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Poetry

Granularity populates a vortex overflowing:

seed to vagrant soil, sudden shower;

dune of sand lit by shore lightning;

gravel underfoot in moonlit park;

pin-points of water welling in eyeball;

multitude of atoms we cannot see;

trillions of star-galaxies in a swirl.

 

Rotundity highlights it all,

and to be curiously round in mind

remains best whenever you see a friend

come round for keen conversation.

 


The First Congregational Church

is now available for meetings,

weddings, and social events.

 

The Presbyterian Church

with its big bell tower and giant clock

is now a Baptist Church.

 

The Methodist Church,

now called the Chocolate Church

(due to its newly painted shade),

is now an Art Museum.

 

The new church service

is now conveniently at the beach

where tattoos are the new symbols

of emotional devotion.

 

The old-new Redeemer on the scene

is the Sun with Ocean for consort.

Screaming seagulls supply the chorus.

 

The ice cream shop (soft and hard)

offers the new, informal communion.

The Sun provides penance with sunburn.

 

The Holy Spirit still broods in air

with hovering wings over

beach, bridge, and unnoticed barnacle—

 

and hovers over Waterfront Park

where children gather to giggle

at the cascading waterfall….


Waves pound the shore with sputtering froth.

Young children terrified of crushing waves

are quite content with sifting malleable sand.

Old men lounge in sunlight like lizards.

Breast-less young girls in pink bikinis

squeal in the roiling surf.

 

Lifeguard drives a four-wheeler buggy

like he’s CEO of the sand.

Plump middle-aged women sport

fading tattoos of their frolicking youth.

Umbrellas sprout like mushrooms after rain.

Lost plastic shovels and goggles sleep under sand.

 

Seals wonder if humans are safer than sharks.

Broken shells know they are not.

High tide red flags whimsically wave

while beach sand swallows the salty source of life.

 

The ghost of Marconi’s marvelous machine

still lingers in humid moonlight air,

but there is not a solitary soul there

to hear what he had wrought.


Rain patters on roof

all night long without reprieve

in an old story known

to ears of humankind

since huts and houses

dotted the landscape

of furrowed rows

while people sprawl in darkness

as they drift to damp corridors

of oblivious sleep and dreams

that promise dawn-dew-joy

like quince flowering in spring

or orange bulbous moon on horizon

where wonder breathes

secret virtue

in varied shades of blue

running in puddles

to a roiling sea.


Blessed is the afternoon ambiance

when raindrops tickle your eyelids

as your feet tread between puddles

and your hat drips like a leaky faucet.

 

Blessed is the afternoon light

when a butterfly lands on your arm

and you freeze to admire

that motley coat of color.

 

Blessed is the afternoon mood

when thunder rumbles

with distant mellow echo

like a sea-shell cupped to your ear.

 


for John Hersey Jr
by John Good Iron in Poetry
Fri Jun 15th, 2018

The Kalahari Desert is far from Millbrook, far from Dutchess County, NY,

but not as far as you might think. The canons governing our paintings

are thin, thin and

...
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Jun 5th, 2018

My three-year-old is in love with Iris,

preferring purple over yellow

as they explode in June bloom.

They are messengers of the gods

I tell him, even though he is...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 30th, 2018

My grandfather Joe grew tomatoes

nearly the size of melons.

I recall vividly at four

sneaking out of his house

on a warm  July Sunday morning

into a labyrinth of...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 23rd, 2018

On a glorious, cool, springy morning

when birds are implacably a-twitter,

a unique miracle of the moment

swathes my feet with its blessing: dripping dew.

Inside each drop of this...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 15th, 2018

Thunder quakes its bluff—

or so I hope and purposely laugh—

as cats skittle under the couch

and children shiver with blear eyes,

puzzlement at august mystery

while lightning flashes...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 9th, 2018

Touching the sky

with feet upraised

children swing

to the music

in their arms

 

as their heads

float free

of the earth

and any knowledge

of the difficulties

that...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 30th, 2018

As a poet writes with pen to paper,

the poet enters a peculiar space

where time has lost its common dimensions

without a hint of romantic vista

and the prospect...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Apr 23rd, 2018

He picked grape hyacinth

and brought it to me,

asking what it was.

 

He asks what bird

makes that peculiar call.

Woodpeckers fascinate him.

At the age of three...

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