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Poetry

The Gospel of Gauguin hung in the air:

all emptied their pockets or ran a tab

while philosophers sipped their black coffee

as Jukebox blared “At the Dock of the Bay”

among thick wreaths of smoke rising from booths.

There was nothing that could not be discussed.

Professors lurked, drank with their mistresses

in quiet platitudes of derangement;

drugs were sold, bets were placed of baseball games;

women prowled to pick up, exploit a man.

The gleaming bar—shaped, glorious horseshoe—

spoke a hundred tongues of hang-over peak

as novels were dreamed, rather than written.

Here was half a poet’s education.

 


Hauling in logs before first sleet snowfall,

wrapping tarp about the pyramid pile,

huffing and puffing like a berserker,

ferreting out a splinter from finger,

waiting for the first flakes of brute winter

with a shot-glass of gleaming malt whiskey,

one may ponder loss, gain, futility

as glass grows empty as philosophy.

 

Life seems like a preposterous pageant

of wind-blown snowflakes scattering blind cant—

without much effect—in weather frozen,

indifferent, melancholy, wooden.

Yet a glimmer in mirthful memory

boasts an old, happy, larking legacy!


When young I had an insane lust for books:

novels, history, deep philosophy,

and especially noted poetry.

My bookshelves bend with grave biographies,

yet I cherish autobiographies

that I cannot part with until I die.

I have little leisure to read these books,

and now I favor music above all—

there’s more poetry in music than words,

more eloquence, even more emotion.

 

And yet, I remain committed to words,

whether from mere habit or compulsion,

for words are more primary in our lives.

Words abide as the basis of action.

Without words we are not human beings—

we are blind monkeys stuck in a forest...


When rain pelts, pours incessantly for days,

streets swell with splashing puddles, running streams.

A temptation to sleep-away the day

afflicts a blue, pampered, preening psyche.

 

Under microscope-lens water reveals

fifty million morphing, dancing patterns;

they descend about our ears like droll tears,

each drop containing myriad marvels.

 

These window drummers whisper history

of slow molecular evolution

about which we are blindly ignorant,

yet we imbibe some of that legacy

at faucet, or in the drenched sensation

of showering in lucent refreshment.


The bustling clanging of daylight action

creates cluttering static in the brain.

Silence in the night offers solution,

yet night itself may provide a refrain

of off-hand noise from roaring vehicles,

or children plagued by traumatic nightmare,

or one’s own insomniac, riddle dreams,

which may inspire momentary scare.

 

Still silence in the night is a pleasure

to be savored like a cheerful bouquet

of flowers you have picked from your garden.

Silence itself is a form of leisure

like gazing fondly at the Milky Way

or contemplating your childhood again.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 29th, 2017

If words could resurrect the dead,

we would speak those words today.

If war was a solution to problems,

we would have no problems today.

If the past were not...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 23rd, 2017

As violinist

to violin

or flautist

to flute,

 

the poet

wed to Muse

must choose

notes inspired

by lunar music

unwritten

except

to inner ear

& its mystic

exaltation...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 15th, 2017

At Notre Dame one can sit in wooden pew

to hear an organist play Vidor or Saint-Saens;

you can tour the Vatican to see ceiling murals

painted by the marvelous...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue May 9th, 2017

Feel the inner green landscape

of gentle falling rain

as it coats black street

with fresh patina

communicating peace

to pulse of blood running in brain,

much like willowing wind...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed May 3rd, 2017

Few rise before sunrise

for the symphony of bird song.

Fewer can identify that song,

which humans have heard

ever since they were human,

and even before that.

 

Music...

for Bob and Kathleen
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Mon May 1st, 2017

That blue-black cloud you thought

was laboring on the indifferent horizon

then sailing above your head in a blink

now hovers gently like a mist in your lungs

 

and...

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

Buttercups bursting in greeny meadow,

oriole chattering in oak above,

geese squawking and euphorbia prolix

under golden orb setting in the west,

as midges celebrate their most brief lives.

Amid...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Apr 18th, 2017

when poetry astonished the ear,

yet astronomy, physics, and chemistry

now pioneer that frontier.

Mathematics has overshadowed metaphor.

 

A poet may recollect a full moon,

but satellites can map...

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