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

Poor Miss Cynthia Weir

Miss Cynthia Weir wore her hair rolled up in a bun.
She was slight, unsociable, avoided everyone.
Her glasses were unusual, the cat-like pointed kind.
She looked like a librarian or someone almost blind.

Most folks never noticed her, she was plain you see.
She wore average looking clothes, dressed somewhat modestly.
She liked shoes and large handbags that never seemed to match.
No Cynthia, most would say, was not much of a catch.

One day Miss Cynthia Weir did not come to work.
She did not call anyone or even leave a word.
Her co-workers called several times but never got a reply.
They finally called the authorities when several days went by.

When they went to Cynthia's house, Cynthia wasn't found.
Her neighbors said she lived alone and hadn't been around.
Her car was parked just outside, locked and full of gas.
Had Cynthia even been inside was the question asked.

No one had seen or heard from her. No one seemed to care.
It was like Miss Cynthia had vanished into thin air.
She had no friends or family to contact anywhere.
Yes, my friends there was just no more Miss Cynthia Weir.

They checked hospitals, checked the morgue, even checked the jail.
They went through her belongings, phone records and mail.
The authorities looked high and low but it was to no avail.
After several months went by her house went up for sale.

No one ever found her. Perhaps they never will.
A year's gone by and still no sign. It all seems so surreal.
Most folks have forgotten her and when she disappeared.
But I can't help but remember, poor Miss Cynthia Weir.


Copyright © May 2011
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
051511

With All That's Happening

The sun came up, a child was born
It was a beautiful thing.
He was proclaimed a King.

Some heard an Angel sing.

No one knew, to the world,
What that child would mean.
The hope his life would bring.

As a man he would demand,
A change in society.
Race equality.

A place where freedom rings.

On April 4th in '68, at 6:01 p.m.
A shot changed everything.
A single bullet bore through him,
And martyrdom did bring.

To Martin Luther King.

The sun came up, a child was born,
It was a wonderful thing.
Some heard Angels sing.

Christina Taylor Greene.

No one knew the day before,
What that day would bring..
Twin towers fell in a fiery hell,
A nation lay dying.

Lord what was happening?

Amid the strife, a single life,
Helped to ease some pain.
No one knew that her life,
Would break our hearts again.

It was just a matter of when.

The sun came up that Saturday morn,
It was a trivial thing.
As normal as can be.

Amid good weather, folks came together,
For a social gathering,
A political happening.

All knew well, Ms Gabrielle,
And showed support for her.
Not knowing what would occur.

Except Jared Lee Loughner.

Amid pained shouts, shots rang out,
Innocent people died.
With loved ones by their side.

Those that watched just cried.

Among the dead, Christina bled,
Another martyr born.
The target of his scorn?

An entire nation mourned.

In the aftermath, people have,
Tried to reason why.
Christina had to die.

So many innocent lives.

In days gone by, birds have died,
Fish in multitudes.
Floods have ravaged Australia,
Volcanoes erupted too.

Is the whole world coming unglued?

With all that's happening should man be grappling,
With what his future holds?
Did Martin die for you and I?
Was the rapture put on hold?
Was a September 11th child's tragic death,
A sign of things to come?
Is what's happening around the world,
A message for everyone?

Has the end begun?


Copyright © January 2011
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
120410

Those Short Eyes

This is my contribution to the Original Poetry Wooden forum competition on child abuse prevention. Sorry if it offends...


Short Eyes: a pedophile, or one who is jailed for child molestation


I see eyes looking at me.
Innocent eyes, tenderly.
Brilliant eyes, calling me.
Children' eyes, dauntingly.

I see eyes staring at me.
Icy eyes, glaringly.
Sinister eyes, wanting me.
Piercing eyes, haunting me.

Innocent child,
Innocent eyes.
Radiant smile,
Quiet and shy.

Come and sit with me a while.
I'm a friendly pedophile.
I'm an evil that lurks and festers,
I'm the Devil, a child molester.

