Short Flinty Poems

zephyr stirs leafless
oak's limbs on late winter day....
flinty buzzard clings  ...

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Silent Flinty face 	
                                              no emotion, life fed up 	
                                                 Broken heart with in...

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My soul feels the hard rub of  life
so relentless, this flinty grinding 
as I cram through narrow passages, 
crawling on my hands and knees 
towards the salvation of your touch...

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A valley of hope stares up
   at hills of despair
where shuttered cottages groan
   despite the fresh air

Flowers bloom down below
   in neat garden beds
bright-colored lilies grow
   flinty valley overspread...

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I’ve long forged flinty chains, 
Stamped out and branded, my restraints,
Given voice to contented folly 
Then pierced my heart with demon holly. 

To assess blame with shame,
Spilling stain upon my name,
Is laid across my shattered feet
As ultimately I compose my defeat....

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Widower


In the miner’s shack
the vase on the dresser
squats beneath
a giant cactus
planted by hands
flinty and callused.

“When Mona was here,
this vase got roses,
and lots of water.
After she left  
I gave it this cactus.
It never needs water.” 


Donal Mahoney...

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Flinty and Callused

In this miner’s shack
the vase on the dresser
squats beneath
a giant cactus
planted by hands
flinty and callused.

“When Mona was here,
this vase got roses,
nothing else.
After she left  
I gave it this cactus.
It never needs water.” 


Donal Mahoney...

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These hands mend minds and massage maimed muscles  
These hands protect the powerless providing strength to suffering souls
These hands rarely rest, they’d rather
Save sinners souls from flinty fires
Carry cold welcoming waters toward the thirsty
Fetch food for famished fellows
These hands are always here...

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Saints and Sinners
The smile is broad
But the heart is bile

an outstretched hand is birthed
from a saintly pouch
But alas, such as richly coated 
but with a shortened desire
 
A frail passion 
A flinty heart 
devoid of piety
thus encapsulated 
within a virtuous being 
Whereby Enrobing both saints and sinners 

...

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Hs worn hands, they tell a story --
   The furrows where his trusty saw rested
The closed wounds from rusty nails
   The bent fingers from flinty hammer blows
The swollen redness from carrying metal pails

Once soft and smooth, now creased and hard
   His hands may well be old and worn
     ~ Yet his conscience remains unscarred...

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Listen to poem:

Bronze tint glints from fractured
surfaces, peppered planes of salted
quartzite, eons old:
attributes peculiar to rock,
to stone, whose strength
no soft tissue could ever know.

No iodine suntan ever quite
approached that shade, nor ivory
smile's glow blinded
as its glassy show:

To this flinty hardness mind
never swoops; no human heart,
though cruel, could ever reach
its crystal cold....

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It’s a Magic Biscuit
Tender, flaky
Round of course
Golden contours
Awaiting hungry, stretching lips

The Magic Biscuit
Answers many riddles
And asks a few, too…
“How will I taste?”
“Will my flavor and texture
please you?”
“Are you thankful for me?”

All to be revealed in due time
To those deemed worthy…
Both fawning supplicants
And flinty-eyed riddlers
Certainly welcome to apply

The Magic Biscuit
Provides, heals, teaches
Sometimes scolds…
Accepts


Behold the Magic Biscuit
Symbol of Hope...

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The tongue's mystery

The heart's backdoor of the laughing stock
In his furtive,serpentine tongue lodges
The tongue straightaway of the highbrow,brainiac
In his beating,locked up heart camouflages

Many a foot does stumble,vacillate and actually fall
Withstand against all the odds,above all
A lapsus does incapacitate and intention reveal
Prompts irreparable mischiefs elusive to heal

Legitimate ! A tongue isn't in itself a flinty bone
Yet could fragment relics doubtable to atone....

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