The Shores of Coeur d'Alene

This is an acrostic about Coeur d'Alene, Idaho...

Iridescent brilliant blues,
Dazzling, vibrant natural hues,
Amorosity billows proud,
Heaven's scent pours out loud.
Oregon's once rightful heir,
Spokane River gets you there,
Hills and Mountain pageantry,
Eye of the Needle legacy,
Alene's banks flair with grace,
Riverstone, a welcome place.
Thompson's Northwest boundary,
Oregon Treaty's quandary.
French for "Heart of the awl",
Abundant life, fish or foul.
Northern Rocky's hidden gem,
A slice of heaven, Canadian friend.
William Sherman's claim to fame,
Lakes and shores of Coeur d'Alene.

Copyright © March 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001

030610

Elwood P. Dowd Revisited

Most folks were proud of Elwood P. Dowd,
His demeanor and strict social grace.
He never prejudged,
Or ever begrudged
Those fortunate to enter his space.

He was quite a gentleman to friends and kin,
Seemed always quick with a quip.
Those folks who knew him,
Could see right through him,
Elwood always enjoyed a good nip.

His family was tolerant, often despondent,
He never hurt or caused anybody harm.
When away from his home,
His quirks were well known.
Many felt he should be on a funny farm.

Dowd went to great ends, to make new friends,
Most found him quite debonair.
Eccentric yet humble,
With never a grumble,
The man had distinct social flair.

What folks questioned most, was his one friend of boast,
One invisible to all those but him.
A rarely seen host,
A virtual ghost.
That Elwood always treated like kin.

He was six foot or more, a pooka of lore,
Starch white with two pointed ears.
He wore a black bowler,
That made him look older,
He often drew disjointed jeers.

Despite his affection and lack of reflection,
Dowd's acquaintance was to others referred,
A blind trepidation,
A figment's imagination,
A voice that fellow brothers never heard.

As others cast doubts, Elwood always looked out,
For his comrade and true trusted friend.
Folks could never see,
His stout loyalty,
His devotion and commitment to the end.

Some live their lives, just trying to survive,
Make it from one day to the next.
They move through life's scenes,
Invisible it seems,
To those who could barely care less.

One's social discord, inability to afford,
Life's wishes and indulgent pleasures.
Is never just cause,
To be shunned and appalled,
By those rich in abundance and treasurers.

Though Elwood P. Dowd stood out in a crowd,
He was wealthy in stature and habit.
Visibility didn't shroud,
The joy Elwood found,
In every man, woman, child and six foot rabbit.

Thank you Harvey.


Copyright © November 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
111509

Faceless Child

Teen suicide runs rampant these days. I never quite understand what motivates a child to take his or her own life. It's a sad reality and seems to be getting worse. Look for the signs and be vigilant. Someone may be quietly reaching out to you....