Where's your father?
Where's your mother?
Do you have a sister or a brother?

Make a wish,
I insist.
Look, I have a special gift.

Be aware,
Do not stare.
Will you let me touch you there?

Do not yell,
Never tell,
Crawl into your little shell.

Ball into your private hell.

What a surprise,
Such beautiful eyes,
Can I caress inside your thighs?

Don't mind my sweat,
I like it wet.
Will you be my special pet?

Here one sec,
Gone the next.
You never know what to expect.

You're never going to forget.

Children beware,
Of strangers' stares.
Be conscious of their hidden lairs.

Don't be blind,
Know the signs,
They come in many shapes and kinds.

Their short eyes, are their disguise.
Be vigilant and recognize.
Confident and extra wise.

Know they're out there, everywhere.
Lying, hiding, always there.

Know that someone out there cares.
Trying, fighting for your care.

Don't be afraid to ask or share.
Don't be afraid of your fear.

Don't give in to strangers' lies?
Yell for help, vocalize.
Run and hide, to survive.
Tell someone about the guy.
It doesn't matter what your size,
Don't become his next prize.

A permanent, living, breathing prize.

Somewhere, out there, freedom lies,
Beyond their grasp, binds and ties.
Reach for those you recognize,
Don't speak or go with those short eyes.


Copyright © October 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
103010

I Am...

I am a book that no one's read,
A voracious hunger that's never been fed.
A phantom that haunts those I've known,
A vision that's seen but never shown.

I have no body, no heart or soul,
I live in the minds of the young and old.
No one can see me though I'm always there,
A flick of a light or wisp of cold air.

I have no sense of presence or time,
No conscious pretence of what's yours or mine.
I take what I want, live as I choose,
I have no remorse for those I abuse.

Some people find me a breath of fresh air,
Other's remind me how little I care.
I rise every morning before every sun,
At the end of the day my work's just begun.

I've always existed and always will,
Many've resisted though welcomed my thrill.
I've been portrayed in songs and scenes,
Crudely displayed upon movie screens.

Some seek my guidance, covet my rules,
Find false reliance, submit like fools.
Some think they know me, the hate that I feel,
Attempt to show me what's fake and what's real.

Though some men deny me, reject I exist,
They often find me, reflect then subsist.
There's no place to hide that's outside my reach,
Those who have died I loath and beseech.

God has his children, the lambs of his flock,
Teachers that teach them to cling to his rock.
I don't pretend to be who I'm not.
I never intend to be void or forgot.

Copyright © July 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
072510

There Comes A Time

There comes a time in everyones' life,
Thoughts test mortality.
The further we go,
The more that we know,
Yet the less we're able to see.

In retrospect we all soon forget,
Years seem to take their toll.
What we long to feel,
Minds gradually conceal,
Memories fade into black holes.

Before we die we should all try,
To inscribe life's victories and woes.
Bless loved ones and friends,
Before it all ends.
Provide memoirs for family and foes.

A lifetime's last epitaph,
Should not just be words etched in stone.
Leave an impression,
An eternal expression,
A collection of words of your own.



Copyright © July 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
072510

Natas L. Useifer

Natas L. Useifer was a lanky, fair-skinned lad,
He was often ridiculed,
For the peculiar name he had.
Kids found him an easy target,
For the silly names they hurled.
But things were never what they seemed,
In Natas Useifer's world.

See Natas was born on the 6th of June, in 1966,
A Monday morning like any other,
He arrived at 6:06.
He never knew his father,
His mother was seldom seen.
No brothers, no sisters, no Aunts or Uncles,
He was quite an independent teen.

He had long, coal blackish hair
And deep-set, piercing eyes,
Wore spectacles and old, dark wear,
Like a Halloween disguise.
He had bony fingers with pointed nails,
Sharp chin and protruding brow.
Was slight of build, seemed somewhat frail,
Meek yet scary somehow.

