Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Sunday, May 15, 2011

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

Saturday, October 30, 2010

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

Sunday, July 25, 2010

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

Thursday, June 10, 2010

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

Thursday, June 3, 2010

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

Thursday, May 20, 2010

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

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

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

Monday, May 17, 2010

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

Saturday, May 15, 2010

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

Thursday, May 13, 2010

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

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

The Perfect Poem





The perfect poem has a distinctive flair,
It spurs emotions with prose, rhythm and rhyme.
It's presented with confidence and precision care,
Arranged imagery that flows in cadenced time.
Its word selection is choreographed,
It's a window into a poet's mind.
It's enhanced with acrostic and metaphoric frames,
It's a parable with hidden messages between certain lines.
It exudes feelings of love, hurt and pain,
Or makes a point of the philosophical kind.
It's historical, pastoral, political or moral,
With stanzas categorical or sublime.
It's patriotic, symbolic, chaotic or comical,
About family, pets, animals or memories of good times.
There are so many styles, lengths and variables,
That make a great poem rhetorically shine.
But the perfect poem evokes thoughts and intangibles,
Raw feelings that readers might otherwise not find.




Copyright © October 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
100109