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

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

In The Mirror

I see myself and wonder why,
I never did complain.
Those around me shuffle by,
And never know my pain.

Some may never give a damn,
Some may really care.
Some may lend a helping hand,
They all just look and stare.

I see myself through tear stained eyes,
Through rain washed window panes.
I hear the sounds of children cry,
Of those that feel the same.

Shadows pass by hauntingly,
With voices just like me.
Echoes cast dauntingly,
With joyless memories.

Standing in a mirror,
Gazing back at me.
I see a face growing nearer,
Craving sanctity.

As I reach to touch him,
He reaches out to me.
Our finger tips press together,
But lack affinity.

I wish life were easy,
I wish that I was free,
Of all the pain and suffering,
Bottled up in me.

I want someone to touch me,
Without hurting me.
To cherish and to love me,
Unconditionally.

I warm to my reflection,
Then better understand.
That my forlorn objections,
Were all part of the plan.

I know that God still loves me,
I just don't understand.
Was He thinking of me?
Was I part of His plan?

I want the world to perceive,
I'm honest and sincere.
Strong at heart and confident,
Loving without fear.

I want the world to believe,
I have no pained regret.
I belong and nothing's wrong,
I'll move on and forget.

I don't need assistance,
Pity or therapy.
I questioned my existence,
But now I am happy.

I want the world to be relieved,
Forget what's happened here.
I want to be the one I see,
Reflected in the mirror.



Copyright © November 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
110610

The Day John Lennon Died

This is an acrostic...

Many cried the day he died,
All the world did mourn.
Rest in peace Brother John,
Keep blowing your precious horn.
David did not know the wrong,
A Double Fantasy did.
Vindication, death through song,
In 4 clean shots he's dead.
December 8th, at 10 past 10,
Where he and Yoko dwell ed.
Heaven called John Lennon home,
At 53 minutes to 12.
That 1980 New York night,
Defined a legacy.
Into martyrdom he did rise,
Deprived tranquility.
Yoko gave his eulogy,
Only she could say,
Understand peace and love,
Do for all humans pray,
On this solemn day.


Copyright © October 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
100810

Children Of Destiny

Born beyond reason,With no right to choose,No future, starvation,Unsightly abuse.Never a burden,Lacking in care.Lives so uncertain,They're not really there.No beds to sleep in,No chairs to sit.No arms to weep in,No chance to quit.No house to live in,No shelter or room.No toilet or kitchen,Just impending doom.Meals are a benefit,So seldom seen.The food that they do get,Is putrid and green.Water so dirty,Many times used,Not one ounce of purity,Yet seldom refused.Clothes that are tattered,Shredded and torn,Shoes never matter,They're rarely ever worn.God's children entertained,With a lack of consequence.Their fate prearranged,Without meaning or sense.Lacking any inklingOf substance at all.Lives always sinking,In a vast karmic squall.Fighting from day one,For an ounce of dignity.Never able to say they won,A preordained destiny.

Copyright © January 2010Kevin Mooneykmm001011610

Walls of Flame - Hearts of Fame

Where have you gone our brave young sons,
Where have you gone and why?
To fight new battles, to rid new wrongs,
To protect new mountain sides?

Where have you gone young Hotshots,
Where do your souls now lie?
In heaven above and beyond,
Where do you now abide?

Granite mountains bear your names,
Etched forever in time.
Walls of flames cannot burn away,
Your legacy left behind.

Wherever you've gone my brave young throng,
Have a wonderful ride.
Your families will never do no wrong,
We'll always be by their side.

The walls of flame that remain,
Cannot contain the tide.
Halls of fame will bear your names,
Gratitude never subside.

Wherever you've gone our brave young sons,
Rest peacefully by God's side.
Your work is done, your fight's been won,
Carry yourselves with pride.

Your memory will never die.
Copyright © July 2013
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
070313

Blue Tuesday Morn (The 95th Floor)

9/11/2012...9:17 a.m.

I woke up this morning and I heard birds chirping, a plane flying overhead and police sirens in the distance. It was another beautiful blue Tuesday morn.

the 95th floor

This is an acrostic.

