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

Little Windows

Sometimes the moon's like a window,
Like the hole in the top of a jar.
And all of the planets,
And all of the stars,
Are keyholes to where we are.

The night sky's a changing crescendo,
Crescent moons waning little and large.
Sparkling doubloons,
That brighten up rooms,
Some near and some very, very far.

At times God closes the windows,
Turns off some planets and stars.
The calamity,
Of twinkles we see,
Are like flashing head-beams from cars.

But when He turns on all the lights,
Opens all the windows of the night.
The stars and moonbeams,
And planets all seem,
To blend together with dawn's early daylight.


Copyright © June 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
060510

Another Poignant Calm

I saw an odd shaped cloud today,
It looked like a big balloon.
I wondered how it got that way.
Then it turned into a mushroom.
As it slowly drifted away,
A voice in my head seemed to say,
"Somethings terribly wrong."

The world felt eerily calm.

I thought I saw Bin Laden today,
Driving a rental truck.
As I passed him, he looked my way,
Smiled then pointed up.
An airplane passed overhead,
I imagined all aboard were dead.
Then I saw a sign that read,

Ahead All Is Calm.

I thought I saw John Lennon this morn.
At Starbucks standing in line.
He looked sad, his face well worn,
In his hand he carried a sign.
"The End is Very Near" it read,
He looked at me, "Imagine" he said,
"It's just a matter of time."

Everything felt calm.

I saw a girl at lunch today,
Christina Taylor-Greene.
Smiling she turned and looked my way,
Was eating a bowl of ice cream.
It was her 10th birthday,
September 11th, a special day.
But things were not what they seemed.

There was a definite calm.

I saw my father's face today,
He just looked and stared.
He spoke to me in a ghostly way,
Said "Son complete your affairs".
Time is shorter than it seems,
Watch for signs in news and dreams.
The world should be aware.

Nothing penetrated the calm.

A radical bombed Oslo, Norway,
Then went on a shooting spree.
By the time authorities had him contained,
The dead count was 93.
A Florida teen kills his parents,
With a hammer, in a violent rage.
While their bodies lay in their room,
Throws a party through his Facebook page.
A deranged woman in California,
Cooks her baby in a microwave.
Record tornadoes throughout the states,
Send hundreds to early graves.
Floods, the likes never seen before,
Breach town levies and river shores.
The entire country is enslaved,
By an uncommonly brutal, record heatwave.

Lord,

Are these events omens received?
Testaments to your omniscience?
Divine prophecies preconceived?
Premonitions of the Apocalypse?
Is your creation beyond reprieve?
What will the ultimate consequence be?


Know that in You I trust and believe.
It's You that makes me strong.
Your sovereignty and nobility,
The knowledge you're never wrong,
Provide me faith and courage to be,
Forever poignantly calm.


Once again it rained...


Copyright © July 2011
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
072511

Eeny, Meeny, Miny and Moe

Four little explorers embark on a quest,
A dark, silent house, their noble first test.
With courage, grit and imagination in tow.
Off go Eeny, Meeny, Miny and Moe.

The foot of a mountain, they climb the steps,
Not knowing what horrors to expect.
As they reach the first level plateau,
They gather themselves then onward go.

A mountain climb for four weary souls,
A child's young mind never grows old.
With towel pinned capes and wooden swords,
Newspaper hats and laundry line cords.

As they reach the top of their sky-high stairs,
They huddle together to quell their fears.
No light exists in this lofty place,
Just shadows and darkness, and infinite space.

It's here the real adventure begins,
They huddle together with youthful grins.
A lone flashlight anoints their way,
As they struggle to live another day.

They move quietly from door to door,
Shuffling and crawling around on all fours,
Each room's explored with delicate care,
Closets are caves and dragon lairs.

They search beneath couches and beds,
Looking for treasures and shrunken heads.
Working in unison like a well oiled machine,
They seem to have formed a respectable team.

As the bewitching hour begins to toll,
The group decides their day to call.
A tent is pitched between two chairs,
To protect the group from predators.

For tomorrow's just a dream away,
Another adventure, another day.
That's how little imaginations grow,
Like Eeny, Meeny, Miny and Moe.




