Nothing is Constant - Poem (From "Two of Cups")

Nothing is constant -
today's strength
is tomorrow's weakness
and the point,
forever shifting.

I have seen storms
that could drown
even you

yet, in my weakest moment
I draw strength
as a sail would
and fly,

if it were not you I'd be gone,
but I cannot just leave,
I will linger as clouds do
before they are swept
or blown away.

By Mary E. Lohan

Your Eyes: A Poem (From "Two of Cups": A New York Poet in Galway"

When I revel
in your eyes
I die --

become one
with the moon
and sun

rising and falling
with your every
tide.

By Mary E Lohan

The Coming Fall (2000) - A Poem

I sway on the swing --
lush grass, crests of leaves
on the shuddering trees
soothe me.

By Mary E. Lohan

Paper Clip - A Poem (From "Speaking to the Darkness")

You may debate
the significance

Poem: Paper Clip

once straight
now twisted --
again and again

and the time to pull
metal or plastic
into a pliable
yet rigid thread

to partner leaves
or sheets
for a time

and then,
      unbind,

no hole,

only a lingering
impression

once undone.


By Mary E. Lohan

Suburban Mornings - A Poem (from "Speaking to the Darkness")

New Jersey, USA

The first stirs
of morning
arrive as shrills,
whistles, tweets,
against a backdrop
of dewy, dark nothingness --
so blankety soft and still,
I can hear my own breath.

But as the world illuminates
from below,
burly groans emerge,
the whirls of man --
mowers, weeders,
saws and blowers,
their racket so loud
windows are mere
membranes now.

I must endure the
hours of manicuring,
primping,
the shaping of Nature,
into a green "couture"
landscape,
to be appreciated
by the few who
saunter or drive by.

By Mary E. Lohan

MOMA - A Poem

MOMA

(From my book, "Speaking to the Darkness" (Poetry, 2013), now available via Amazon.

Note: I wrote this poem one hot, sunny afternoon after a visit to MOMA. It's fabulous to post this as a blog because I can link to all of the paintings which will make its meaning more clear. :-)

The sun
kindles the sky
I dodge the New
York suits

the anthill scramble

of lunch time
pay the speckled lady
in the white, wide lobby

to broach the mazes

of these boxed halls,
the din of school kids
directionless,
            spins then falls,

up the aligned

escalators we go,
lovers and others,
like me, alone,  stroll

at the top, Marina

Abramovic —                                               
B&W films roll
suspended,

within a few steps,

post-war tension
jiggling breasts,
one feminine
face, aghast
      upended
mid-scream,
      extended —                                                                                                                                                                                
I retreat to spaces
less impeding —
the calm and familiar 
floors beneath:

Still Life with Apples,                                                           

Cezanne,                                                        
stippled, deep landscapes,
Matisse,                                                         
Still Life with Three Puppies,
Gauguin                                                           

                  But
why does Picasso's
Wives & Lovers
sadden me so?                                                                                                                                                                      
I leave burdened
by their loss
of color, their heavy
lined faces
that have yet
to grieve

Until, she bids me

Stay —

the Girl Before

a Mirror with her     
bright gestured
wave

with so much to say

like Christina

from her World*                  
reaching, reaching,
              Come back for me..

I cannot leave

              yet

with one still to see,

— Roulin**,                

a tourist

videotapes
him,  proud,
bright, always
a showman
his beard blaring
from behind 
the glass

What a precocious

       fellow:
always a flirt.

 *Christina's World - Wyeth

**Portrait of Joseph Roulin - Van Gogh
Note: About MOMA

Clonmacnoise: A Tribute to Ireland (From "Two of Cups")

If you stand still

you can hear
eternity
in the prayer
of the devoted wind

I palm

the tower wall
gaze upon
the River Shannon,
and follow
your lead
through these
monastic ruins
that now pay
homage to the sky

ruins are a long salute

goodbye.
 

Radisson Blu Galway - A Poem

Here is where
we began,

Strolls to and from
Shop Street
in the summer
and spring air

meandering
pub hopping

the cycle car
ride back in frigid
wind, our genitals
nearly falling
off when the
driver forgot
to cover us with
a blanket...

the posh dinner,
soup and brown
bread for lunch,
our expansive
breakfast buffet
which you got up
early to have
with me
though you would
have preferred
to sleep in...

this is where
sitting next to the
open fire
having one of our
extensive chats,
me gazing into
your handsome
Irish face, I
thought --

Yes, this is what
I would like
for the rest of
my life.

Written Jan 2014

Note: About Radisson Blu Galway