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Poetry

I am an oak tree,

yet few will listen to me.

Back in the old days,

men knew my dignified ways,

treating me with love

as their eyes gazed up above,

knowing there’s beauty

in me and clouds poignantly

passing overhead

like cottony feather-bed

where their eyes would rest

amid midst of quiet quest

to discover self

not as thing-in-itself,

but as part of whole

landscape of a divine soul

linked to greater role

of being in love with all.


Sometimes I would walk down

Riverside Drive by Ulysses Grant’s Tomb,

stopping at Barnes & Noble

on Broadway and 82nd Street

to use their clean restroom.

 

Last year I browsed through Poetry,

feeling depressed at about 800 volumes.

I had read a few of the poets:

Dante, Homer, Pushkin, and Frost,

yet there were many new scribblers

I did not know, spending an hour

perusing unalleviated, drab nonsense.

 

I stopped by again a year later

with faint memories of melted snow

filling mental corners of my cerebellum

like fuzzy, gray, dust bunnies.

The cold metal chairs were welcome.

 

When I checked the Poetry Section,

the roster of players was reduced to seventeen.

Homer’s Odyssey was still there

and a collection of Bukowski’s blathering boasts.

The other fifteen were recent unknowns.

 

I wanted to ask the Ever-living Muse

if Homer will be there next year,

but the Muse was comatose bored.

She pointed out a local bar

where if I had the money,

 I might discover what it’s like

 to be lively words without a house,

as often happened to wandering Odysseus.

 

Ah, the grand futility of poetry

in times of intense tragedy

must revert to irreverent comedy!


When burrrring back of Old Man Winter breaks

like resounding crack of ice on white lake

and winds grow slow-mild like fervent whispers

in cool ear of close friend, then bold heralds

of Spring appear: ambassadorial

birds of plumage, rejoicing peeper frogs,

hover flies, bumble bees, prancing squirrels,

motley congregation of lady bugs,

plus those unlikely transient midges

that flock in your face like sward memories

of foliage you skipped through barefoot with

wonder on the trembling grasses of laud

mere years after your incredible birth,

one falls in love with this blue, blooming earth. 

 


When I dwelt outside of time

spear-shaped leaves of grass

and the waving flags of maple trees

were a green beyond words

before I had many words

as the sun glowed with such fire

I felt I might melt

like an ice cube on a plate,

yet at night in pitch dark

that summer intoxication of flowers

left me in near-paralytic swoon.

 

In spring I could dance in shade

barefoot under an apple tree

where robins often nested,

watching delicate blue eggs hatch,

admiring adolescent, awkward

first attempts to fly,

mourning for the broken wing

I had artfully mended

and the bird’s death

at the beak of its mother

because I had repaired the bird

with a small splint.

 

In that clumsy comedy

of erratic swoops and falls,

so ardently diligent,

there was more delight

in birds learning to fly

than the pretend excitement

paraded on television,

or even adult conversation

about politics and bomb shelters

that I found so pedestrian,

as I kept musing, wondering,

about birds and geese flying

with rough spontaneous freedom

not accessible to those

who didn’t have the wings

of metaphors that dazzle.

 


It's white then black,
Churns, turns slack;
Salt and fresh
Part just to mesh;

It ebbs then flows,
Shrinks then grows – 
Fast warm, slow cold,
Soft green, sharp gold,

Joyful then glum,
Tells all, keeps mum – 

The river
Can't escape the sea,
So it loves
Uncertainty.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Apr 4th, 2019

I am an oak tree,

yet few will listen to me.

Back in the old days,

men knew my dignified ways,

treating me with love

as their eyes gazed up...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Mar 27th, 2019

Sometimes I would walk down

Riverside Drive by Ulysses Grant’s Tomb,

stopping at Barnes & Noble

on Broadway and 82nd Street

to use their clean restroom.

 

Last year I...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Mar 19th, 2019

When burrrring back of Old Man Winter breaks

like resounding crack of ice on white lake

and winds grow slow-mild like fervent whispers

in cool ear of close friend, then...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Mar 8th, 2019

When I dwelt outside of time

spear-shaped leaves of grass

and the waving flags of maple trees

were a green beyond words

before I had many words

as the sun...

by Bill Keller in Poetry
Fri Mar 1st, 2019

It's white then black,
Churns, turns slack;
Salt and fresh
Part just to mesh;

It ebbs then flows,
Shrinks then grows – 
Fast warm,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 26th, 2019

Ringing in Spring

with burst of bright harmony,

shivering in dissonant sleet.

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 20th, 2019

The toy dump truck

had a good day.

It had been three days

since Christmas,

and this was the best day

Mister Truck ever had.

No more bumping into walls...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 13th, 2019

To pen poetry is to imitate

the grass beneath our feet, ants crawling there;

yet composing it can be confusing

like walking blindfolded up wooded hill

or like digging a...

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