides endless inspiration for poetry, which is what I most enjoy reading and writing I have dabbled in fiction and creative non-fiction, but poetry remains my first love I live with my seven-year-old son, Caoilte and my husband, Bill, and keenly miss my oldest son, David, who is stationed in England with the US Air Force and my daughter, Moriah, who will graduate from high school in Colorado next May. | | |
The following work is Copyright © 2008, and owned by Sian Lindsey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. Little Fish I ordered the one that was swimming around,
the big one with eyes like dinner plates I didn’t expect them to appear on mine
vacant and telepathic. I was once so adept at skinning them,
little rainbow trout, and those vengeful catfish –
Daddy’s knife turned them to butter. So to my plate, where it lay next to my salad
’til I got up and left it like a jilted ex,
high and dry on the altar
next to the salt and pepper steeples. Afternoon Rain In your little yellow raincoat you flew out the door
clapping and squealing. We muddied the puddles
and raced through the cascading curtains of water
that spilled from the overhung eaves. “Run, Mama!” you gasped amid gales of laughter
and grinning neighbours who sat, bored and dry
watching us giggle and dance and run. We searched for fresh puddles while the dirt settled
in those our bare feet had just blurred. Soaked to the bone, you shed the raincoat
in favour of skin
and danced with me as your brother once did in the afternoon rain.
|
|