Child of wonder, bore preciously. A gift from God, statistically. A bundled joy of hopes and dreams, A faceless doll with broken seams.   Like a million ants appearing magically, drawn to the perfumed scent of verminal stench, of potato rot, flicked cigarettes and tater tots. Wanted, needed...discarded, unheeded. A constant burden, caught in a turnstile of mundane gyrations. Laughing sadly, wanting badly, crying gladly, glaring madly. Needing to be held together... with tape and Elmer's glue. Never taken seriously...in need of bear hugs and kisses. Lost self-esteem, found visine - persecution, blame, tempted to feel...bloated, blistered. Trying to fit in...to size 48 jeans - bell-bottoms, extra-wide loops. Cursing, hurting myself while the world watches quietly, ignorantly, calmly, blindly. Aroused, cared for, a temporary solution...of vodka and tonic. Tangerine Listerine, iced cold chlorine. A quiet place. Secluded, poluted. Sequestered, serene. A permanent escape, only illusionary, Contusionary, quite contrary. A happy space with velvet walls and purple passion fruit, cellophane mirrors, twinkling ceiling stars and chimney soot. Mindless adventures, never leaving my room...filled with thoughts of injustice, laughter...of the sinister kind. Trusted blinders on my eyes' windows, the venetian kind...portals to a world I can't understand, Can't cope with, find reason...for living, for dying, forgiving, denying. I am a marionette pulled by strings that disappear into clouds of mental anguish. Led to believe, bred to conceive, to repent. To wade through a cesspool-ed, Cubic-led, tunnel of escape. Wanting to feel, alive with purpose, with compassion, with meaning...to call my friends. Forgetting what it's all about, What the future holds..in doubt. Reaching for solutions...of vodka and tonic, Listerine and grenadine, NyQuil, Dayquil, Turpentine jellybeans. I am a child, a faceless child, suffering from... Imperfection, neglect-ion, seeking resurrection. Conformity, sobriety, A permanent vacation...from society. Don't laugh at me, don't cry for me... Out loud, insanely, profanely. Understand, this was all unplanned...carefully. Thought out, but spur-of-the-moment. It'll only hurt...the one's I love and those I thought I did. I am invincible, invisible, impermeably broken. My well laid plan cannot withstand, Scrutiny, starvation, incarceration. My blessed room, my cubicle tomb. The place I run and hide. I am a butterfly out of season. I have reached my peak. My wings are tired. I have conspired. It's tranquility I seek. A step-stooled stairway to heaven, or hell. It's hard to tell. I cannot dwell...or linger any longer. Just 2 steps to salvation's creation, to the edge of being... Bitter persuasion, contemplation, perpetuation. The tension's there, a mindless stare. Thoughts are running everywhere. I don't care. I hear music...muffled commotion, silent emotion... a tingling sensation, a last temptation. Standing on the threshold of a dream, Reality, a viable escape. Afraid, curious, defiant. Committed, serious, reliant. A final step toward eternity. The terminal plunge, the taut...lesson of life, The inevitable loss of...everything I've ever striven for. Consciousness, then realization, cold pervasion. The pain is minimal, never really there. I hear the final footsteps...of a life gone by, Slowly slipping away. My mind is drifting, still intact, Circling a drain of cerebral black. My feet are dangling. I am floating on air. Uninhibited, undenied, walking on a cloud 2 feet high. Stretching eagerly for another side. My world is fading, disappearing... Right before my very eyes. I am drifting down a river of solitude. Relaxation is seeping in, As I extend toward an approaching light. Darkness prevails, resistance curtails, No more struggles... To fight the demons I have learned to embrace. I am now free of the torment, confusion, resolution. My need to escape subsides...behold, peace. I am now truly alive.   I was a child with hopeless dreams. Bore preciously, raised normally. Caught in a whirlwind's soliloquy. A blemish of burden to those I met, An incurable disease, unwashable speck. A faceless child that no one sees, On bended knees, With crooked neck.

Copyright © July 2009 Kevin Mooney  

kmm020
101509

The Final Tour

This poem was written to describe and compliment the accompanying work of art by the popular new age artist, Jon Pitre called Heaven. You may want to look closely at the painting before your read the poem.


Everyone have your tickets ready,
The tours about to start.
Stay behind the bright white line,
Please don't drift apart.
Anyone with children,
Should step to the front of the line.
Help a child that's alone,
So they're not left behind.

Okay now, we're going to begin,
Tickets if you please.
Slowly step to the front, get in.
You might at first feel squeezed.
Everyone ready? Great, let's go.
Hold the railings tight.
Those of you in the middle.
Hold the person to your right.

It will only take a minute,
For us to reach the top.
The car moves fast yet pretty smooth,
And comes to a gradual stop.
Here we are, now everyone,
Slowly step outside.
You may feel a little dizzy,
We're up pretty high.

All of you look straight ahead,
See that twinkling light?
That's our destination friends,
Isn't it a wonderful sight?
Some confuse those vapors,
With ordinary clouds.
Actually they're a billion souls,
All wrapped in soft white shrouds.

Now you may be noticing,
All the bubble cells.
How they seem to replicate,
Grow bubbles within themselves.
These are both birthing places,
And where those passed now dwell.
This is where one's spirit goes,
Unless it goes to hell.