9/11/2001...


4:00 am

Astonished startle, half awake,
Restless visage, shiver-shake,
Mental mind-meld, second-take,
Another hour 'till daybreak.
Gratification,
Exultation,
Deliberation,
Determination,
Origination,
Nerves of steel, intrepid state.

5:00 am

Traffic's light, weather warm,
Aurora bright, Blue Tuesday morn.
Levitation,
Invitation,
Beautification,
Aviation,
Newton's apple, cir-cum-form.

6:00 am

Astute arrival, time to spare,
Prodded people everywhere.
Orchestral motions, symphonic flair,
Carnival-istic rustled air,
Adjuration,
Luxuriation,
Yule-sensation,
Proclamation,
Sequestration,
Electric intensity, dawn's time-square.

7:00 am

Plane half full, infernal wait,
Expectant delay, 14 late,
Relaxing music, pre-vegetate.
Postulation,
Exasperation,
Tribulation,
Reparation,
Accusation,
Tribulation,
Entered sky, a minute to eight.

8:00 am

Senses tingling, slight dismay,
Initial feeling, a.o.k.,
Grauman's Theater, love L.A.,
Navigation,
Ostentation,
Fascination,
Titillation,
Hallucination,
Estimation
Elicitation,
Nirvana-cation,
Dreaded flight, eternity.

8:10 am

Open caskets, lots of room,
Silent chaos, terrorists loom,
Aerial assault, impending doom.
Miscalculation,
Altercation,
Bastardization
Indignation,
Notarization,
Labanotation,
Affirmation,
Desperation
Eradication,
Nowhere to go, celestial tomb.

8:13 am

Flight control, "Transponder on?"
Unable to reach or correspond,
Laceration,
Lobotomiz-ation,
Your altitude, "Please respond."

8:15 am

Friend or foe? Show of force,
Under attack, flight off course,
Estimation,
Liberation,
Education,
Decided turn, getting worse.

8:20 am

Armed assailants, attendants down,
Internal mutiny, muffled sound,
Ramification,
Perspiration,
Lamentation,
Assassination,
Nodul-ation,
Eighty-six lives nowhere bound.

8:25 am

Flight 181 silent now,
One hundred degree turnaround,
Respiration,
Concentration,
Elevation,
Direction change, Big Apple Town.

8:30 am

Hudson River, Country Sides,
Insipid horizons, cerebral tides.
Justification,
Aberration,
Consultation,
Koran-nation,
Invocation,
NORAD-nation,
Glorification,
Silhouettes of grey skylines.

8:40 am

September Sky, bluish morn,
Undeterred, Islamic scorn.
Relegation,
Reclamation,
Exaltation,
Accreditation,
Lurid Jihad, Al Qaed-ac swarm.

8:45 am

Severed Streets, urban blight,
Euphoric wreak, conceded fight.
Re-evaluation,
Elicitation,
Normalization,
Illumination,
Testamentation,
Yesterday's gone, twin towers in sight.

8:46 am

Repeated cries, "Terminate!",
Early warnings, too little, too late.
Vacillation,
Eradication,
Last Temptation,
Affirmation,
Titivation,
Indignation,
Ostentation,
Nostradamus visions vacillate.

8:46:20 am

Novocaine numbs the brain,
Utopian crypts of cellophane,
Malfunct-uation,
Bastardization,
Euthanization,
Reverberation,
Necrophiliazation,
Internalization,
Neutralization,
Euphoric, rapture d windowpane.

8:46:40 am

Seventh Sign, Martyrs' born,
Aqua-teal sky is torn.
Lucifer's Cadenced Overture,
Unforgettable Tuesday Mourn,
Terrorization,
Abomination,
Termination,
Incineration,
Obliteration,
No landing strip, no open door,
Sojournal stop, the 95th floor.



