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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
Thu Oct 31st, 2019

One of a writer’s faults remains worship

of the bog-soggy ground on which he walks.

That ground is words and his holy idol

remains the dictionary on a shelf.

To...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 22nd, 2019

In the past people went on pilgrimage

to churches, holy wells, or healing pools.

Many odd pilgrimages continue,

but most people now make fake pilgrimages

through television, YouTube, media.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Oct 17th, 2019

When summer-gazing at bright blinking stars

or meditating on autumn-blast leaves,

one may be mesmerized, plunged deep into

chasm-perception of eternity

where time no longer limits boundary

and your mind...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sat Oct 12th, 2019

First frost of autumn on petals and leaves.

Summer is already a memory

lost in the cold fog of cloudy morning.

Time to pick apples, quince, say fond farewell

to...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 1st, 2019

I read in newspapers that someone has died.

Sudden death seems to happen every day,

yet few people appear aware of this

as tv sit-coms and sporting events

celebrate victories...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Sep 27th, 2019

Sleep is the thinker’s laboratory

where people chat and mostly agree

on what is to be done in this frail world.

Conversation may be enigmatic,

but everyone speaks with shy...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 24th, 2019

Swallow tail butterfly with great black dots

flitting on pink phlox in mild mellow air—

its yellow shimmer recalling the sun

of full golden-breath summer abundance.

 

I ponder about...

by Bill Keller in Poetry
Mon Sep 16th, 2019

To start, you trap him in a glass:

he’s stoic while you study his

mismatched, barbed, jackknifed knees,

pincer tails and antennae weeds

all sprouting from a belly-head —

the...

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