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Poetry

The Gospel of Gauguin hung in the air:

all emptied their pockets or ran a tab

while philosophers sipped their black coffee

as Jukebox blared “At the Dock of the Bay”

among thick wreaths of smoke rising from booths.

There was nothing that could not be discussed.

Professors lurked, drank with their mistresses

in quiet platitudes of derangement;

drugs were sold, bets were placed of baseball games;

women prowled to pick up, exploit a man.

The gleaming bar—shaped, glorious horseshoe—

spoke a hundred tongues of hang-over peak

as novels were dreamed, rather than written.

Here was half a poet’s education.

 


Hauling in logs before first sleet snowfall,

wrapping tarp about the pyramid pile,

huffing and puffing like a berserker,

ferreting out a splinter from finger,

waiting for the first flakes of brute winter

with a shot-glass of gleaming malt whiskey,

one may ponder loss, gain, futility

as glass grows empty as philosophy.

 

Life seems like a preposterous pageant

of wind-blown snowflakes scattering blind cant—

without much effect—in weather frozen,

indifferent, melancholy, wooden.

Yet a glimmer in mirthful memory

boasts an old, happy, larking legacy!


When young I had an insane lust for books:

novels, history, deep philosophy,

and especially noted poetry.

My bookshelves bend with grave biographies,

yet I cherish autobiographies

that I cannot part with until I die.

I have little leisure to read these books,

and now I favor music above all—

there’s more poetry in music than words,

more eloquence, even more emotion.

 

And yet, I remain committed to words,

whether from mere habit or compulsion,

for words are more primary in our lives.

Words abide as the basis of action.

Without words we are not human beings—

we are blind monkeys stuck in a forest...


When rain pelts, pours incessantly for days,

streets swell with splashing puddles, running streams.

A temptation to sleep-away the day

afflicts a blue, pampered, preening psyche.

 

Under microscope-lens water reveals

fifty million morphing, dancing patterns;

they descend about our ears like droll tears,

each drop containing myriad marvels.

 

These window drummers whisper history

of slow molecular evolution

about which we are blindly ignorant,

yet we imbibe some of that legacy

at faucet, or in the drenched sensation

of showering in lucent refreshment.


The bustling clanging of daylight action

creates cluttering static in the brain.

Silence in the night offers solution,

yet night itself may provide a refrain

of off-hand noise from roaring vehicles,

or children plagued by traumatic nightmare,

or one’s own insomniac, riddle dreams,

which may inspire momentary scare.

 

Still silence in the night is a pleasure

to be savored like a cheerful bouquet

of flowers you have picked from your garden.

Silence itself is a form of leisure

like gazing fondly at the Milky Way

or contemplating your childhood again.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Dec 12th, 2018

At Barnes & Noble the poetry shelves

sleep a thousand volumes of poetry,

yet with a few exciting exceptions

like Shakespeare, Pushkin, and Dickinson,

there’s just ink meandering on paper,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Dec 5th, 2018

The Gospel of Gauguin hung in the air:

all emptied their pockets or ran a tab

while philosophers sipped their black coffee

as Jukebox blared “At the Dock of the...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Nov 28th, 2018

Hauling in logs before first sleet snowfall,

wrapping tarp about the pyramid pile,

huffing and puffing like a berserker,

ferreting out a splinter from finger,

waiting for the first flakes...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 20th, 2018

When young I had an insane lust for books:

novels, history, deep philosophy,

and especially noted poetry.

My bookshelves bend with grave biographies,

yet I cherish autobiographies

that I cannot...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 13th, 2018

When rain pelts, pours incessantly for days,

streets swell with splashing puddles, running streams.

A temptation to sleep-away the day

afflicts a blue, pampered, preening psyche.

 

Under microscope-lens water...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 6th, 2018

The bustling clanging of daylight action

creates cluttering static in the brain.

Silence in the night offers solution,

yet night itself may provide a refrain

of off-hand noise from roaring...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 30th, 2018

"Whoever becomes the leader in [artificial intelligence]

will become the ruler of the world" --Vladimir Putin

 

It’s coming very soon,

all around you quite a bit.

We’re now about...

for Douglas
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 23rd, 2018

Everything around us is mystery:

atoms in a raindrop, sudden thunder,

chemical composition of a tree,

trillions of stars whirling, bloom of flower,

that finger you use to stir your...

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