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Poetry

When I dwelt outside of time

spear-shaped leaves of grass

and the waving flags of maple trees

were a green beyond words

before I had many words

as the sun glowed with such fire

I felt I might melt

like an ice cube on a plate,

yet at night in pitch dark

that summer intoxication of flowers

left me in near-paralytic swoon.

 

In spring I could dance in shade

barefoot under an apple tree

where robins often nested,

watching delicate blue eggs hatch,

admiring adolescent, awkward

first attempts to fly,

mourning for the broken wing

I had artfully mended

and the bird’s death

at the beak of its mother

because I had repaired the bird

with a small splint.

 

In that clumsy comedy

of erratic swoops and falls,

so ardently diligent,

there was more delight

in birds learning to fly

than the pretend excitement

paraded on television,

or even adult conversation

about politics and bomb shelters

that I found so pedestrian,

as I kept musing, wondering,

about birds and geese flying

with rough spontaneous freedom

not accessible to those

who didn’t have the wings

of metaphors that dazzle.

 


It's white then black,
Churns, turns slack;
Salt and fresh
Part just to mesh;

It ebbs then flows,
Shrinks then grows – 
Fast warm, slow cold,
Soft green, sharp gold,

Joyful then glum,
Tells all, keeps mum – 

The river
Can't escape the sea,
So it loves
Uncertainty.


Ringing in Spring

with burst of bright harmony,

shivering in dissonant sleet.


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.


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

When Reason died at the age of twenty,

replaced as it was by Romance of sex

as skin became the only certainty

while I stroked the beloved’s neck,

the world...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Aug 28th, 2017

“Trump's Afghanistan strategy a breath of fresh air” @thehill.com

 

We are “fully committed” to our war

in far-off, mountainous Afghanistan.

Despite no over-all plan for the war,

victory is...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 22nd, 2017

If you were eyeing the partial eclipse,

I saw it, too, here with slight hazy sky,

yet a larger eclipse was in my heart,

roiled by bleak, corrupt, social decay,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 15th, 2017

A sunflower spikes its wheeling fan

like a pinwheel frozen in time;

its yellow halo hypnotizes the eye,

transporting it briefly to Neverland.

 

That sturdy stalk stands bolt upright...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 8th, 2017

Of late administrative problems

have obstructed constant production of poetry.

 

Poetry is not a production

but a product of the unconscious.

 

I have rescheduled writing times

and locations...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Aug 1st, 2017

A drab tooth-bitten pencil with

its innumerable shadows and wayward squiggles

lolls between my blunt thumb

and elegant middle finger

like a scalpel ready to open up

fissures in language,...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Thu Jul 20th, 2017

                                                           ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Jul 12th, 2017

The Mouth who made America great again

denied all science, allowed lead in water,

permitted unlimited air pollution,

encouraged all bigots to feel mightier.

 

The Mouth that governed by...

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