The Last Judgement

This poem is a tribute to The Beatles White Album and was written on 9/9/2009. It's an acrostic. Try to guess what the acrostic is...

So the four angels were released,
Who were prepared for this hour,
Day, month and year to kill,
A third of man thus empowered. (Revelation 9:15)

There rose a dark angel from the abyss,
A fallen star from a fiery mist.
He was given the key to the pit,
A prophesy soon rose out of it.

Revolution.

Number Nine, Number Nine, Number Nine...

Back in the days of Kings and Czars,
Dearly beloved, most prudently proud.
Glasses be raised both near and far,
Oh for the love of an LA crowd.
Wilderness hones each fragile magpie,
Tears both stain and broken hearts still.
Withered remains of guitars that fly,
Help heal souls and hopes fulfill.

Marvelous martyrs meander near,
Idiosyncrasies wasting away.
Blips on screens, fouls that fear,
Pestilent parasites caught in the fray.
Rock the child, recline the weary,
Do not allow them to slither away.
Why should a child's future be cheery,
If only the poor are willing to pay.
Judge yourself on Judgement Day.


Born to die, the birthday lament,
Years gone by one can never get back.
Mother must I forever repent?
Every one's destined to fade to black.
Seven seals sent seven Angels,
Hell turned shelter then to stone,
Lambs and Lions lives are fragile,

Rest assured they'll atone.
Hades harbors hazy winters,
Sinners suffer sweltered nights.
Champions are never made from winners,
Resolution resolves fights.
God is good and always right.

Number Nine, Number Nine, Number Nine...

It's Judgement Time.



Copyright © August 2010
Kevin Mooney
kmm001
090909

Pardon My French

Parlez-vous francais?
Oh, by the way.
There sure is an array,
Of French stuff these days.

Close your eyes, pass the French Fries,
They go great with French Onion Soup.
A little French Bread on the side,
Along with a glass of French Vermouth.

A little dab of French Vanilla,
In French Coffee cannot miss.
French silk pie and a silk pillow,
May just earn a guy a French Kiss.

I like salad with French Dressing,
Along with a slowly roasted French Hen.
A Fresh French Pastry sure is a blessing,
But don't let French Dip go to your head.

A French Horn is a wonderful instrument,
A French Trotter a beautiful horse.
A French Window's a subtle supplement,
A French Drain a reliable recourse.

French mustard instead of Ketchup,
A French twist to spread it on.
French toast and warm maple syrup,
Served with French press and a fresh croissant.

Is there really a French Foreign Legion?
Do movie goers like French Foreign Films?
Did Mr. French leave for a reason?
French Poodles best names come from butlered realms.

I'm not saying the world's less pragmatic,
I like Italian and Spanish, too.
German and Russian I find less romantic,
But "French" seems to preface our food and our mood.


Copyright © August 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
081810

Nocturnal Classic Rock

Nazareth's love hurt the hair of the dog,
Oyster's reaper feared astronomy blue.
Cream's white room was heavy and long,
Traffic's Barley Corn probably died too.
Uriah Heep's Gypsy was wired wrong.
Rush's heart was closer to the trees,
Nugent had a sweet stranglehold on.
Aerosmith's sweet emotions could please.
Led Zeppelin had their heavenly song.


Copyright © August 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
080810

Shoo-fly Pie

What the heck is shoo-fly pie?
It sounds gross to me.
I could never, ever try,
An bug baked pastry.

Who will try this shoo-fly pie?
It looks so darn yummy.
There's no way, the reason why,
Is I'm no darn dummy.

Shoo-fly pie has no flies,
That's a fallacy.
Sugar, molasses, eggs and spice,
Comprise the recipe.

So why do flies like shoo-fly pie,
What's it that they see?
Flies have eyes that often spy,
Things sweet, warm and nasty.

If you try and shoo the flies,
I'll try your shoo-fly pie.
Shoo the flies so that I,
Don't eat flies that fly by.

I took a bite and you were right,
I do like shoo-fly pie.
But If I might, be polite,
Next time you decide to ask us.

More folks might, take more bites,
Of this pie you so like,
Made with sugar and spice just right,
If you just called it molasses.



