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Poetry

A sunflower spikes its wheeling fan

like a pinwheel frozen in time;

its yellow halo hypnotizes the eye,

transporting it briefly to Neverland.

 

That sturdy stalk stands bolt upright

with only slight hint of irreverent  pride,

conveying subtle, implied dignity,

which might be labeled mere oversight.

 

Although yellow petals outdo the eye,

its brownness whispers centrifugal force,

something like our heart or even mind,

yet we dismiss that idea with a sigh.

 

Somewhere in my over-complicated head,

there’s a sunflower seed growing like a weed,

finding nourishment in whatever I eat,

especially the most abstruse things I’ve said.

 

When golden sunflowers appear in dreams

as omens of truth or immortality,

we judge such visions as crippled poetry—

exaggerations of what merely seems.

 

As I pluck a fresh, mature sunflower

and place it in a proper, tall, slim vase,

I find it works inspirational magic

like the aura of raindrops in a shower.


Of late administrative problems

have obstructed constant production of poetry.

 

Poetry is not a production

but a product of the unconscious.

 

I have rescheduled writing times

and locations to address this problem.

 

He has no writing schedule

and writes on scraps of paper.

 

Some of these leaks are either

false or at best inaccurate.

 

The unconscious may not be accurate

but it does not habitually lie.

 

As a rule I write three drafts:

one on paper, two at the computer.

 

He has no idea at all about this:

sometimes it’s one draft, sometimes a dozen.

 

My favorite image is the small pond

across the road from my home.

 

He is a compulsive opportunist

using the few images he can manage.

 

I write while listening to classical music,

jazz, or sometimes even the blues.

 

He writes listening to children’s programming

like Thomas, PJ Masks, or Bob the Builder.

 

Some of my poems employ strict rhyme

while others occasional rhyme, yet some don’t rhyme.

 

He makes grandiose statements

that mean absolutely nothing.

 

My favorite poets are Homer,

Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson.

 

His favorite poets are his Ego,

his Memory, and his Imagination.

 

Poetry is the Art of the Impossible

and the activity of the Inexpressible.

 

Poetry is the practice of masochistic failure

and nearly the absence of dignified composure.


A drab tooth-bitten pencil with

its innumerable shadows and wayward squiggles

lolls between my blunt thumb

and elegant middle finger

like a scalpel ready to open up

fissures in language,

heal guttural cancers,

scramble chiaroscuro vowels

in assonantal ambiance

or detonate clotted plosives--

string out a solid line

connecting birds with clouds

that I eat as I carelessly scribble

impulses riding the current of emotion

throbbing through my seismic hand.

 

The pencil:a  thing of wonder

more magnificent than

the Empire State Building

impressing its outline

on the collective imagination:

you can waggle it

at any time

day or night!


                                                                for John O’Brien

Like finding in a closet a used work glove spattered with linseed oil and torn at the fingertips

Not remembering where you left your cars keys or what day of the week it is

Recalling with stunning clarity how you were reprimanded at two for peeing on petunias

Beginning a task and finding another task to do then being puzzled about what you really wanted to accomplish

Waking up at 5 am and realizing that the predawn birdsong which you treasured at three hasn’t lost its appeal

Wanting to save items of no value

Comically bragging about one’s own youthful follies while lamenting the antics of your children

Imagining you are three times as strong as you really are when you move a couch

Having to pee so badly that you can’t pee

Impatiently performing a simple task with alacrity when you have more time than you can imagine

Musing why there are such inferior trivets being manufactured today

Avidly yearning for what’s new but being increasingly disappointed about what’s supposedly new

Becoming so winded by walking up a hill that you conspire to avoid hills in the future

Wondering why you are growing old when your mind has such powerful insights from so many experiences that people don’t understand yet you can’t recall the surname of the person you are speaking to


The Mouth who made America great again

denied all science, allowed lead in water,

permitted unlimited air pollution,

encouraged all bigots to feel mightier.

 

The Mouth that governed by signing directives,

making secret deals on his green golf courses,

sought to stuff his baggy pants through blackmail schemes

and tricky, shell, real-estate shenanigans.

 

The Mouth that was full of corrupt ambition

was governed by a colossal big brain

that wheezed like an out-of-tune accordion,

which made it apparent he was not quite sane.

 

The dendrites in His brain danced to a cleaved drum

stuck on the single false note of me, me, me.

The Mouth that wagged a gigantic serpent tongue

lectured he was the only man who could see.

 

That Big Mouth was a primitive, primal scream

of wealth, climaxing in wan nightmarish dream.

But what do you expect from the tv screen?

Or erratic, gas rhetoric so extreme? 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 15th, 2017

A sunflower spikes its wheeling fan

like a pinwheel frozen in time;

its yellow halo hypnotizes the eye,

transporting it briefly to Neverland.

 

That sturdy stalk stands bolt upright...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 8th, 2017

Of late administrative problems

have obstructed constant production of poetry.

 

Poetry is not a production

but a product of the unconscious.

 

I have rescheduled writing times

and locations...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 1st, 2017

A drab tooth-bitten pencil with

its innumerable shadows and wayward squiggles

lolls between my blunt thumb

and elegant middle finger

like a scalpel ready to open up

fissures in language,...

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

                                                           ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 12th, 2017

The Mouth who made America great again

denied all science, allowed lead in water,

permitted unlimited air pollution,

encouraged all bigots to feel mightier.

 

The Mouth that governed by...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Jul 7th, 2017

My lover’s body is nothing at all

like glossy pics in upscale magazines

depicting coats, hats, shoes, vests, overalls,

lingerie, ties, underwear or sweaters.

Absent is that vacuous model gaze...

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

Do you know who you are, why you are here?

Can you live your life without any fear?

Fear of death, fear of failure or weakness,

Mediocrity or fear of...

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...

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