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Consuela and Sean | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Through the nursery glass
Carlos Montero peeks at Consuela,
his twelfth, in the arms of a nurse.

Pink as a peony
with brilliant black hair,
Consuela is raw, bawling.

The nurse takes Consuela
away to be washed as Carlos
digs deep in his denims,

locks elbows, gleams,
turns to me. I feel odd
in a suit and a tie as I

wait to see Sean, our first.
When the nurse brings Sean to the window,
Carlos Montero whips off his sombrero,

makes a bullfighter’s pass and beams.
“Senor!” he booms like a tuba. “Ole!”
Suddenly I’m as happy as he.


Donal Mahoney spent most of his life in Chicago, the son of Irish immigrant parents. He lives as an expatriate now in St. Louis, Missouri, owing to what was once a long search for work. Discovering Biscuits and Sausage Gravy made the transfer easier. More about him can be found at

Con Man Willy | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

Willy’s old.
Still a con man
but bewildered now.

Spent his life
screwing people,
rich and poor alike.

Never discriminated.
Made millions
he tucked away

in stocks and bonds
and foreign banks.
A few gold bars

under the mattress
for emergencies.
He’s dying now,

a shrill curse
his final gasp.
No plea for mercy.

One might think
death would be
a con man’s finest hour,

a last chance to cut
the biggest deal.
But Willy loves Sinatra.

He’s proud as hell
he’s done it
his way.


In Quest of Freedom | A Poem by Zarrineh

As long as we hold the high rank, as long we have money in the bank,
Who cares about the little boy washed up dead on the Turkish shores?
Trying to escape terror and hopeless wars,
In quest of freedom, knocking on strangers’ doors,
Who cares about the politicians and all their lies?
A round of applause for the recipient of the Noble Peace Prize!!!
In order to acquire extravagance, forgotten is the actual substance,
We won’t speak the truth; won’t pick the forbidden fruit,
We remain and watch, this is not our botch,
We stand on the side line; act like everything is dandy and fine,
Why bother, no one else is making an offer,
Love and tender, now, prohibited terms from a dusty folder,
Let us not be shy, it always has been about me, myself and I,
Who cares if humanity is about to die,
Ego, Power, and Money, this is no longer funny,
There is more to life than acquiring success; we are so far from progress,
The gift wrapping is pretty; the box holds nothing, just empty,
What is wrong with us, civilization is suffering a big loss,
Close your eyes for a moment, imagine their torment,
Leaving their homeland behind, with angst they decide,
Maybe, our kids will have a future, a classroom, a teacher, no more torture,
Each a child on their shoulders, they walk towards the other side of the borders,
Seeking safety and liberty for their family, knowing consequences can be deadly,
Taking a chance to a perhaps, that humanity considers the facts,
Betting on human heart, that in essence, we are much alike and not far apart,
Let us not be judgmental; freedom is basic and fundamental,
Extend your hand, try to understand.

Conversing about Life | A Poem by Kushal Poddar

Your silence speaks to mine,
greets good morning, makes
green tea with honey.
Blink, your loose tee. Blink,
your pile of homework.
Future arrived early.
One bird on the window
maintains its thin balance
as if the wood shed
its state of being, light
lighter than photons.
And time dissolves its
firmness. Isotopes
of nothingness roam
from the room of sleep
on whose door sways
Disturbance Shall Be
Treated With Silence
to the room of hush
whose door is ajar.
And you stir them all,
dutifully theirs.


Kushal Poddar is widely published in several countries, prestigious
anthologies included Men In The Company of Women, Penn International MK etc and featured in various radio programs in Canada and USA and collaborated with photographers for an exhibition at Venice and with performers for several audio publications. He is presently living at Kolkata and writing poetry, fictions and scripts for short films when not engaged in his day job as a counsel/lawyer in the High Court At Calcutta. He authored, The Circus Came To My Island’and “A Place For Your Ghost Animals”.