RIP
To the Passengers of American Airlines Flight 811
And all the victims of 9/11


Copyright © June 2009
Kevin Mooney

kmm025
101509

Bartholomew Dylan Banks

From the earliest memories of friends and kin,
Life was good for Batholomew Dylan Banks.
Early on folks were enamored with him.
All were tolerant of his childish pranks.
People enjoyed his charismatic charm,
His lack of manners judged auspiciously coy.
His obstinate behavior, caused little harm,
As he was lauded with many an "at-ta boy".

Friends honoured him with compliments and praise,
Lavish offerings of presents and toys,
Gifts were aplenty in Bart's adolescent days.
His possessions were his pride and joy.
As he became a young man, people began,
To reprove his social arrogance,
His life took a turn, he could not understand,
Why so many soon avoided his presence.

He was truly inspired by all he aspired,
Things came easier to Bart than you and me.
His one fatal flaw, a self-centered desire,
A lack of grace and humility.
His haughty disdain forged an arrogant sin.
You see, Bart never once did give thanks,
For all that ever really mattered to him,
Was Bartholomew Dylan Banks.

Some say it was sad, the way he turned out.
Some remember him uncommonly thin.
He never did prosper or ever amount,
To the life he envisioned for him.
He never married, never had kids,
Never found his place in the ranks.
And when he died, no one remembered him,
Bartholomew Dylan Banks.



Copyright © June 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

Seal Team Six Solstice Psalm

Aug 6, 2011, KABUL, Afghanistan (AP) — 30 American service members — 22 of them elite Navy SEALs — died Saturday when their Chinook helicopter was shot down about 60 miles southwest of Kabul...

This is dedicated to those that died. This is an acrostic...

Coalition US led,
Operation, 30 dead.
Political patriotic pawns,
Typical post Islamic palm.
Every parents' worst nightmare,
Reprehensive cursed warfare.
Did they die needlessly?
Obama please, can't you see.
Will you end the suffering?
Now's the time, don't you agree?

Osama drama still at hand,
Segregate the Kali-ban.
American special service plan,
Militia's sacrificial lamb.
Anti-aircraft missile toll,
Single shot south of Kabul.
Rest in peace young sacred sons,
Eternal sleep's the prize you won.
Vindication now in hand?
Evacuate Afghanistan.
Navy Seal Team Six's song,
Gallantry, right or wrong.
Elite soldier's solstice psalm.


Copyright © August 2011
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
080811

Somber Moments

Tempered times help define,
Who we really are.
Somber moments collect in time,
Like pennies in a jar.

Hypnotic scenes within dreams,
Haunt unsuspecting minds.
Thoughts that run undeterred,
Leave painful scars behind.

Tear stained eyes, emphasize,
The pains that we all share.
Together we then realize,
How much we truly care.

When all is said, look ahead,
Let God lead the way.
Let somber moments' weight be shed,
In light of a brand new day.


Copyright © July 2011
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
072311

Christopher Colin Sinclair

No one ever had the flair of Christopher Sinclair.
He was quite debonair,
Had a certain savoir-faire,
A thirty-something millionaire,
He turned heads everywhere
Did Christopher Colin Sinclair.

No, nobody quite compared to Christopher Sinclair.
He took pride in others' stares.
Had the most perfect hair,
Shoulders strong, perfectly square,
The man stood out anywhere,
Did Christopher Colin Sinclair.

He had no time for others' affairs,
Nor did he pretend to care.
Though always well aware,
He was crass and insincere,
Good fortune had was never shared,
By Christopher Colin Sinclair.

But all was not as it appeared, for Mr. Chris Sinclair.
A second life was revealed,
A pedophile charge concealed.
A past offense proved unreal.
A sentence passed, turned on appeal.
Soon everybody knew the real, Christopher Colin Sinclair.

The once good name now was smeared, of Christopher Sinclair.
People whispered, sneered and leered,
Private gawk soon turned to jeers,
His fame and fortune disappeared.
No, no one dared venture near,
This vile man loathed and feared.

As time went by, no one cared, for the sinister Sinclair.
His face now drew disgusted stares.
To see him publicly grew rare.
His was now an empty chair,
He might as well have not been there,
The perverted Mister Sinclair.