Copyright © January 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm004
011610

Abducted

I open my eyes,
Am I still alive?
Or am I caught in some sort of dream?
The last thing I remember,
Was getting ready to drive
From my house to the Dairy Queen.

I'm lying restrained,
Looking at the sky.
I can't figure out where the hell I am.
My body's tingling,
My mouth parched and dry.
I can't feel my feet or my hands.

A face looks down on me,
I look up, wonder why.
None of it makes any sense.
I try to whisper,
Am I going to die?
The look turns from curious to a wince.

The eyes are peculiar,
Out of proportion.
They don't even look human at all.
Then another face appears.
A light and distortion.
I try once again to recall.

I climbed into my truck,
Put the key in the ignition.
I remember a strange clicking sound.
A sudden bright light.
Blinded all recognition,
Next I was here lying down.

All is blank,
My memory thin,
How the hell did I ever get here?
Was I in an accident?
Is this an ambulance I'm in?
Are these Angels or the Grim Reaper I fear?

My head's kinda groggy,
I'm falling asleep,
My thoughts drift slowly to a blur.
I think I hear voices,
The tests are complete,
I suddenly start to stir.

I open my eyes,
And to my surprise,
I'm back in the front seat of my truck.
The windows are down,
I try to surmise,
I ask myself, "What the Fuck?"

I grab the wheel,
Shake my head,
Get out to ward off my fright.
A silent cool breeze,
Makes me look overhead,
Just in time to see a slow moving light.

It glides to the east,
Without any sound,
Then suddenly blends into the night.
Still shaking a bit,
I look all around,
What was this unearthly sight?

I close my eyes,
Lean against my truck,
Recount steps before interrupted.
I say a soft prayer,
For reassurance and blind luck,
I believe I have just been abducted.


Copyright © November 2009
Kevin Mooney

km001
111109

God's Perfect Angel

Last night I saw an Angel looking down at me,
She peered through sad, tearful eyes, that twinkled radiantly.
Her skin looked alabaster beneath fanned golden hair.
I tried to look right past her, as if she wasn't there.

Her wings were like a turtle dove's, white and shoulder high,
Attached to the middle of her back, hung just below her thigh.
She wore a sheer flowing gown that rippled in a wind,
A colorful floral crown sat perched majestically on her head.

She looked as if she knew me, her questions went unsaid.
Her stare went right through me as she floated above my bed.
She hovered there like a cloud, her visage quite serene,
It was like some ghostly shroud you'd see on a movie screen.

She looked faintly familiar, her face I was sure I'd seen.
Like a Fairy Princess, a celestial virgin Queen.
I thought I heard her whisper, only her lips never came apart.
I couldn't decipher the message she so desperately tried to impart.

Then I heard faint music and her voice rose gradually,
The two blended all together, in perfect harmony.
Then a chorus of unseen Angels joined the sing-along.
All their voices soon converged into one acapellic song.

Their words were hard to muster, their voices were not clear.
The melody was kind of eerie, a Gothic, chant-like cheer.
The Angel then put her hands together as if in silent prayer.
The room became eerily quiet.  I wasn't sure she knew I was there.

Was this all a hypnotic muse? Something seemed desperately wrong.
A self-conceived nightmarish dream where I did not belong?
The music slowly faded away as her eyes began to tear.
Her vision seemed to waver a bit, then slowly disappear.

The Angel then turned to vapor as the fan wisped her away,
There seemed to be no rational point in asking her to stay.
The room smelled somewhat musty, a slight coolness filled the air.
I layed there for a little while, then bowed my head in prayer.

Had all this been an hallucination? Was my mind playing tricks on me?
Or was this some divine revelation that God wanted me to see?
When I woke up the next morning it all seemed like a dream,
I searched around everywhere for proof of what I believed I'd seen.

In my mind I questioned whether it was truly real or fake,
It sure didn't feel like an illusion.  I swear I was awake.
As I got prepared for work, I turned on the T.V. set.
I searched and found the morning news.  The lead story said...

