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Poetry

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 Michelangelo,

or stroll the halls of the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg.

 

You might inspect the monolith at Newgrange,

walk around Crater Lake in Oregon,

or lean out over the Grand Canyon,

yet the greatest spectacle I’ve seen

is the sacred cave in Cephalonia

 

where great blue-white, organ-like stalactites

visually shimmer from sun and underground lake,

playing an imaginary music that thrilled me

to the core of my being, as it did to Homer

nearly three thousand years ago. 


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

furling porch flag

or vista panorama

from mountain top or bridge.

 

Weather often whispers

to your inner ear

and we should listen

to its secret melody,

which is not so secret,

if we accept the slow, easy way

an elderberry blooms

with joyful melody.


Few rise before sunrise

for the symphony of bird song.

Fewer can identify that song,

which humans have heard

ever since they were human,

and even before that.

 

Music is the well-water of our psyche,

waterfall of forceful wisdom,

glinting stream of peace

amid the thorny cacophony of life.

 

To breathe a song into lungs,

to walk by a modest pond

with sunlight hopscotching,

see mallard, turtle, or fish;

to catch one’s breath at a mountain top

with the sky singing clouds—

 

to recall such moments at night

is to create a pacific festival.   


That blue-black cloud you thought

was laboring on the indifferent horizon

then sailing above your head in a blink

now hovers gently like a mist in your lungs

 

and the cardinal that flew off

over to the ethereal blue beyond

now sits on your right shoulder

chirping about your odd future

 

while hot sand between your toes

still clings to childhood memories

as inseparable as the dahlia

wavering inside your head

 

when you sweep the patio of leaves

that fall helter-skelter hesitatingly

like the sun’s first orange rays

 

on the fleece of a white sheep

suckling on its mother’s paps

over the hill you cannot see

 

any more than the fox in his dark hole

who pokes his nose out to the cold air

as if retrieving a volume of old memories

 

that multiplies more wise observations

than blades of grass from the rolling sward

of a childhood hill where bird chatter

nattered like an eloquent beneficent drunk

 

lavishing praise on cloud-skimming dreams

flickering in the night like a candle

cradled by the one you waver for

 

like the echo of voice plaintively calling

just as Venus the morning star shines

 

piercing the eternal blue of its birth


Buttercups bursting in greeny meadow,

oriole chattering in oak above,

geese squawking and euphorbia prolix

under golden orb setting in the west,

as midges celebrate their most brief lives.

Amid preening buds, frolic Spring has come

to populate damp earth, grass, and night

with trills, songs, and chirping whirls of delight.

 

Bees buzz, gather on purple lamium

while a woodpecker clatters on a tree.

Even silent twigs and mute lumpy stones

appear to whisper during Easter rain.

Flowering pear and plum evoke laughter

as I and my child trod weed and clover.


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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 3rd, 2017

Few rise before sunrise

for the symphony of bird song.

Fewer can identify that song,

which humans have heard

ever since they were human,

and even before that.

 

Music...

for Bob and Kathleen
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 1st, 2017

That blue-black cloud you thought

was laboring on the indifferent horizon

then sailing above your head in a blink

now hovers gently like a mist in your lungs

 

and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Apr 20th, 2017

Buttercups bursting in greeny meadow,

oriole chattering in oak above,

geese squawking and euphorbia prolix

under golden orb setting in the west,

as midges celebrate their most brief lives.

Amid...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Apr 18th, 2017

when poetry astonished the ear,

yet astronomy, physics, and chemistry

now pioneer that frontier.

Mathematics has overshadowed metaphor.

 

A poet may recollect a full moon,

but satellites can map...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 10th, 2017

If you don’t have an appointment,

getting lost is the most under-rated

experience you may have in life.

 

If walking, one can observe

a variety of foliage, stones, and...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 3rd, 2017

Physicists can prove there’s a fourth dimension,

yet, try as we can, we cannot imagine

what the fourth looks like, or how it might be.

Being by trade a poet,...

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