Short Masonic Poems

Cattle-cars filled with Jews,
Hot guitars wailing blues,
Pulsars beaming in the night,
Thoughts of wrong, desire for right,
Cigarette ash- grey and rigid,
German soldier, Russian front frigid,
Masonic poetic words far too turgid...

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They hate
and have a grey face
feeding on corpses
mental homes
masonic lodges
jails
overcrowded with freaks
that think of themselves
as eagles
dead dogs
full of dead flies
big 
fake smiles
hidden in leather gloves
grey eyes
that scare even
the funeral workers
warming their bones
on their own rage...

That's what they do
they hate
have a grey face
and never cry
for an innocent tear
on an 
innocent eye ......

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For the lost they lead
On the path set by their lord
For the oppressed they bleed
Modern masons marching forward
For the hungry they feed


Brave crusading knights 
Templar invaders
Entrance through Masonic rites
European crusaders
Selfless attitude ignites


Fraternal in one accord 
Brave crusading knights
On the path set by their lord
Constructing gothic sites
From the west marching forward...

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With the onslaught of hatred brewing.
The deceased abode is ready,
for its first viewing.
Hidden deep within the urban decay,
safe from political debates and heated frays.
The manner in which this manor was mantained,
shouts of moral abuse.
A century and a half young,
this steeple chase race has it debut.
In the anti masonic stature of youth,
dedcadent heirs fill its halls.
The manor prepares for its 
second rising...

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off to the side
i give my
masonic sign

then blinking
three times
with my right

eye i
show you my
bootlaces dyed

yellow
our color 
you nod and smile

raising
your evening
gown slightly off

the ground
exposing bare
feet

then you
scratch your
nose twice then

pause

and
scratch it
twice again

noticing
you've been using
your left hand middle

finger
so i give
a knowing grin

dress
casually
dinner at ten...

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Bag Lady 

		Chicago’s North Side

This senior citizen 
whose face is Rushmore still
squats with pigeons on the steps
of the Rogers Park Masonic Temple.
She wears a shawl this snowy day 
and is beneath the visor of a hunting cap 
a woman who has paused along the way.
Her shopping bags, stuffed, frayed,
and each square feature of her face, confess
she speaks at best a little English.
Rested, she will rise, 
a penguin on a floe,
and navigate her day.


Donal Mahoney...

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