ENCOUNTER IN A PIAZZA
an elderly matron
dressed in black
from head to toe
carrying string bags
of market produce
stumbles on uneven cobblestones
pitches heavily to the ground
attempts a mighty heave
falling back with a groan
rushing to help
I’m taken aback
by the vehemence
of her response
so turn my attention
to rounding up loose onions
rolling down the slope
finally reaching her feet
she accepts my offerings
without thanks
doesn’t meet my gaze
won’t answer my questions
surveys scraped hands and knees
then limps heavily away
casting meaningful looks back
apparently grateful
to have escaped the clutches
of another foreign rapist
I guess
DECEMBER BRIDE
Prague, you wear
your winter coat well
the virginal whiteness
of this down-soft mantle
begs forgiveness
for the dust and ash
you wore just yesterday
lying beneath
your new garment
hidden, not erased
like the filth
beneath a beggar’s rags
But no beggar’s cloak, this!
More the wedding whiteness
around indiscretion’s swollen womb
drawing all eyes upward
to the radiant face
and its promise of
future responsibility
MOSCOW
Moscow is exciting and modern
wears a miniskirt and tall boots
long hair gathered in a ponytail
a slim profile clutching a shoulder bag
by the strap, pausing for a moment
on the corner of Europe
she’s young and full of life
speaks several languages
is up-to-date on Western trends
and unfazed by the rural conventions
of disapproving elders
believes passionately in
private enterprise and
if she sleeps only with foreign men
it’s mostly for the sport and
not really for their lavish gifts
LENINGRAD/ST. PETERSBURG
in summer she can’t sleep nights
for the unshuttered sun
while winter finds her
huddled in daily darkness
a moody lady
seasonal at best
betraying grave hints of advanced age
but possessed of a certain elegance
bestowed by Tsarist functionaries
when elegance was a way of life
and dowagers to be honoured
with her regal attire
somewhat the worse for wear
and off-the-rack substitutes
out of the question
she somehow endures
daily assaults on her dignity
with profound indifference
reminding all that the effrontery
of latter-day oligarchs
pales in comparison to that
of a certain bald-headed Bolshevik
who erased her lover’s name
OH, TO BE IN ENGLAND!
darkness falling
winds freshening
flurries quickly intensifying
into a blustery squall
pelting sleet
limited visibility
slippery underfoot
pedestrians bracing
against strong gusts
picking their way
through snarled traffic
umbrellas inverting
headlights flashing
street vendors packing
newsstand closing
waiters clearing
outdoor tables
foggy shop windows
incongruously bright
with spring flowers
chocolate roosters
exquisite pastries
cheese baskets
charcuterie platters
Armagnac and Calvados
my light jacket
and bare head
hopelessly inadequate
in these conditions
searching in vain
for a Métro stairway
to shelter and warmth
so much for Easter
in the City of Lights
April in Paris
is a myth
try September
Timothy Maloney is a retired musician, arts administrator, and author who has written poetry on and off for about 60 years. Some of his work has been published in poetry journals, including the Bare Root Review, Ilya’s Honey, Leaflets, the Muskeg Review, Poetry On and Off the Wall, the Red River Review, and the Talking Stick. His monograph about the late concert pianist, Glenn Gould, is currently being shopped around to prospective publishers by a literary agency. In retirement, Tim and his wife live in the Hudson River Valley, north of New York City, where they garden, work at improving their house and property, and enjoy gatherings of family and neighbours. Since discovering numerous sugar maple trees in and around their property, Tim began tapping many of them in late winter each year, producing his own maple syrup, which he shares with family and friends.
Cover photo: Ninara
