James Mullaney Poems

Who weeps for Jesus at the clutch of doom?
His mother, whose face most mirrors his face.
A sword has pierced her soul, so full of grace.
The wondrous youth who ambled in the coomb
...

Horsechestnut trees in my dreams, it seems;
Horsechestnut trees in my dreams.
Lizzie looks sexy in blue denim jeans -
Sexy as pie in those jeans, it seems;
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When Mary swayed beneath that tree, she owned
the purest spirit mauled by purest spite
that wherefrom ever mournful music moaned;
and the gift - or the curse - of omnisight.
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Deep inside a slumber I was woken
by Mary. It was my first rest in days.
I wrote down her words, those she had spoken.
Then I communicated, welling praise.
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Woeful nights, the pure gold of Mary's faith
blazoned the brighter for the stillborn dread
that roiled inside like a nether wraith.
ON THE THIRD DAY HE AROSE FROM THE DEAD.
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Light flecked with gold enshrouds the Most Holy,
Mary - divine lodestar of creation -
Logos on her thigh throne, centered solely
on the awe and ever of salvation.
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Your purple nightmare
peopled by neon hairless obscenities
fetid wretches groaning
and Pontiffs bitterly bemoaning a lost faith
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Three Ming vases rusticate in a ring.
I choose one, for its simple garden scene
razes my poems to rice grass. Cardinals sing;
a beanpole fronts a lean-to; flutes flash clean.
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Come naked night, come sawdust and tinsel,
pillow plush her footfall: My - our - 'Maitresse, '
Christina. Help a prince and a damsel
script a rogue Romeo's carnal distress.
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Now drink mead to Ceres' agronomy -
you've plowed a sage into a country rube;
his solemn pretense of autonomy
felled by your hook like a fat wet jujube.
...