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Poetry

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 twenty-five-foot hole

to make a well, uncertain of success.

While one may record the pleasures of life

in pastures of rolling seasons, or love,

or the progress of celestial spheres,

the process resembles a self-tattoo.

 

Yes, it’s old Sisyphus puffing uphill,

knowing your project will tumble back down,

and yet that rock may recoil back down

with a wild, scrunching, singing, thrilling sound


It was lightly snowing large, irregular flakes,

but between the drifting flakes a cold rain

pattered on the almost-green grass

as sunshine glanced to the side

of a dark, blue, passing cloud.

 

Wind huffed mightily

as I wanted to say something

startling or exciting, yet the wind

held the stage as I offered outstretched

my empty palms

to pay homage to the seasonal mix.

 

Anticipation of spring

can be marvelously maddening,

and a quick glance about the disordered garden

conjures up images of hard work,

.

Digging remains more satisfying

than the idle frustrations of winter.

 

Even a four-year-old yearns to build,

with fertile imagination,

with hands on wood or stone.


It was lightly snowing large, irregular flakes,

but between the drifting flakes a cold rain

pattered on the almost-green grass

as sunshine glanced to the side

of a dark, blue, passing cloud.

 

Wind huffed mightily

as I wanted to say something

startling or exciting, yet the wind

held the stage as I offered outstretched

my empty palms

to pay homage to the seasonal mix.

 

Anticipation of spring

can be marvelously maddening,

and a quick glance about the disordered garden

conjures up images of hard work,

.

Digging remains more satisfying

than the idle frustrations of winter.

 

Even a four-year-old yearns to build,

with fertile imagination,

with hands on wood or stone.


If music be the alphabet of love,

play on through the hours and days of life,

enriching each moment with a wisdom

unspoken in all the earth’s sacred writ

and prized by the world’s varied religions

under red-setting skies around the globe.

For if music falls on our ears as we walk,

the earth itself would be free of hatred

and people would greet each other freely

with open embrace, hearty handshakes,

and words of such enthusiastic joy

that war would be banished and we would love

each other and the earth we tread upon.

We would speak the language of dawn’s bright song. 


Sleet nestling on stone walls.

Sleet whips gray air,

crackles window pane,

forms footing uncertain;

stoic eyelids blinking.

 

Sleet inhabits a netherworld

harsh to navigate:

sleet sliding down your neck

melts with smearing pinch.

Sleet is like a tax form—

ugly, uncomfortable to look at.

 

Sleet: crystal, wingèd curse;

enemy of commerce;

tombstones crusty, perverse;

shifting life in reverse;

disdained with scowling verse.

 

A marvel of nature:

wondrous lament

for rain or snow

which death does not know.


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...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 5th, 2019

It was lightly snowing large, irregular flakes,

but between the drifting flakes a cold rain

pattered on the almost-green grass

as sunshine glanced to the side

of a dark, blue,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 5th, 2019

It was lightly snowing large, irregular flakes,

but between the drifting flakes a cold rain

pattered on the almost-green grass

as sunshine glanced to the side

of a dark, blue,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 30th, 2019

If music be the alphabet of love,

play on through the hours and days of life,

enriching each moment with a wisdom

unspoken in all the earth’s sacred writ

and...

Tue Jan 22nd, 2019

Sleet nestling on stone walls.

Sleet whips gray air,

crackles window pane,

forms footing uncertain;

stoic eyelids blinking.

 

Sleet inhabits a netherworld

harsh to navigate:

sleet sliding down your...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jan 16th, 2019

Out of nowhere

it can come

 

like a car passing

under the window,

 

but what to do

with it?

 

Especially when

the car’s gone

 

and there’s...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Jan 11th, 2019

on the piano

played

only one

white note

but that note

was enough

for the day

to have

its poignant

memory....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Jan 4th, 2019

Wan December sunlight, snow-covered hills,

pond semi-frozen, hollows mucky with mud,

stream reduced to etiolated rills.

Hauling in split wood amid squelching sludge

up to my wobbly ankles. Birch burns...

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