A little girl had just been found, initially feared for dead.
Her mouth and limbs had been bound, a bag was over her head.
Someone mysteriously phoned a tip, they'd left an anonymous word,
Authorities were precisely lead to a place where strange music had been heard.

As they entered the chamber of horrors where the young girl was kept,
She was found unharmed, though scared, while upstairs her captor slept.
The room was cool and musty, a slight vapor filled the air.
They searched for the source of the strange music but couldn't find it anywhere.

They flashed the young girls picture.  She'd been missing for days it seemed,
Suddenly I was struck with awe as I looked at the television screen.
For I knew at that very moment my vision was not a dream.
There was God's Perfect Angel, the one that I had seen.


Copyright © August 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
101709

Wormholes

Somewhere in space there lies a place,
That connects two dimensions in time.
A warped oasis a man forced faces,
When presented with 2 states of mind.

Twisting and turning, never converging,
Conjoining two disjointed schemes.
Resisting and yearning, forever diverging,
Thoughts remembered in dreams.

Somber moments of relaxed coma,
Create quite a perplexed surreal.
Whispered illusions, contort confusion,
Sustain the tight vortex concealed.

Once you've arrived on the other side,
What's apparent is things look the same.
You soon realize there's no place to hide,
Transparency's one of life's game.

Somewhere in space there lies an escape,
A bridge to a parallel world.
A path one can take, to ease mental breaks,
Where time's dimensions unfurl.

Portholes exist that scientists insist,
Pierce man's perception of time.
Tunnels amidst a black cosmic abyss,
Wormholes that fester the mind.



Copyright © April 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
041510

The Castles of Callisto

Dusk arrives to blanket the skies,
Celestial eyes appear.
Galilean moons rise in tune,
Millions of miles from here.


Shadows loom as vapors consume,
Callisto's stark terrain.
The silhouettes of castles rest,
Haunting those that remain.


Mountain peaks imprison the weak,
The immoral and insane.
Within the walls one hears the calls,
Of irrepressible pain.


Satan's manifesto,
Evils native son.
The Castles of Callisto,
Eternity's just begun.


Silence speaks while insanity seeks,
Minds twisted, confused and deranged.
Nobility rules this kingdom of fools,
Where thoughts are controlled and contained.


Whispers are heard but rarely a word,
The echoes of distant bells ring.
Listeners converge but never emerge,
Souls anguish, alone in its wings.


Governed by ghosts of ancient hosts,
Spirits belie their disguise,
Phantom thieves and pirates boast,
Of fortunes, treasures and lies.


No one escapes Callisto's fate,
Tenants are eternally bound.
To hesitate may be too late,
Your remnants may never be found.


The Castles of Callisto,
Sheer walls of hallowed doom.
Men have tried,
Been denied,
Locked up and marooned.


The Castles of Callisto,
Hell calls from every room.
Its sovereignty,
Just might be,
Man's final resting tomb.

Copyright © September 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
090310

The Human Zoo

These are the Lions and Tigers,
These are the Catholics and Jews.

Imagine a human menagerie,
Where the stock have no freedom to choose,
Where thoughts are controlled,
One does as he's told,
Imagine a Human Zoo.

One's world exists in a room,
Detached from the world outside,
Completely alone,
A cubical home,
In the zoo there is no place to hide.

They can be dangerous creatures,
They'll rebel the first chance they get.
They're let out in the sun,
At the point of a gun,
Don't feed them, you might get bit.

Their gates are closed to the public,
Inside great towers abound,
The enclosure's immense,
A barbed-wire fence,
The herd has limited ground.

They're by far the most popular exhibit,
Manifested for public view,
Men peer in the cells,
And see themselves,
Confined in a Human Zoo.


Copyright © May 2009
Kevin Mooney

Men From Mars

Men from Mars can be found in bars,
In trench-coats and strange looking hats.
They drink alone,
Or with their own.
Avoid crowds and social contact.

Men from Mars drive plain looking cars,
Usually live by themselves.
They wear a disguise,
To hide their eyes.
Like turtles, retreat in their shells.

Men from Mars have hidden scars,
That others don't ever see.
They've been places,
Seen foreign faces.
Witnessed what would frighten you and me.

