The sun set slowly this eve
As the moon seemed to tip toe
Upon the distant horizon
As the handoff of day to night ensued
The sounds of laughing children
Filled the air on this Halloween
A chill fell upon the trick-or-treaters
With hopes costumes would protect
From the oncoming cold night
Little protection, though
Against the hunting and haunting spirits
That wish to walk the earth
By scaring the many children
Into dropping and leaving their candy
Running away and screaming
Aah, the lengths parents go to
To not only examine
But, to get their favorite candy
When the offense takes the field for an attack,
you linemen have to protect your quarterback.
The defense is out to catch him in a sack.
If they could, anyone would like to break his back.
In the huddle, the quarterback makes the call.
At the start of play, he takes the snap of the ball.
Will the play be a pass, or a handoff for a run?
It all looks like a blur once the action has begun.
Everything is serious work and hardly fun.
Follow the playbook, and the game will be won.
For all the points and the yardage gains,
the quarterback pays the price with aches and pains.
After the game, you can hear his joints creak.
He has to get up and do it all again next week.
A Lenten Dirge
Ash Wednesday I saw Quinn again,
first time in years, sailing the streets,
weaving through people,
his collar up, his head cocked, his arms
like telephone poles sunk
in the pockets of his overcoat,
the brilliant pennants of his long red hair
waving over the stadium
where years ago he took my handoff,
bucked off guard, broke two tackles,
found the free field and heaved
like a bison into the end zone.
Today, when Quinn wove by me muttering,
I should have handed him the ball
and yelled, “Go, Quinn, go!”
With the crowd on its feet,
he'd stiff-arm the lamppost,
take the free field in stride,
leave all in his wake to gawk
till he hit the end zone
and circled the goal posts,
whooping and laughing,
flinging the ball like a spear
over the cross-bar, into Iraq.
Donal Mahoney
published in print at
The National Catholic Reporter
115 E. Armour Blvd.
Kansas City, MO 64111-1203
March 6, 2009
The Free Field
I saw Quinn again tonight,
first time in years, sailing the streets,
weaving through people,
collar up, head cocked,
arms like telephone poles sunk
in the pockets of his overcoat,
the brilliant pennants of his long red hair
waving over the stadium
where years ago he took my handoff,
bucked off guard, found the free field,
and heaved like a bison into the end zone.
Tonight, when Quinn wove by me muttering,
I should have handed him the ball.
I should have screamed, “Go, Quinn, go!”
He would have stiff-armed the lamppost,
found the free field again,
left us all in his wake to gawk
as he hit the end zone
and circled the goal posts,
whooping and laughing,
flinging the ball like a spear
over the cross-bar, back to Iraq.
Donal Mahoney
Baghdad Redux
I saw Quinn again tonight,
first time in years, sailing the streets,
weaving through people,
collar up, head cocked,
arms like telephone poles sunk
in the pockets of his overcoat,
the brilliant pennants of his long red hair
waving over the stadium
where years ago he took my handoff,
bucked off guard, found the free field,
and heaved like a bison into the end zone.
Tonight, when Quinn wove by me muttering,
I should have handed him the ball.
I should have screamed, “Go, Quinn, go!”
He would have stiff-armed the lamppost,
found the free field again,
left us all in his wake to gawk
as he hit the end zone
and circled the goal posts,
whooping and laughing,
flinging the ball like a spear
over the cross-bar, back to Iraq.
Donal Mahoney
As day drifts into silent slumber
The sun, itself, tucks away
Under a blanket of darkness
Leaving but the softest nightlight
The moon, for us to use as guide
And inspiration in the nighttime hours
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