Luminous
reflection of the moon’s
cool elegance
another light floating
across night’s dark acre
out of place
clinging to my wall
unmoving or unable to move
one curving underwing
half torn off
casualty of a night bird’s hunger
broken, still beautiful, shining
here in daylight
where you don’t belong

—
Mary McCarthy has always been a writer, as well as a visual artist and a Registered Nurse. She has had many publications in online and print journals, including The Ekhprastic Review, Three Elements, Earth’s Daughters and Third Wednesday, and has an electronic chapbook, Things I Was Told Not to Think About available as a free download from Praxis Magazine.

I had to come empty enough
For all this open sky
The iron earth
Singing its reds
Like an echo of my own
Blood music
I had to find room
For silence
For a new equilibrium
Between stone and sky
Where my chain of years
Weighs nothing
And I walk lightly
In the shadow of
Red desert dreams

—
Mary McCarthy has been a writer, an artist, and a Registered Nurse. She has had work published in many online and print journals and has an electronic chapbook Things I Was Told Not to Think About available for free download from Praxis Magazine online.

After it’s over
I’ll count my spoons
and line the plates up
and swear no one ever
took anything from me
I wasn’t ready to give.
If I do this well enough
I might even convince myself.
But I feel the cracks
spreading underneath
my fresh plaster,
and the pipes are leaking
somewhere in the cellar.
I don’t think I’ll get away
with my pretense
of order smooth as an egg
without a cloud or question
to mark its perfect surface.
I think I must go down
with all the other
tatterdemalions
too rough and raggedy
to let in the house,
too mad to expect
anything less.

—
Mary McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. She has had work published in many print and online journals, including Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, Verse Virtual, and the Ekphrastic Review. Her electronic chapbook Things I was Told Not to Think About is available as a free download from Praxis Magazine.

Waiting for catastrophe
I keep busy with things
that don’t matter,
avoid starting what
I might not finish,
try not to mourn,
or spend myself in rage,
wasting energies
I can’t replace.
Grief will come
when I think I have
outrun it.
I already have too many
sympathy cards
and sleepless hours enough
to find thousands
of bad endings
that become easier and easier
to imagine.

—
Mary McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. Her work has appeared in many online and print journals, including Earth’s Daughters, Gnarled Oak, Third Wednesday and Three Elements Review. Her echapbook Things I Was Told Not To Think About is available through Praxis magazine online as a free download. She is grateful for the wonderful online communities of writers and poets sharing their work and passion for writing, providing a rich world of inspiration, appreciation, and delight.

I remember that party
the one where cats danced
in circles
and wolves sang
beneath a bloody moon.

The one where we all took
strange communion
and neon visions bloomed
rooted in our bodies,
electric petals opening
wide enough to swallow
our lame conventions.

I remember how my heart beat
in a hard stutter
with the flash
of strobe lights
hyphenating time
deranging vision
until I turned
spinning like a dizzy girl
in a game meant to break
through
to some bright new world
beyond the walls of reason.

—
Mary McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. Her work has appeared in many online and print journals, including Earth’s Daughters, Gnarled Oak, Third Wednesday and Three Elements Review. She is grateful for the wonderful online communities of writers and poets sharing their work and passion for writing, providing a rich world of inspiration, appreciation, and delight.

For days I study
the architecture of clouds
the prehistoric silhouettes
of pelicans chaining past
dark wings riding
invisible rivers of bright air

I sleep and dream the moon falls
into the arms of the ocean
their long dance ending
in this strange embrace
where the waves take her
and polish her to pearl
smooth and lustrous
unmarked by time
a promise just remembered
small enough to keep

—
Mary C McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. She has had work included in many online and print journals, including Expound, Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, The Evening Street Review, and Caketrain.

After their treatments
I woke empty and blind
as an egg, so fragile
I had to be careful
not to break anything
that didn’t belong to me.
I forgot my own name
but no one else’s.
Nothing would stay with me.
All my old associations
were bled out
reduced to strangers
I’d swear I never met.
What good was this cruel robbery
supposed to do?
Make me more careful
to stay inside the lines
and stop complaining
before you can come up
with another cure
worse than this.

—
Mary C McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. She has had work included in many online and print journals, including Expound, Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, The Evening Street Review, and Caketrain.

You wore me down
like sandpaper
reducing all my knots
and splintered edges
to a surface so bland
and smooth
no one would suspect
it had ever been anything
but innocuous.
Still I remember
that old skin
rough and graceless
marked by scars
and strange tattoos
like the autographs
of inquisitors
eager for confession.
Now I am domesticated
beyond suspicion
and I get no second glances
moving easily
among the wolves
perfect in this harmless
disguise.

—
Mary C McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. She has had work included in many online and print journals, including Expound, Third Wednesday, Earth’s Daughters, The Evening Street Review, and Caketrain.

I have never been at home here
so when the dragons rise
in rows behind the streetlights
I do nothing to show
I hadn’t been expecting them

they are less strange to me
smoke and iron and ice
than you are
sitting here beside me
as though nothing unusual
breathes all around us

—
Mary McCarthy grew up in Pittsburgh, PA, studied art and literature but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. She has always been a writer. She has great hopes for the future despite the horrors reported endlessly in the daily news.

I can smell the sun on your skin
taste the salt sea water left
on your lips
as we lean back
into the afternoon
as though it could hold us
safely in its arms
forever
as though nothing could pull us
out of this light

back to the dim rooms
where debt and obligation
line up in columns
long and dark enough
to occlude our dreams
and no one comes to whisper
sedition in our ears
with words strong enough
to break us back out
into the heat
into the light

—
Mary McCarthy has always been a writer, but spent most of her working life as a Registered Nurse. She has only recently come to discover the vital communities of poets online, where there can be a more immediate connection between writers and readers than is usually afforded in print.