If you look very closely,
Within each bubble's core,
You'll see a very intense light,
And wonder what that's for.
That's is where creation starts,
That's where life begins.
That's where we all come from,
And where our lives will end.

See all the bubbles, big and small,
They dominate the sky.
Some are floating to and fro,
While others just pass by.
And within each and every bubble,
Someone's born and dies,
It's every human's life cycle,
No need to wonder why.

And as the bubbles drift away,
They lose their clarity.
Each core's bright intense light,
Is all that's left to see.
They become vestal spheres,
Of who we were and are.
Each a person's life-lived years,
Blends into the stars.

You may wonder what this means?
How it effects you.
The reality is that you're here,
To see as those passed do.
We're only moving forward friends,
There's no turning back.
You've all lived exemplary lives,
Please be assured of that.

For what lies here before you,
No mortal man can see.
You have crossed the threshold,
Of immortality.
This is Heaven, your new home,
There's no door or gate.
You'll not suffer or be alone,
It's every good soul's fate

Once inside you'll realize,
How good your life has been.
You'll look God straight in the eyes,
Then give yourself to him.
There's no turning back now,
No consequence or cure.
Here my friends, your first life ends,
This is the Final Tour.





Copyright © May 2010
Kevin Mooney


kmm001
050110

Severna Park

Dedicated to town I live in...


Nestled deep in the Chesapeake,
A town that folks adore.
Quietly lies,
Surrounded by,
Miles and miles of shore.

Wedged between two rivers,
Linking north to south,
The Magothy weaves,
While the Severn recedes,
Converging at each other's mouth.

Enriched with watershed wildlife,
Nurtured by the Bay,
Blue heron's stand,
In crab filled sands,
While fishermen earn their pay.

Lauded for history and culture,
A picturesque Atlantic gem.
Visitors seek,
A vestal peek,
Through Folger McKinsey's pen.

A summertime antique getaway,
Where beaches spill into backyards.
Cypress trees bend,
While seasons blend,
Into pastoral living postcards.

Baltimore's southern neighbor,
Anne Arundel's northern jewel.
Slips with yachts,
Challenge long wooden docks,
As schooners and sailboats rule.

In the shadow of old Annapolis,
Generations wind on forever,
Seafood feasts,
And iconic treats,
Severna Park, a Maryland treasure.



Copyright © December 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
010110

More Dog Letters To God...

Dear God,

I'm a lucky dog, with a comfortable home,
Fed regularly, bathed, brushed and combed.
I go for long walks, get occasional bones.
I have a fenced yard but can never roam.
Why is that?

Dear Dog,

You are very fortunate, my canine friend,
But the world's faster than you may know,
Too many dogs reach untimely ends,
With humans constantly on the go,

Dear God,

Sometimes my master forgets my water,
My throat gets parched and dry.
So I'll drink from the toilet, does that really matter?
It bothers him and I can't figure why.
Can you clarify?

Dear Dog,

Yes, people get busy and are prone to forget,
The necessities which pets need the most.
Don't worry too much and drink from the toilet,
Just avoid it if yellow or if somethings afloat.


Dear God,

Sometimes my butt itches so I try to scratch it,
But I can't reach, as hard as I try.
So I sit on the carpet and scootch forward a bit,
My master goes ballistic.  Why?

Dear Dog,

Well friend you see, carpets are expensive,
I realize they're more abrasive than grass.
I suggest the next time you get apprehensive,
Find somewhere more private to scratch your ass.

Dear God,

My best friend Jafar got hit by a car,
We were just playing and he chased a cat.
His master took him to a place that is far,
I never saw him again, where's he at?

Dear Dog,

Jafar is okay, he's here with me, just as other dogs are.
People spend money and go to extremes,
When the injured and ill are as they are.
Pets are more expendable it seems.

Dear God,

When people eat they sit at a table,
In chairs with their feet on the floor.
I get my food served on the floor, when they're able,
It's hard to listen when your eating on all fours.
Any suggestions?