Men from Mars fill empty jars,
With collections of specimens and debris.
Bottled up samples,
Ill-gotten examples,
Recollections of past misery.

Men from Mars have fought in wars,
That other men cannot believe.
They survived,
Barely alive.
To be examined, probed and studied.

Men from Mars look to the stars,
For hope and a chance to be free.
The Martian landscape,
Provides an escape,
A place they'd much rather be.

Men from Mars, imagine they are.
Aliens and monstrosities.
Left behind,
Virtually blind,
Victims of man's atrocities.

Men from Mars have traveled far,
Crossed intergalactic seas.
Searching to find,
Signs left behind.
Penchants of what used to be.

Remnants of their own sanity.



Copyright © September 2011
Kevin Mooney




kmm001
090411

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

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

Butterfly Requiem

Nestled in a worn cocoon,
Hidden from the light.
I work all day,
To find a way,
To make it through the night.

A silk vacuum, maternal womb,
Woven to conceal.
My sole being,
Beyond seeing,
The emotions that I feel.

I'm constricted, arms restricted,
Pinned tight at my side.
I try to squirm,
Like a worm,
There's no place to hide.

Suddenly reality,
Disturbs my private hell.
I'm aware
of a tare,
In my outer shell.

I deliberate, then agitate,
Wiggle to get free.
Semi-conscious,
My response is,
To fight for liberty.

I hesitate to escape,
Force my way on through,
Scenes flash by,
Before my eyes,
Of feelings I once knew.

Then the shackles that once bound me,
Are finally loose then shed.
I tentatively,
Stretch to see,
Shake cobwebs from my head.

I peel away the formed decay,
That was my resting home.
To my surprise,
I realize,
I am not alone.

For there around me, souls surround me,
Millions of cocoons.
I just stare,
Now aware,
Of all God's woven tombs.

I stretch my arms, to my alarm,
They're now two different things.
It's funny when,
One life ends,
God honors it with wings.





Copyright © April 2010
Kevin Mooney


kmm001
041810

Shadows Loom

Shadows loom in empty rooms,
Where seven sisters died.
Gold deblumes and witches brooms,
Are all that's left behind.

Black roses bloom among mushrooms,
Faint voices turn to cries.
Eerie tunes amidst dark runes,
Greet innocent passersby.

Stories told by mystics old,
Illuminate the blind.
Signs foretold and hidden scrolls,
Are left for men to find.

Satan's spell's are known to well,
To law abiding men.
A sudden quell will often tell,
The righteous from the sin.

Those that lie must hereby,
Repent and then give in.
If they try to just get by,
The Dark Lord will have their skin.

Water flumes and peacock plumes,
Give way to worms and flies.
Werewolves croon at the moon,
As spirits whisper by.

Among the tombs and catacombs,
The corpses of men lie.
Amidst their realm dark shadows loom,
While the dead learn to fly.

Copyright © March 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm

031110

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

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

Another War of the Worlds?

This poem is written to describe the accompanying art by RougePriest of the OP site - thank you Dan. In addition to being a poet, Dan is a very accomplished artist as well. Be sure to checkout the other poems I have written to his art - Faces of Infernal Destruction and Self-Denied, Satisfied and Crucified. This poem is also dedicated to the book and 1938 radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. It is intended to draw parallels to the the radio broadcast event and the 9/11 Trade Center attacks. It is a terrorist and war poem.


This is also an acrostic...



Americans favorite shows all tuned,

Network special news report.

Original programs now resumed,

Tensions build outside New York.

Helicopters fill the sky lined night,

Emergency broadcast systems sound,

Rising chaos, no threats in sight,

All towns quiet, Lady Liberty's down.

Live feeds indicate aerial assault.

Initial reports of alien attacks.

Elastic city's news at fault,

Neighbors crazed, lack of facts.

All seems hopeless, so unreal.

Television programs all seem norm.

Terrible bursts of glass and steel?

Another nightmare terrorist storm?

Choreographed to rational folks,

Kept confused through theatrical hoax.







Copyright © November 2009

Kevin Mooney





kmm041

110109

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