The papers read he died in bed,
Alone, distraught the article said.
A wealthy man, one well bred,
Shot himself in the head.
A single shot that barely bled,
Left Christopher Sinclair dead.

When people heard they did not care.
His funeral had no one there.
No eulogy, no thoughts or prayers.
It seemed a shame, somewhat unfair,
That no one shed a single tear.
For Christopher Colin Sinclair.



Copyright © July 2011
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
072311

Fallen Fathers, Forgotten Sons

As dawn breaks,
The heavens wake,
To earth's new tapestry.

The seeds we've sewn,
The men we've known,
Lie still, prone reverently.

Spirits of those,
That history knows,
Pride buried nationwide.

Our forefather's ghosts,
Our heavenly hosts,
Line meadows and countrysides.

Fallen Fathers,
Forgotten sons,
Fought for you and for me.
Those that died,
Gave their lives,
For honor and liberty.

Fields now lay,
In groomed decay,
Fertilized with the dead.

Lined with stones,
Eternal homes,
Soil hallowed and bravely fed.

Gravestones reveal,
What loved ones feel,
The sacrifices made,

Those won and lost,
The heartfelt costs.
The ultimate prices paid,

Fallen Fathers,
Forgotten sons,
Died with dignity.
Their families cried,
For their unselfish pride,
Their heroic bravery.

For their family,
For their country,
For Generals, Gods and Kings.

Buried deep,
They quietly sleep,
As Angels silently sing.

Some remembered,
Some forgotten,
Some ashes in the wind.

They fought for freedom,
They fought for justice,
Fought so we all could win.

Fallen Fathers,
Forgotten daughters,
Live forever in our hearts and minds.
Our tranquility,
And prosperity,
Are their legacies left behind.

Let's honor those,
Fallen heroes,
Those before us that died.

Bow heads in prayer,
Then silently share,
Our blessings from deep inside.

The men and women,
The sons and daughters,
The husbands and the wives.

Those that suffered,
Died for others.
That so valiantly gave their lives.

Fallen Fathers,
Unforgotten ones,
You are our nation's pride.
Let children sing,
And church bells ring,
Fly Good 'Ole Glory high.

So live forever,
Know things are better,
That your souls are sanctified.

Never fear,
We are always here,
To lay flowers by your side.

Your work is complete,
Now comfortably sleep,
You're remembered through tear stained eyes.

Let Father's who've fallen,
Never be forgotten.
Let their memories be memorialized.

Copyright © May 2010

Kevin Mooney

kmm001

053110

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

Oh So Many, Oh So Few

No one really knew her or what she claimed to be,
A queen of propaganda, virgin of the sea.
Those that dared to ride her,
Now lay down beside her,
Haunting those survivors,
Of her maiden odyssey.

Born to bear the brunt of praise and pageantry,
Hers was but a stunt in superfluity.
Though her name belied her,
No one dared deny her,
Fame could not disguise her
Sunken vanity.

Fifteen hundred souls lie lost beneath the sea.
Each a cold reminder how fragile life can be.
Unsinkable they said,
Unthinkable the dead,
Arrogance and tears shed,
For posterity.

Generations will reflect on her tragedy.
Honor and pay respect to all her misery.
Soberly they'll try,
Ask and question why,
So many souls had to die,
And so few live to see.

May you all RIP...


Copyright © May 2011
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
051511

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

October

This is for my dad...

Its that time of year again,
When nature sheds its skin.
Leaves turn brown,
Hit the ground,
Decay and then blend in.

Its a time to gather,
Harvest family and friends.
To recollect,
Pay respect,
Count blessings and make amends.

Its a time to plow and reap,
Clear fields and restore.
Time to save,
What you crave,
Then pray to God for more.

Its when young couples marry,
Brand new lives begin.
Heartfelt praise,
On wedding days,
Become much more than friends.

Its when those passed are buried,
Fond memories laid to rest.
When grounds are sewn,
With those we've known,
Fall's fertile soils are blessed.

Its a time of reflection,
To prepare for life to end.
To recognize,
To realize,
Just how good life has been.