Dear Dog,

People are funny, they spend lots of money,
They never like it thought that they're poor.
Their talk may be dull and what would the fun be,
If you never ate scraps off the floor.

Dear God,

And what's the deal with hot food on plates?
I always get my food served cold.
I must admit though, sometimes I can't wait,
Is it quicker to get served in a bowl?

Dear Dog,

No, not really, it's a matter of taste,
It depends on your owner and the time it takes,
People get caught up in their hurried haste,
It's not so bad though when you get to lick plates.

Dear God,

I've heard it said dog's look like their masters,
I've never known that to be true.
Is it right you created man in your image?
Does that mean dogs look like you too?


Dear Dog,

That's true, in a sense, I gave dogs my demeanor.
Canines reflect what good men should be.
They're special to me, their name makes it clearer,
Just spell Dog backwards and you'll see what I mean.


Dear God,

I understand dogs age faster then masters,
In dog years, one equals man's seven,
When humans die it's You that they ask for.
Is it true what they say, that all dogs go to heaven?


Dear Dog,

Yes my friend, that is true.



Copyright © October 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm022
102009

Walter Augustus Lee

People always touted him,
Walter Augustus Lee.
No one ever doubted him,
Or his sincerity.

He was there to give advise,
You never had to ask him twice.
There was never one as nice,
As Walter Augustus Lee.

Those he knew respected him,
Saw all good reflect in him,
Wanted to connect with him,
And his prosperity.

He always cared for those with less,
Treated them as honored guests.
Sought good will and happiness,
For all society.

He gave away most he had,
Comforted the weak and sad.
Seemed content, never mad,
As far as most could see.

He never turned a heedless eye.
Minced his words for reasons why.
Yes, there was not a nicer guy,
Than Walter Augustus Lee.

Life then took a sudden turn,
Exposed a frailty.
What seemed at first a mere heartburn,
Turned out worse, you see.

Doctors probed and ran some tests,
Bi-pass surgery seemed the best.
When they discovered the seriousness,
They let poor Walter be.

No one came to comfort him,
In his time of need.
He'd wait for God to come for him,
With solemn dignity.

As his last days passed him by,
He just prayed, not asking why,
He knew one day soon he'd die,
Alone and quietly.

Though all his life he had shared,
It seemed as if no one cared.
And so it was no one was there,
When Walter bid goodbye.

I never knew someone who could,
Praise the way he did.
I never really understood,
The final days he lived.

A righteous man with tender hands,
Who always did the best he can.
Somehow seemed a lesser man,
In posterity.

Poor Walter Augustus Lee.


Copyright © December 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
120410

I Took My Friend...

I took my friend to see the doctor,

He was feeling bad.

The doctor told me what was wrong,

What little time he had.

I looked my friend in the eye,

Could not find words to explain.

Tears welled up as I tried,

To ease his incurable pain.

The doctor told me all I could do,

Was comfort him and wait.

I watched the life in his eyes,

Fade then dissipate.

I bid farewell through my tears,

Told him it would be fine.

I loved him dearly, for so many years,

That beautiful friend of mine.

I didn't realize how much I cared,

How little time we had.

When I took my friend to be with the lord,

The best friend I ever had.

RIP Niles
December 2003 - March 2014

Copyright © April 2014
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
0420714

Purple Penguins

Dapper Dan's from down below,
Weeble, wobble to and fro,
Winter bound in ice and snow.
Sporting feathered tuxedos.

Purple Penguins perched up-rite,
Playfully poignant, poised, polite.
Comedians dressed in black and white,
Slipping, sliding left and right.

Minstrels of cold South Pole nights.
Braving blizzards' blistery blights.
Antarctic's favorite frigid friends.
Marching onward with their kin.

Bashful birdbrained beaked heroes,
Tempting temperatures below zero.
People pause to watch them play,
All applause their pensive ways.

Caped connivers, fettered foul,
Sole survivors exist somehow.
Constantly struggling to fit in,
The always bungling purple penguins.




Copyright © February 2010
Kevin Mooney