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Poetry

I've half a mind to play the squirrel

and run amok in the sunshine today!

I feel like scampering and gathering,

but since I have only the half deck,

what I'd be gathering could be wool.

 

An inconsequential breeze ruffles the leaves

while some red and yellow flyers take off.

To know that this may be the last warm day

of the year provides poignancy and repose,

which is why I tire of being merely human.

 

I seek divine laughter in the rustling leaves

without any care for antic augury.

This sacramental day, work should be minimal—

it shouldn't be taken too seriously!

To loaf is godly and not blasphemy!

 

Great minds can only think while doodling

about the unknown: that element of play

predisposes the spirit to expand

to the cloud-laden stratosphere where

imaginary squirrels climb and play.


Clarinet, network of clear notes,

most erotic of instruments

delineating the spectrum of love:

ardent, difficult, exultant.

 

A slender, single “beating” reed

delivers a smooth, creamy sound

where crescendo and diminuendo

outdo other wind instruments.

 

Look how modestly the clarinet hides

in an orchestral throng!

Its notes come from down below

to arrive, amid stops, to the ear

 

with sensory bursts like flowers

exploding in air, its petals landing

in your surprised  lap, as if to say:

“That’s a high or low you didn’t expect.”

 

Those who loved you most:

Mozart, Beethoven, Rimsky-Korsakov,

Brahms, Strauss, Prokofiev, Debussy,

Wagner, Weber, Poulenc, Stravinsky.

 

Never middling you are either

sensually low or spiritually high.

While you might be manic-depressive,

you deliver emphatic mood clothed in blue.


The piano is a pleasant monster.

It can take your hand for a walk in woods,

portray a bouquet of flowers on table,

deconstruct the contours of your aura,

transform your ear into a gutter in storm.

 

The piano is a leaping monster.

Some even open it up

to tickle its insides for childish laughter;

it can easily paint a smile

on your face, lungs, or buttocks.

 

The piano is a legendary monster.

It may make your toes wiggle

or compel you to dance on wood.

Oh, how it loves to be

Ensconced by old wood!

 

The piano is a sentimental monster.

Speaking ten thousand languages,

it can split a heart in two

like an ax cleaving a birch log.

Or make you wonder who you are.

 

The piano is a tsunami monster.

It can bring tears to your nose

or flood your heart with emotions

that drown all noble thoughts

in forgotten memories.

 

The piano is a mythic monster.

It can conjure demons and saints,

images of infancy or lovers talking.

It is a time-traveling globe trotter

that can even demolish time itself.

 

The piano is a sleeping monster.

When mute it may invoke chords

that silently tremble in air:

arabesques of notes falling on petals.

The piano is the Sabbath of sunlight.

 


When Ray Moore takes the floor,

I will need to install a seat belt

on my frumpy television couch

as I cradle a bottle of whiskey

while I peruse a biography of Tchaikovsky

with memorable melodies leaping

in my ear as I struggle to hear

a wisp of threshold logic.

 

When Roy inveighs against evolution,

I’ll don my spiffy alien robot hat

constructed from a battered colander,

attempting to fill my head with wonder.


The chirp of phoebe wakes me at daybreak

while green grasshopper greets me at breakfast.

A woodpecker tattoos his pointy beak

into a black birch that will not long last

the rigor of harsh winter seasonal weather.

With autumn approaching, I’ll need to cut

a blizzard of logs, stack them up together,

check that the house stands snug, tidy, and shut

against whatever winter may offer

as landscape suffers inclement weather.

 

Television not Nature rules the day;

magazines boast how trendy models look

as bankers cheer the rise of Wall Street stock.

We are but dust on a planet of clay.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 17th, 2017

I've half a mind to play the squirrel

and run amok in the sunshine today!

I feel like scampering and gathering,

but since I have only the half deck,

what...

for Norman Baker
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 10th, 2017

Clarinet, network of clear notes,

most erotic of instruments

delineating the spectrum of love:

ardent, difficult, exultant.

 

A slender, single “beating” reed

delivers a smooth, creamy sound

where crescendo...

for Stephen Kaye
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 3rd, 2017

The piano is a pleasant monster.

It can take your hand for a walk in woods,

portray a bouquet of flowers on table,

deconstruct the contours of your aura,

transform...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Sep 27th, 2017

When Ray Moore takes the floor,

I will need to install a seat belt

on my frumpy television couch

as I cradle a bottle of whiskey

while I peruse a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 26th, 2017

You were the sweet sweat machine,

even at evening in August

when waning sun was orange orb

lingering in glory on the horizon.

 

Pushing the mower

at the age...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 19th, 2017

The chirp of phoebe wakes me at daybreak

while green grasshopper greets me at breakfast.

A woodpecker tattoos his pointy beak

into a black birch that will not long last...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 12th, 2017

I’m a wobbly monkey on Mondays,

hanging from the iron bar

with a forced, sardonic grin

as I swing in my cage,

plodding through the motions

of what monkey work...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Sep 6th, 2017

President DT loves all the Dreamers,

but Compassion dictates that they must go.

They can all be packed in train containers,

run en masse over the Rio Bravo,

or put...

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