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Poetry

Li Po was correct about collecting

books for a writer’s personal pleasure.

Reading copies just don’t last forever.

They are subject to mold, worms; common dust

damages them. Pages turn pale yellow,

fray, become brittle, even turn to dust.

If they are any good—like Homer or James Joyce—

they are reprinted each generation.

 

A writer should not overly admire

another writer, not even great ones

because in the end that’s a distraction.

Best to heave your shoulder to the iron plow

and drive your crooked furrow as you will

without ever thinking of our great Will!


Crack, Crack, Crack

sings sheet ice in winter when the sun shouts

and ice melts slowly with drip, drip, drip

while geese land in flurry on frozen pond.

 

Tweet, Tweet, Tweet

say bright birds when the first buds of Spring bloom

from apple, cherry, and promising plum

on the rolling hills of heavenly breath.

 

Moo, Moo, Moo

say brindled cows in drowsy summer heat

as they eat green grass and dandelion

under blue sky until haloed moonrise.

 

Clop, Clop, Clop,

halt, hooves of horses on rural lane

when Autumn leaves turn ocher, yellow, brown

as sun sets orange over western hills.


At six I had a yellow bike, 
its pedals thick with wooden blocks, 
so that my rubber soles could reach. 
I rode up to the empty school, 
then racing downhill, missed the turn
and pitched into a vacant lot,
tangling legs, spokes, and rocks.

I visit that place now and then, 
see little slope, little danger in 
a crash. There’s no mnemonic scar.
But facts can’t curb the quickening 
of that leap into air....


The stolid turkey in my freezer

has been hibernating a full year,

a left-over from the year before.

 

Melting in my kitchen sink

like some sci-fi experiment,

I expected his wings to furl, fly

into the oven and blush red-brown

like leaves littering the landscape

of a pastoral that was habitual

under my wandering feet in autumn

as I walk unconscious in a world

teaming with wonder sleeping

under the crackling patina of morning frost

which evokes humble Thanksgiving.


First snowfall is usually a mere prank,

as it was this morning with a dusting

of snow, roads and skies clear as a whistle.

But during the night coydogs were howling

as if they had cornered over-sized prey—

deer most likely, maybe two miles away

in deep darkness before rain turned to snow.

 

That snow was so exciting for my son

who, at almost four, built his first snowman

last winter with hat, coal eyes, scarf, straw broom.

I don’t know what it is that attracts him

to snow sculpture: I admit doing it

when I, too, was that age decades ago,

frolicking in fluffy, malleable snow!


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jan 21st, 2020

Morning sunlight spearing a windowpane,

inspiring a round of tasks to do:

cleaning kitchen dishes, haul wood to the stove,

whose maw gobbles logs like a stack of tarts;

messages,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Jan 11th, 2020

It pours from faucet with force of a dream,

runs over rocks with shimmer, glassy sheen

that transfixes eye, hypnotizes your

wandering thoughts which suddenly migrate

to topographical caverns unknown....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Jan 2nd, 2020

Li Po was correct about collecting

books for a writer’s personal pleasure.

Reading copies just don’t last forever.

They are subject to mold, worms; common dust

damages them. Pages turn...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Dec 13th, 2019

Crack, Crack, Crack

sings sheet ice in winter when the sun shouts

and ice melts slowly with drip, drip, drip

while geese land in flurry on frozen pond.

 

Tweet,...

by Bill Keller in Poetry
Sun Dec 1st, 2019

At six I had a yellow bike, 
its pedals thick with wooden blocks, 
so that my rubber soles could reach. 
I rode up to the empty

...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Nov 28th, 2019

The stolid turkey in my freezer

has been hibernating a full year,

a left-over from the year before.

 

Melting in my kitchen sink

like some sci-fi experiment,

I expected...

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

First snowfall is usually a mere prank,

as it was this morning with a dusting

of snow, roads and skies clear as a whistle.

But during the night coydogs were...

by Philip Brady in Poetry
Mon Nov 11th, 2019

We spoke of you today, James Stuart Dunne,

Surgeon of the trenches. The swallows rose

And dived across the skies in tumult fun

In practice for...

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