Hypochondrial Delusion
A mind corrupted canker
Of cystic self failure
Even gastric anorexia
And fluttery throb to alight the fear
An adrenaline generated tachycardia
That matches respiration
And causes hyperventilation
With invasive pacy rhythm
And palpitating violation
To anxious infarction
In schizoid arrest
A hepatic paranoia
of dermal yellow
And lily liver assault
That feeds a life non start
Of malignant low self esteem
A delusional malaise
Of apoplectic panic
And stressful apoplexy
A localized dorsal twinge
To further worry
Lumbar or thoracic or
Renal calculi or a case of
Bulimic nausea and peptic ulcer
To stoke the festering psyche
Of somatic obsession
Embolic anguish that leads to
A hypertensive strain
With muscular tremor and distorted vision
And a full blown occulogyric crisis
Ensued by catatonia
Comatosed by
Psychotic breakdown and
Inactive body systems
A perusal of the medical book
Confirms the diagnosis of
Life threatening
Hypochondria
in a pub in Ireland
So this Mick on the next stool,
who's as serious as Yeats
but looks like Wilde,
stares at me,
with eyes crossed,
sipping Guinness through the foam.
Finally he burps and says,
"I'll bet that growth is cystic.
If it were on my nose,
I'd light this match,
hold a straight pin over it,
then prick it.
Poof! There'd be
a belch of goat cheese, sure.
But what of it?
You'd need a Q-Tip,
maybe a drop of p'roxide.
But in two weeks
new skin would bloom
smoother than a baby's bum.
With your luck, Yank,
it would freckle."
Donal Mahoney
FAITH BRINGS THE HARVEST
Although they go forth weeping
carrying the seed to be sown,
They shall come back rejoicing
Psalm 124
The furrows of our beginnings lie barren: cystic Seeds fallen between the rows; statues of clods
Represent still stages shadowing scenes
Deferred.
Ancient ones, rooted by the river, grow
Like their mother willows: weeping tears
To barren seeds rains have forgotten to fall on.
(Who or what will germinate their souls?)
The plow masters have gone to wilderness:
Wandering trails of bygone labors; the
Plow sheds have gone empty; bellows
Have lost their harvest winds.
Fields, in shadows of mountains, await
The coming of the rain goddess; we
In memories of acacia dreams,
Sprinkle phoenix ashes;
Whispering sacred words
To dormant seeds we have sown:
Indeed, faith will bring the harvest.
ONLY THE DREAMER DIES…
The arid winds steal
Our tears.
The sterile dust tease
Cystic hopes
Of dreams deferred.
At shrines of Lazarus
Visions
Beckon the faithful
Silencing
The wailing discontent:
Only the dreamer dies; the dream
Lives on.
Only the dreamer dies; the dream
Lives on.
This Mick on the Next Stool
in a pub in Ireland
So this Mick on the next stool,
who's as serious as Yeats
but looks like Wilde,
stares at me,
with eyes crossed,
sipping Guinness through the foam.
Finally he burps and says,
"I'll bet that growth is cystic.
If it were on my nose,
I'd light this match,
hold a straight pin over it,
then prick it.
Poof! There'd be
a belch of goat cheese, sure.
But what of it?
You'd need a Q-Tip,
maybe a drop of p'roxide.
But in two weeks
new skin would bloom
smoother than a baby's bum.
With your luck, Yank,
it would freckle."
Donal Mahoney
Haley gave up the ghost today,
all we could do was cry and pray.
She'd suffered so long, her whole life,
disease had wracked her body with strife.
Cystic Fibrosis did her in,
choked her lungs and kept her thin,
poor little child, we knew her well,
spending so much time in hospital hell.
She barely made twenty-one,
and now her short life's said and done.
We cried for her mother, in such grief,
but to Haley, by God, death was a relief.
©Danielle White
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