Mother - A Poem (from "Four Folded Corners")

She strings me words,
     gifts like pearls,
which I keep tucked away
     for special occasions.

By Mary E. Lohan

Fire Escape - A Poem (From "Speaking to the Darkness")

From this metal perch

pigeons circle overhead,
the Brooklyn sun
blazing, baking
tenement walls,
melting rooftops
to goo,

this, my balcony,
where I read novels
after school, my feet
dangling through bars,
three stories from earth,
-- part of the sky

the rumble of
the L train stirs
periodically, the snore
of a giant
asleep beneath me

no bird song -- simply
the whirs and sirens,
the shouts of dinner
out windows

accompanied by
the gentle sway
of working class clothes
strung from lines --

celebrating liberation
from life's routine.

By Mary E. Lohan

Photograph by John Albok

Mary E. Lohan~Poetry: Paper Clip - A Poem (From "Speaking to the Darknes...

Mary E. Lohan~Poetry: Paper Clip - A Poem (From "Speaking to the Darknes...: You may debate the significance once straight now twisted -- again and again and the time to pull metal or plastic into a pliable ...

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

Jazz at Cornelia Street Cafe (NYC) - Poem (from "Speaking to the Darkness")

Indigo walls frame
a light, crimson stage
aflame --

we sit jammed
at tiny cafe tables
candlelit in a NY
basement dive,

the air is rich and
alive with aromas
Moroccan hummus,

we order
tiramisu martinis
vodka with ice,

as the hunched pianist
hammers, his knees
pendulating,
feet kicking,
his rhythms egging
the quintet to
weave and swoop,

trumpet, sax,
bass, drums, all
pulling us on
and in,

we swim
and ride the melodic
plaited waves
until the music
fades.

By Mary E. Lohan

Note: About Cornelia Street Cafe

The Year of Tawana* - A Poem (from "Speaking to the Darkness")

How much of her story
was true?

Tawana found
in the trash,
abused

how much was fiction?

I walk down 8th Avenue
at midnight,
summer in the city
that never sleeps
return to my
rented studio
in Hell's Kitchen

only there's a
homeless man
passed out
in the dark, narrow
stairwell

Too afraid, I return
to the street
call my roommate
from a payphone
on the avenue
in full view

six black males
approach loudly,
but I look past
unaware as my call
goes to voicemail

one is chanting

only when they are
within feet,
do I hear the crazed one
chanting --

"Revenge for Tawana!" --
while looking straight
at me
his frenzied face
alive with a fire

I catch the eyes
of his friend, who sees me,
and pushes him
onward and away

I run into a bodega
and amidst stacked cans
of rice and beans
pray.

Note: *For more info on Tawana, see: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tawana_Brawley_rape_allegations