The other kids made fun of him
And his fiendishly creepy ways,
He was often teased at school,
Called geek or freak or gay.
They found Natas quite naive,
When it came to social rules.
Found ways to belittle and torture him,
Ways often very cruel.

One day John Bates played a dirty trick,
Made Natas look like a fool.
Natas got this scary look.
But never lost his cool.
He gave John an evil stare,
One that curled the skin.
Bates just smiled, he didn't care,
Ignored his sinister grin.

At gym that day, while most kids played,
Nothing else was said.
But when the teacher looked away,
A tree limb hit John's head,
No one seemed to see it happen,
He just layed, then minutes later,
John Bates was pronounced dead.

Everyone gathered 'round John's body,
To mourn their fallen friend,
He'd walked over to retrieve a ball.
No one ever saw what happened.
Who knew that the limb would fall?
All that anyone could remember,
Was a sudden gust of wind.

Some kids looked right at Natas,
Wondered where he'd been.
Questioned if he'd been involved,
Had somehow made it happen.
All that anyone could recall,
Was him sitting on a bench,
Several yards from it all,
Eyes shut, fists tightly clenched.

Natas L. Useifer was never held to blame,
The death was ruled an accident,
An act of God, a shame.
As for Natas, if he weren't innocent,
He would never tell.
He just grinned that evil grin,
And wished old John Bates well.


Copyright © April 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
042910

The Gator Ate Her

Where did she go,
Does anyone know?
Has anyone seen Mary Jo?

She was just here,
Drinking a beer,
Where could she possibly go?

See some people hate her,
Miss Mary Jo Slater,
They'd just as soon tell her where to go.

She's a conflict creator,
A quarrel instigator,
Some folks just loathe her so.

Flo our neighbor waiter,
Could always imitate her,
She put on a pretty good show.

She tried to persuade her,
To be a better neighbor,
Not to be the Jo we all know.

It didn't dissuade her,
Dis-intoxicate her,
Just infuriated her more so.

A few minutes later,
We couldn't locate her,
We looked for her high and low.

Then Flo said she paid her,
To get beer from her refrigerator,
And showed Mary Jo where to go.

See Flo our waiter neighbor,
Though she didn't really hate her,
Thought very low of Mary Jo.

It turned out later,
Flo had an alligator,
One that poor Jo didn't know.

She called him Little Tator,
Her silent terminator,
She'd had him for 5 years or so.

So Mary Jo Slater,
That little agitator,
Went to the home of Miss Flo.

Lying next to the refrigerator,
Was Tator the gator,
He eyed that poor Mary Jo.

She met her creator
Not knowing what ate her,
And no one even found a toe.

Flo our waiter neighbor,
Never really gave her,
A proper goodbye or hello.

A few days later,
A police investigator,
Came asking about Mary Jo.

Seems that Miss Slater,
Was not in good favor,
With most of the folks that we know.

When the investigator,
Questioned her neighbors,
All they could say about Jo,

Was the gator ate her,
Tator the gator,
They said it like it was a joke.

They didn't locate her,
And decided to wait for,
A letter, a phone call or note.

A month or so later,
A more important caper,
Sort of made folks forget about Jo.

As for Little Tator,
That hungry alligator,
He got a belly ache from Mary Jo,

Seems some folks can't wait or,
Take time to fully savor,
The flavor of the food they love so.

So Tator the gator,
Decided that later,
He'd eat his next victim real slow.



Copyright © May 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
053010

The Wizards, Witches and Warlocks Winter Jamboree

"Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble..."

Once a year there's an icy breeze,
That chills bare bones and rustles trees.
An inaugural event that no mortal sees,
The Wizard, Witch and Warlock Jamboree.

The wind, it howls as large barn owls,
Wreak havoc in full moonlight.
As ravens, crows and eerie shadows,
Descend upon a site.

Out of the dark and pending gloom,
Comes voices, laughter and song.
While on the horizon fog banks loom,
Announcing this magical throng.

Closer, louder the folly grows,
As tension segues to cheer,
Moonbeams brighten, as mean moods lighten.
And the winter solstice nears.

