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Poetry

America, your rouge looks like a whore:

conflict of interests and corruption,

addiction to international war,

insults, for-profit incarceration.

Some say, “Nothing new, we’ve been here before,”

but the algorithm-scale of deceit

has made a mockery of prudent law.

And what about our nation’s balance sheet?

 

Where is our Founder’s Christian altruism?

Do we cherish Franklin or just his bill?

Why do we worship guns and fascism?

How are we now a Beacon of Freedom?

 

I’m taking as stroll up a local hill

to cleanse my mind of blunt pessimism.


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.


(before Equinox)
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Mar 15th, 2017

Blizzard-bound in white:

there’s ecstasy in wind-force,

sudden flake in the eye,

nose pinched red by cold,

mourning dove fluttering,

snow-laden fir branches

slowly swaying in gusts,

wind whirling fate,...

for Clifford
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon Mar 6th, 2017

False spring is not my favorite thing,

even though snowbells seem not to mind,

or peepers who sing despite crusted frost,

or birds on the wing looking for nests,

or...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Mar 3rd, 2017

If that little button in the “football”

was angrily pushed for some island

you don’t even know about, and then all

civilization was transformed to sand—

everything turning radioactive,

even...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Fri Feb 24th, 2017

Early signs of spring:

pale tracks of wandering birds

melted to liquid wonder;

aconite sings its lonely solo

song by a red shed;

a waxing increment

of two minutes a...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 21st, 2017

Plato declares all poets are liars

because they use metaphors,

yet Plato himself employs

allegories and metaphors.

 

Businessmen boast of bs profits,

yet such exaggerations are not labeled lies....

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Feb 14th, 2017

Snow melting off roof,

that slow joyous drip

of icicles melting 

on Valentine’s Day

when lovers celebrate reunion

as snow and light unite

to produce the liquid symbol

of love’s...

(on which we stand)
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Sun Feb 12th, 2017

On Valentine’s Day we kidnap,

cuff illegal bad daddies

(whose wives are on food stamps)

who work assembly line nightshifts,

and take them away from

wives, sons, and daughters.

 ...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Feb 8th, 2017

Ticking-and-tocking in the pendulum

Of historical turnings and tumult

What enfant terrible hosts elbow room

For aggrandizement, bluster, and insult?

Veracity is what he says it is.

Finance becomes final...

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