Mark Mahemoff



It’s Summer but we’re wearing Winter coats.
Seasons no longer exist,
just moments that evoke them.
On Facebook you have instant access to your past.
People who know people who know people
you once knew.
You see their faces on screen,
faces that you haven’t seen for years.
You wallow in moments of nostalgia
and move on.
So much information. So much obfuscation.

Rain is falling and the sound it makes
is the sound it’s always made.
But this sameness is deceptive
like the sky
and it’s falsely reassuring blueness.
What continues coming but never arrives?
Answer: tomorrow (or so the punch line goes.)
It’s funny but no joke.
The present thinks it’s more prescient
than it’s ever been.

Walking in a downpour without an umbrella
feels strangely veracious.
The snails are out in force
in groupings I’d like to call herds.
They remind you of something essential and old.
You’re careful to sidestep them
while watching their slow progress.


Her Hands

Soft, plump, free of liver spots.
Youthful within months of her death.

Disease spent years
pilfering her competence.

Rage enabled her
to leap the tallest buildings.

With nothing to be done,
he waited for her nap,

then snapped her hands
with his telephone camera.

now and then
he examines that image,

remembers the helplessness,
then hastily moves on.



Mark Mahemoff has published three books of poetry, the last one being Traps and Sanctuaries (Puncher & Wattmann, 2008) He works as a couple and family therapist but would like to play drums and write full-time. Such is life.