Swirling winds means the party begins,
As witches arrive on their brooms.
Bursts of fire and small explosions,
Precede warlocks in the room.

Tables are reserved for the noble wizards
Dressed in colorful, lofty attire.
As they parade in, concoctions are served,
While pigs and beasts roast over fires.

Red carpets roll out and all the guests shout,
As celebrities start to arrive.
Merlin, Gandalf and Dumbledore decked out,
With ornate wands at their sides.

They've gathered their elite, to frolic and compete.
A collection of sorcerers, most discrete.
They're solemn and focused as they repeat,
Oaths and chants written on old scrolled sheets.

It's a festive night, with spells and fright,
One that few ever cast eyes upon.
It rolls along well into the night,
Ends just before predawn.

It's an occassion beyond estimation,
One that satisfies most wicked needs.
Centuries of evil and bent up frustration,
Gets quenched while no humans bleed.

When it finally ends this party of friends.
Dissipates quite solemnly.
The Witches, Warlocks and Wizards have plans,
For their next Annual Winter Jamboree.



Copyright © February 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
020109

Alabaster, Gold, Coral Blue and Grey

This poem speaks of The Rapture...


Happily ever after, to have and to hold,
Love true found, eternally saved.
Soul felt banter, a joy to behold,
Sapphire hews, irrepressible dismay.

Thoughts of hereafter, meticulously scrolled.
Hearts construed, morally depraved.
Winsome laughter, delightfully tolled,
Frightened, confused, distraught, betrayed.

Sequestered pastors, sins consoled,
Tight lipped, confused, unable to pray.
Cerebral spellcaster, futures foretold,
Immoral views, remorse conveyed.

Evil crafter, no defiance too bold,
Deplorable news, to lighten your day.
Taliban bastards, heartless and cold,
Sinister actor, evil portrayed.

Avoiding capture, selling of souls,
Floral blooms, cast in clay,
Invoking the rapture, lives controlled,
Choral tunes and chants replayed.

Kings and masters, nomadic wolds,
December moon, warm winter day.
Terror raptors, born from molds,
Dark at noon, wasting away.

Three benefactors, their legends pretold,
Psalms misconstrued, sung the wrong way.
Worn and tattered, subliminally cajoled.
Sober abuse, irreversible decay.

Nuclear reactors, secrets sold,
Atomic fuses, for sale on eBay.
Worldwide disasters, visions unfold,
Mushroom clouds, purple haze.

Lavender, silver, maroon extolled,
Toxic fumes, blind men gaze,
Time thereafter, loss of control,
A fortunate few, all gone astray.

There were Three Kings of Orient,
Who bore witness from a far,
The birth of a Lord and Savior,
Led by faith and the light of a star.

Borne gifts of frankincense, gold and myrrh,
Forecasts of deity, light and gloom,
A glorified child, the incarnate Word,
His future traversed from manger to tomb.

A new dawn's horizon, second coming foretold,
The Son will rise to mourn the last day.
Embracing the rapture with unopen arms,
Bathed in Alabaster, Gold, Coral Blue and Grey.


Copyright © September 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
093009

The Face of Infernal Destruction

The accompanying art to this poem is the work of Dan C. The Rougepriest of the OP site. He is a very talented artist and poet. Checkout his work on his profile. Thank you Dan...


Tornadic swirls of refuse filled air,
Tsunamic curls of long blond hair.
Cyclonic gusts and destructive waves,
Bubonic thrusts of disastrous plagues.

Flood ridden lands from crested seas,
Wind driven sands from a harmattan breeze.
Volcanic eruptions of lava and debris,
Cataclysmic consumption of atrocities.

Hurricane winds of unimaginable force,
Uncontrolled fires retraced to their source.
Cities and towns that earthquakes devastate,
Islands abound that Monsoons obliterate.

Mountains alive with avalanche slides,
Countless survive seismic sea tides.
Record hot days scorching scores,
Tidal waves ravaging shores.

