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Poetry

First frost of autumn on petals and leaves.

Summer is already a memory

lost in the cold fog of cloudy morning.

Time to pick apples, quince, say fond farewell

to desperate insects flitting about.

The sky will soon be a river of snow

And my mind will be as frozen as ice.

Boiling kettle will now be my best friend.

 

My grandson is more accepting of change,

which may say something about my own age.

It’s time once more to become a bookworm,

find warmth in the wisdom of other men.

Did I say wisdom? Does wisdom still play

a role in life on a cold winter’s day?


I read in newspapers that someone has died.

Sudden death seems to happen every day,

yet few people appear aware of this

as tv sit-coms and sporting events

celebrate victories or fantasies,

while thousands die each day in global war.

And just what is it that we are here for?

 

Some say we’re merely here to gobble food,

do laundry, cut grass, play video games,

or do jobs that robots ask us to do.

Few possess satisfactory answers.

As for me, I’m skipping out to sunlight

to watch blue passing clouds, ask butterflies

if they know why humans are so obtuse.


Sleep is the thinker’s laboratory

where people chat and mostly agree

on what is to be done in this frail world.

Conversation may be enigmatic,

but everyone speaks with shy eloquence.

Dreamworld rarely follows chronology

as one remains spectator to one’s self

acting in imaginary pageant.

 

No rules crimp the script of Dreamworld—

just about anything can happen there.

Dreamworld escape can be a pleasant place

where problems are solved to satisfaction.

Yet waking to sunlight with dew on lawn,

nightmarish confusion trumpets its horn.  


To start, you trap him in a glass:

he’s stoic while you study his

mismatched, barbed, jackknifed knees,

pincer tails and antennae weeds

all sprouting from a belly-head —

the spindly shape of insect dread.

 

He fills the space from rim to rim,

that foreign, smudged, thorny thing.

Beneath him the white porcelain

looks soft, almost as hidden skin,

and as you curl closer in,

you wonder if he thinks or cares

that there’s no route from here to there:

no mimicry, nor camouflage,

no leaping trick nor subterfuge—

not anything that he can do,

no pathway to your human heart!


There are many angles to living life:

looking out of a window six stories high,

strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,

being a vegetable before tv,

or just dozing, thinking about what’s happened.

 

The poet Euclid wrote about angles

in a way that retarded mathematics,

just as the broad eloquence of Plato

with dazzling angles of fictional thoughts

persuaded people that common sense fails.

 

If it wasn’t for old Aristotle,

would we have arrived at Rousseau, Hegel,

Whitehead, or any of the brilliant brains

who point like a corrective weathervane?


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Oct 12th, 2019

First frost of autumn on petals and leaves.

Summer is already a memory

lost in the cold fog of cloudy morning.

Time to pick apples, quince, say fond farewell

to...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 1st, 2019

I read in newspapers that someone has died.

Sudden death seems to happen every day,

yet few people appear aware of this

as tv sit-coms and sporting events

celebrate victories...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Sep 27th, 2019

Sleep is the thinker’s laboratory

where people chat and mostly agree

on what is to be done in this frail world.

Conversation may be enigmatic,

but everyone speaks with shy...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 24th, 2019

Swallow tail butterfly with great black dots

flitting on pink phlox in mild mellow air—

its yellow shimmer recalling the sun

of full golden-breath summer abundance.

 

I ponder about...

by Bill Keller in Poetry
Mon Sep 16th, 2019

To start, you trap him in a glass:

he’s stoic while you study his

mismatched, barbed, jackknifed knees,

pincer tails and antennae weeds

all sprouting from a belly-head —

the...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Sep 9th, 2019

There are many angles to living life:

looking out of a window six stories high,

strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,

being a vegetable before tv,

or just dozing,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Sep 4th, 2019

I have a friend who dreams about numbers,

another who dreams about divinity,

and one who dreams about playing music.

As a poet, my dreams are various

because poets remain...

by Lois Bellamy in Poetry
Wed Aug 28th, 2019

Gliding along Times Square

Walking with a rhythmic gait

Of a Broadway dancer

You wear a purple felt hat

Adorning your crown.

What a conversation piece!

A tailored dark gray...

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