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Poetry

A little water now on your forehead

to remember we are all mostly water,

that we go with the flow like water,

that we are weak in the face of gravity.

 

Yes, this is a grave occasion

for we see you reborn in Christ,

reborn in the spirit of forgiving,

reborn in the wisdom of Christ!

 

In times of difficulty, trouble,

recall these leaping droplets of water,

recall the love of mother and father,

know that love is your faith and force.


When life is raindrops on slate steps

Petals falling from sunflowers

Dawn rising east with rosy hue

Urge to make love half awake

Bathrobe close to skin

Baby rollicking rattling in crib

Washing up at small sink

Changing diaper with tickles

Pleasure of breakfast routine

Circle dancing dizzy with babe

Soft song of chirpy birdsong

Smell of slightly burnt toast

Coffee tingling tongue

Mewling cats to feed

Sway of tree branch in breeze

Barefoot on withering lawn

Stone underfoot like a thimble

Quick piss back of the house

Leaves crinkling underfoot

Boosting baby on shoulders

Quick tour of fading flowers

Slight drizzle falling on skin

Slicing and skinning apple

When you know for sure

The bounteous day bursting

Has just begun to move

Toward that marvelous when

When verbs open the aura

Of aural possibility’s Ha!


Spring: aconite and daffodil

Have vanished yet flocks of flowers—

lilacs, rainbows of tulips, purple iris

surround a path to the driveway.

 

Everything appears reborn in vivid color

while I wonder if my dry ego

died during winter. Is it renewed

as I walk in early morning mist

before my toddler son awakes

to all that is new and marvelous

at the dawn of his life?

 

Airborne scent of pollen tells me

that tall promise of rebirth

lingers in blue air and all

I need to do is breathe deeply

to discover cordial identity

that frolics like a wanton fern

in winsome breeze.


Prizing doubt

they certainly

do it well,

philosophers

gazing at the mind

 

amid encrusted sediment

of sandstone fossils,

crunching numbers

few intellects

can comprehend...

 

and then there are those

who want to believe

a simple story

of how we first spoke

at dawn in a garden

 

and while I prefer

apples to abstraction,

innocent interpretation

remains the mark of fools,

who like children daydream,

 

and don’t acknowledge

problems of love:

its tender complexity,

its most sacred burden—

the musing heart laid bare!


If words could resurrect the dead,

we would speak those words today.

If war was a solution to problems,

we would have no problems today.

If the past were not part of the present,

we would not be here today.

 

Today we recall all those names

who gave their lives to country

so that we might enjoy our liberty.

 

Let the memory of their courage

give us hope that their determination

is our bright, shining future,

that our future is worthy

of their singular dedication.

 

Today as we put flowers on graves,

plant a flower in your heart.

 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Jun 25th, 2017

A little water now on your forehead

to remember we are all mostly water,

that we go with the flow like water,

that we are weak in the face of...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 19th, 2017

When life is raindrops on slate steps

Petals falling from sunflowers

Dawn rising east with rosy hue

Urge to make love half awake

Bathrobe close to skin

Baby rollicking rattling...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 12th, 2017

Spring: aconite and daffodil

Have vanished yet flocks of flowers—

lilacs, rainbows of tulips, purple iris

surround a path to the driveway.

 

Everything appears reborn in vivid color

while...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jun 5th, 2017

Prizing doubt

they certainly

do it well,

philosophers

gazing at the mind

 

amid encrusted sediment

of sandstone fossils,

crunching numbers

few intellects

can comprehend...

 

and then there are...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 29th, 2017

If words could resurrect the dead,

we would speak those words today.

If war was a solution to problems,

we would have no problems today.

If the past were not...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 23rd, 2017

As violinist

to violin

or flautist

to flute,

 

the poet

wed to Muse

must choose

notes inspired

by lunar music

unwritten

except

to inner ear

& its mystic

exaltation...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 15th, 2017

At Notre Dame one can sit in wooden pew

to hear an organist play Vidor or Saint-Saens;

you can tour the Vatican to see ceiling murals

painted by the marvelous...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 9th, 2017

Feel the inner green landscape

of gentle falling rain

as it coats black street

with fresh patina

communicating peace

to pulse of blood running in brain,

much like willowing wind...

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