Mother Nature's rapture tips,
The four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
Revelations revealed by seven sins,
The seventh seal's where equations begins.

Terrorist attacks' repulsive pride
Hailstorms exact an avarice guise.
Earthquakes announce the end of times,

Sloth's denounced when fraternized.
Envy burns distaste inside,
Vanity churns ill wakes of tides.
Evil assumes any shape or size,
Nuclear wars loom in the wake of time.

Seven seals exposed reveal,
Incandescent wrath concealed.
Gluttonous scorn where famine lurks,
Nations borne with stimulant perks,
Sacred lands scourged by waste,

Atomic bands reverberate.
Nostradamus prophesied,
Death precedes the Antichrist.

Symbolic rituals, mnemonic discourse,
En-tonic nuptials of demonic recourse,
Visions of martyrs, death revered,
Eternal barters adept to fear.
Notable trumpets of angels near.

Savored lust will fan the fires,
Incepted mistrust of habitual liars.
Neurotic contests with psychic storms.
Seven conquests of Apocalyptic scorn.


Copyright © August 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
102009

Metamophosis

This poem was written for the accompanying art done by Photochick_1985 of the OP site...



Mystic temptress,

Future seer

Temporal fortress,

Basilisk lair.

Serpent eyes,

Golden hair.

Clawed webbed feet,

Burning stare.

Lips wine sweet,

Skin white fair.



Shrouds of red,

Trimmed in black,

Protruding tail,

Ridged winged back.

Transform your image,

Morph in size,

Reptilian visage,

Dragon sized.

Wield your magic.

Cast your spell.

Wreak your havoc,

Of fiery hell.



Tattooed identity.

Pestilent lies.

Eschewed vile remedy,

Hate disguised

Lie in waiting,

Spin your web,

Spawn of Satan.

Born of egg,

Sworn to pillage,

Country sides,

Ravage Villages

Sear torched lives.



Merlin's sorceress.

Born to fly,

Blood red corset,

Breach the skies.

Conjured spirit,

Return to size.

Change appearance,

Cauterize.

Pentagram boldly worn,

Talisman coldly borne,



Living life amidst hate and scorn.

Spiritual lives so blantantly torn.

What possesses your mortal soul?

What obsessions take moral tolls?

What torment twists your devilish mind?

What enjoyment and bliss do you wish to find?

Evil lurks amidst witchery and sin,

The Devil's disguised where lust begins.

Beauty belies the truth within,

A Satanic guise to morph again.





Copyright © August 2009

Kevin Mooney



kmm001

090109

If You Want...

If you want to feel alive,
Look down the barrel of a Colt 45.
If you're lucky you might survive.

If you want to learn a lesson,
Suck on the tip of a Smith and Wesson.
Barely touch the trigger, then listen.

If you want to feel ecstatic,
Kiss the muzzle of a semi-automatic.
After a while you feel like an addict.

If you want to know where you've been,
Push the speedometer past 110.
Close your eyes, feel the wind.

If you want to feel consumed.
Let carbon monoxide fill the room.
It may become your resting tomb.

If you truly want to die,
Consider carefully the reasons why.
Relief and suicide don't coincide.




Copyright © December 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
011610

Natas L. Useifer

Natas L. Useifer was a lanky, fair-skinned lad,
He was often ridiculed,
For the peculiar name he had.
Kids found him an easy target,
For the silly names they hurled.
But things were never what they seemed,
In Natas Useifer's world.

See Natas was born on the 6th of June, in 1966,
A Monday morning like any other,
He arrived at 6:06.
He never knew his father,
His mother was seldom seen.
No brothers, no sisters, no Aunts or Uncles,
He was quite an independent teen.

He had long, coal blackish hair
And deep-set, piercing eyes,
Wore spectacles and old, dark wear,
Like a Halloween disguise.
He had bony fingers with pointed nails,
Sharp chin and protruding brow.
Was slight of build, seemed somewhat frail,
Meek yet scary somehow.