Copyright © August 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
080810

Welcome to the Freak Show

The bearded woman smiled at me,
Then took my last fifty cents.
I took a breath,
Scared to death,
By the aura of the tents.
 
As I entered cautiously,
My skin began to crawl.
The air was thick,
And I felt sick,
I heard a man then call.
 
"Welcome to the Freak Show",
Was what he said to me.
It seemed like hell,
Though I could tell,
Fake from reality.
 
"These things you are about to see,
Are going to blow your mind.
"Nature's freaks,
Forsaken geeks,
The weirdest sights you'll find."
 
Down an endless corridor,
Were rooms set on display.
I almost balked,
Then slowly walked,
Toward the first lit bay.
 
Inside there sat one lone man,
As normal as me and you.
Then I saw,
To my awe,
Three legs instead of two.
 
In the next opening,
Waving claw shaped hands,
I could see,
The deformity.
They called The Lobster Man.
 
Then I heard a high shrill squeal,
Coming from next door.
My body froze,
When I saw the nose,
Of the Pig-Girl on the floor.
 
As I moved on I could hear,
A woman laughing at me.
Then I was aware,
Of a rocking chair,
With a lady both huge and scary.
 
In the next stall I then saw,
A man that had two heads.
Both heads turned,
And murmured two words,
"Go Back" was all they said.
 
I looked back from where I came,
And nothing looked the same.
Each opening,
That I had seen,
Was now a closed dark frame.
 
Looking forward down the corridor,
I saw a twinkling light.
Despite my fear,
It seemed near,
So I continued to see the sights.
 
In the next room I could see,
A man dressed all in white.
Protruding from him,
Was his dead twin,
His body, no head in sight.
 
Next a young boy covered in hair,
His body completely engulfed.
His sign shared,
Please beware,
Of the world's only Human Wolf.
 
Then I saw the scariest of all,
Horribly deformed and bent.
The crippled body,
The mangled oddity,
The man they called Elephant.
 
He motioned toward the entrance,
Tried to point me there.
I misunderstood,
And solemnly stood.
It seemed all I could do was stare.
 
I'd seen twenty or more horrors,
Was overcome with sadness.
How could fools,
Be so cruel.
What justified this madness?
 
Then I saw the twinkling light,
Coming from the final stall.
As I arrived,
I realized,
It was no light at all.
 
Instead there stood a mirror,
About 3 and a half feet tall.
I was aghast,
When at last,
The reflection I then saw.
 
I could see my whole body,
My face was white and pale.
Behind me,
There seemed to be,
A long and dangling tail.
 
The sign in front of the last stall read,
"This is the final exhibit.
Please enjoy,
The Monkey Boy",
There was no door or exit.



Copyright © August 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
080710

Spirits of 161

There's a chill this time of year,
That always grips the Bronx.
Sirens, planes and subway trains,
Muffle Manhattan's response.

Mighty bombers rest their souls,
Heroes of America's past-time.
Historic figures from days of old,
Legends of days gone by.

Excitement fills every year,
As fans from far and wide,
Celebrate and hysterically cheer,
What's become known as Pride.

From Miller Huggins to Babe Ruth,
Lou Gehrig and DiMaggio,
McCarthy, Mantle, Marris, Ford,
Martin and Rizzuto.

Larson, Berra, Casey Stengel,
Red Ruffing and Bill Dickey.
Thurman Munson, Elston Howard,
Guidry and Mattingly.

Catfish Hunter, Reggie Jackson,
Dave Winfield and Tommy John.
Willie Randolf, Chris Chambliss,
Righetti and Henderson.

Bernie Williams, Paul O'Neil,
Andy Pettite and Giambi,
ARod, Clemens, Derrick Jeter,
Rivera and Joe Torre.

Sometimes it seems like hallowed dreams,
Haunt these fabled streets.
Phantoms forged in history,
Figments of lore and feats.

Some have called them Gods,
To others they are Kings.
They're measured by titles,
Homerun swings and rings.

There's a sense of urgency,
That possesses everyone.
Devotion more than loyalty,
For the Spirits of 161.

Stand on any street corner,
In this part of town.
Listen closely and you'll hear,
The ghostly roar of a crowd.

So many have come and gone,
So many bled and died.
Draped in sacred blue pinstripes,
Donned the Yankee Pride.


Copyright © August 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
080310