Its a time of contemplation,
Of what you value most.
Tranquility,
Serendipity,
Thank the Holy Ghost.

October's always meant to me,
A good time to atone.
A season when,
My best friend,
Set out on his own.

Fall's a solemn season,
Warm somber feelings, sad.
That time of year,
Of hope and fear,
When God took home my dad.


Copyright © October 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
102310

Stop The Drama

Stop the drama, Mr. Osama,
You're never gonna win.
One day God will find a way,
To payback all your sin.

The world's a better place you see,
As long as you're a refugee.
Good will win in the end,
Justice will prevail.

Stop the drama, Mr. Obama,
False promises you send.
We all pray for the day,
We all work again.

We've lost our hope and dignity,
Playing games of wait and see.
How much worse can worse be?
We shout to no avail.

Stop the drama, Mr. Osama,
We no longer care.
Your the face of Islamic disgrace,
Stir hate everywhere.

One day we will find you,
Huddled in your scorn.
That's when we'll remind you,
Of that September morn.

Stop the Drama, Mr. Obama,
Do what you foretold.
The politics make us sick,
The rhetoric's getting old.

We all want the wars to end,
Give us back our children.
Let God be the judge of them,
Do what's right and fair.

Stop the drama, Dalai Lama,
Can't we all be friends?
Find a way to take away,
The suffering of men.

Let us find peace of mind,
Help all heartbreaks mend.
We all search for better times,
Can't you tell us when?

Stop the drama, Mr. Obama,
Lead us back again.
Rise above like a dove,
In search of new dry land.

I suppose the man we chose,
Is not the one who won.
Don't give in and bow to those,
To whom you're bound to run.

Stop the drama, if you want to,
Be the best you can.
Faith's the cure to endure,
God is your best friend.

All our dreams and all our hopes
Struggles with which we all cope,
There's no better anecdote,
Then fortitude and prayer.

Seek salvation for our nation,
Prosperity and care.
Love thy neighbor without waver,
Know that God is there.



Copyright © October 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
100710

Timothy (the day F. Murray fell)

Timothy McVeigh was executed June 11, 2001 for his role in the April 19, 1995 bombing in Oklahoma City which killed 168 people. This is a revised version of the '70's song Timothy by the Buoys.

A horrendous crime, the thirteenth sin,
No one had ever heard of them,
A friend and a man named Tim.

A Ryder truck that was rented then,
Filled with 2 tons of ammonium,
That April 19th, '95 a.m.

Timothy, Timothy, no one was watching you,
Timothy, Timothy, what the hell did you do.

F. Murray fell at 9:02,
That's when the Ryder rental blew.
No one knew exactly what, to do.

168 found dead,
19 children reporters said,
The heart of a nation, bled.

Timothy, Timothy, who was working with you?
Timothy, Timothy, God if we only knew.

As billions of lights shined down on them,
Oklahoma City's pride set in.
Despite the tragic end.

90 minutes later a cop stopped him.
A firearms charge leveled then,
They arrested the man named Tim.

Timothy, Timothy, all the world blames you.
Timothy, Timothy, my God what did you do.

It was 1997 when,
The jury selection would finally begin,
They then convicted, Tim.

They found a man Nichols conspired with him
,June 2001 was when,
They killed the man named Tim.

Timothy, Timothy, Satan's now looking at you.
Timothy, Timothy, your time was overdue.

There's nothing you could say,
You're not missed to this day,
Timothy, Timothy, McVeigh.


Copyright © September 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
091210

Time Well Spent

I spent the day in the presence of,
One that I so dearly love.
We reminisced on days gone by,
Hugged and kissed, then said good-bye.
As I reflect, I wonder why,
I neglected, failed to try,
To savor the moments we'd just had,
Bottled them, good or bad.

Together

In retrospect it's plain to see,
I overlooked the subtleties.
Those that I now understand,
I treasure more than ever planned.
How was I to foresee,
How much that person meant to me,
Not knowing that the time we passed,
Would end up being our very last,
Time together.

Forever



Copyright © August 2010
Kevin Mooney

kmm001
081810