The other kids made fun of him
And his fiendishly creepy ways,
He was often teased at school,
Called geek or freak or gay.
They found Natas quite naive,
When it came to social rules.
Found ways to belittle and torture him,
Ways often very cruel.

One day John Bates played a dirty trick,
Made Natas look like a fool.
Natas got this scary look.
But never lost his cool.
He gave John an evil stare,
One that curled the skin.
Bates just smiled, he didn't care,
Ignored his sinister grin.

At gym that day, while most kids played,
Nothing else was said.
But when the teacher looked away,
A tree limb hit John's head,
No one seemed to see it happen,
He just layed, then minutes later,
John Bates was pronounced dead.

Everyone gathered 'round John's body,
To mourn their fallen friend,
He'd walked over to retrieve a ball.
No one ever saw what happened.
Who knew that the limb would fall?
All that anyone could remember,
Was a sudden gust of wind.

Some kids looked right at Natas,
Wondered where he'd been.
Questioned if he'd been involved,
Had somehow made it happen.
All that anyone could recall,
Was him sitting on a bench,
Several yards from it all,
Eyes shut, fists tightly clenched.

Natas L. Useifer was never held to blame,
The death was ruled an accident,
An act of God, a shame.
As for Natas, if he weren't innocent,
He would never tell.
He just grinned that evil grin,
And wished old John Bates well.

Copyright © April 2010
Kevin Mooney
kmm001
042910

Parallel To Eternity

A break in the social equilibrium,
A crack in the window of time.
An invisible world running parallel,
An eternally extending line.

Some mirrors serve as sheer portals,
Television screens are tiny worm holes.
A world of identical mere mortals,
All playing identically formed roles.

Crossing the line can consume you,
Once there you may never come back.
In space the holes are like vacuums,
From a distance they appear to be black.

To step through one is to cross a dimension,
A warp in both reality and time.
For some it's an eternal suspension.
For others, like no experience they'll find.

Once through you can turn back and see yourself,
In your present day physical state and mind.
You can speak but you cannot hear yourself,
You can look but stare too long, you'll go blind.

The parallel world you're now a part of,
Is exactly like the one you left behind.
The only real difference I can think of
Is in this new world holes aren't so hard to find.

There one can look through any mirror,
See the same person in the same place and time.
Television screens cannot harm you,
As long as everyone's not off at the same time.

People are all cloned and duplicated,
The world's a virtual facsimile.
To be one's self is to be replicated,
A mirror image of all that men see.

A new world that our minds have created.
Running parallel from here to eternity.



Copyright © November 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
111309

Graveyards at Night

Nocturnal whispers, thoughts we can hear,
Phantom traces of those once held dear.
Eternal frustrations upend festered minds,
Lying prostrated, suspended in time.

Etched words in headstones, names from the past,
Random one-liners written to last.
Infernal temptations for worms to be fed,
Open invitations to join the dead.

Sequestered from the living, confined to a bed,
In search of forgiving angry words said.
Trying to reach out to any stranger you find,
Caught between death's world and the one left behind.

So many lives buried, so many unsaved.
The burdens they carried and took to their graves.
Soulful reminders of the price that men pay,
To wither and rot, decompose and decay.

A party of uninvited, condemned in solitude,
Forever united in fields of planted tombs.
Enshrinements to comfort weary mourner's daylight.
Confinements of discomfort, eerie graveyards at night.


Copyright © October 2009
Kevin Mooney

The Gates of Hell

This poem is acrostic and describes Rodin's sculpture The Gates of Hell...



Armageddon's final sightseeing tour,
Utopian visage of Lucifer's lure.
Gargoyles barded bathed in black,
Sentry guarded, no way back.
Turbulent reminders of unsettled scores.
Eternal demonic purgatory door.

Relentless struggles where limbo begins,
On going battles between morality and sin.
Death surrounds the only way in.
Insatiable resistance to Satan's last quell.
Nomadic nonexistence through the Gates of Hell.


Copyright © September 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
102309