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Poetry

“Here’s the longest icicle you’ve ever seen.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Yes, feel its wetness.”

“It’s cold.”

 

The warmth of mid-winter meltdown

swells the heart with joy, optimistic slant.

Merciful respite from freezing.

Toes want to dance in mud.

 

Drip, drip, drip goes the song

as birds, frantic in wing, skitter

on icy mounds of melting snow.

Lungs retrieve confidence.

 

Yet I want to know

what a child thinks

of flux in this world

as he stomps in puddles.

 

But what can a child know

about flux, waterfalls of time,

those labyrinthine turns,

many-sided decisions a man must make?

 

Winter will soon return with cold blast

and its bone-shaking, bleaky chill.

Only wood enough for stove burning

can keep the heart warm and kind.


The bass provides musical foundation

for string and winds, prime springboard for rhythm

that propels the vector of instruments

to follow, build, dance with elegance.

Without good bass other players are lost.

 

The bass player is an unsung hero

who shoulders the base of a pyramid,

allowing others to sing unfettered.

A bass player is the soul of a band,

the psychologist of an orchestra.

 

Cool bass has unexpected energy,

dynamism beyond explanation,

the kernelled conundrum in a question.

Is not bass always asking questions?

Is it not asking you to dance for joy?

 

And does it not ask you sometimes to weep?

Bass can be a sad cave-sound resounding….

Don’t we all blink twice at a bass player

lugging his instrument at an airport?

Without bass our intellect cannot fly…. 


Is this really me making a snowball?

Or is it some routine childhood relic?

Showing my three-year old how to-do-it:

compacting snow, scrunching it into ice,

so that one can launch a circle to air,

or feel its splattering impact on cheek.

We toss snowballs like cartoon characters,

yet cold frost weighing on our nose is real.

 

The heated life indoors appears more real.

The woodstove becomes a philosopher,

wise with dryness, delicious warmth of air.

Impatient toes can’t get enough of stove.

An old man can’t get enough of childhood;

a child can’t get enough of the word would.

 


That man’s a silly fellow in the sky

who only comes to me when he’s drunk.

He can never answer the question why,

or honestly tell just what he’s thunk;

he glares at me so impersonally

that I think he’s either profound or dumb….

 

His distant far air of formality

contains no music, not even a hum

of disagreement, something I prefer

to stimulate modest conversation

about the universe of conjecture,

which often concludes with drear dejection.

 

Yet I raise my wee glass to Mister Moon,

hoping that I might see him once more soon.


Cold moon riding high, bright over small hill,

snow crunching underfoot , an owl hooting

like a bearer of benevolent will

amid frozen shadows, tree twigs groping

like frozen fingers at pitch-black darkness.

Yet morning sunlight glinting on crystals

magnifies the rays with blinding glitter,

while frost makes the touch of metal bitter

on trash can covers, railings without glove,

as flint-shredded snow swirls from roof above.

The concept of zero evaporates

like breath dispelled in air or morning mists.

There’s a harsh, bleak beauty in frightful cold

which creates wry humor: caustic, brief, droll.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jan 23rd, 2018

“Here’s the longest icicle you’ve ever seen.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Yes, feel its wetness.”

“It’s cold.”

 

The warmth of mid-winter meltdown

swells the heart with joy, optimistic slant....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jan 16th, 2018

The bass provides musical foundation

for string and winds, prime springboard for rhythm

that propels the vector of instruments

to follow, build, dance with elegance.

Without good bass other players...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 8th, 2018

Is this really me making a snowball?

Or is it some routine childhood relic?

Showing my three-year old how to-do-it:

compacting snow, scrunching it into ice,

so that one can...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Jan 1st, 2018

That man’s a silly fellow in the sky

who only comes to me when he’s drunk.

He can never answer the question why,

or honestly tell just what he’s thunk;...

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

Cold moon riding high, bright over small hill,

snow crunching underfoot , an owl hooting

like a bearer of benevolent will

amid frozen shadows, tree twigs groping

like frozen fingers...

for Pascal Nadon
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 19th, 2017

When a superior flutist performs,

I feel the upper regions of my brain

to be refreshed like standing in stunned awe

before rolling white-thunder’s majestic roar

of a secluded, pristine...

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

Just as each snowflake is original,

different, unique, so each Christmas day

should be likewise: in gifts, spirit, and thought,

even if favorite hymns, songs, repeat.

It is slight difference...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Dec 5th, 2017

Today I’m renovating my study,

solarizing my words and diction,

solarizing my philosophic outlook,

solarizing my mood and behavior.

 

I am a sunnier person

and the proof of it...

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