Short Scimitar Poems

Scimitar in hand
The donjon sacked by his band….
The parapet stands...

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Collective consciousness
Folded over into a square
Wrapped around a tree trunk
Etched with a scimitar
Another guidepost
To the morning star
Ad nauseam
Barba tenus sapientes
...

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    Dreams that seem to make no sense
      bits and pieces of suspense
    dissolve and vanish before my eyes
      blackmail-spirals, howling skies  

    All exits blocked, no escape
      ghastly images, scimitar-shaped
    horrors dredged-up, long suppressed
      drown in light once awake
...

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Here, 
where the black white shadows 
pond and melt 
her dress 
flutters around the 
pronounced scimitar 
of her neck line. 

Eyes whisper 
fr-ig-id 
with a syllabically thick accent 
as if cold were a ham-fisted lug 
emerging from the 
yawning dark mouth 
of the cabin behind her 
pressing his hands 
with the grip 
of a dying man 
bracing his last breath 
with each 
light blue, 
half moon 
fingernail....

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Oh I am a little metaphor
I love to play a word,
today I am a fortress on 
Tuesday I’m a bird	

On Wednesday I’m a simile
cos I’m like a train, storming
into history,to  play this wordy game

On Thursday’s I push the boat out,
ploughing through the waves, then
Fridays I’m like a scimitar, slicing 
through the raves

And if you catch me weekend,  I 
won’t hold a grudge, just take me
as you find me,  wink, wink,
nudge, nudge, nudge....

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Im a dot,
A small black powerful dot,
I can spoil a celebrity autograph 
I make void a bank cheque signature
I can spoil a sentence, a tiny story:
“A man walked along the. road”
With my friends, we make something mysterious:
“then the door closed………………….”
I highjack a comma
;
I meet up with another dot
:
I question myself with a scimitar shape
?
We dots, team up with our friends, the dashes to make the well known Morse code
. - .. - - ....

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Memories

If one could store them
in the attic without stir 
and turn to other things,

to picking fruit, perhaps,
or seeding it, one could afford
the dalliance of an hour

for one would have the years
one knows will not be those
whose paralytic youth has just begun,

the years whose summer plea
for laughter and for kiss 
somersault the hair 

and scimitar the smile: the years
the sun, the moon, the stars
can never order stop.


Donal Mahoney...

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