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Poetry

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 spindly shape of insect dread.

 

He fills the space from rim to rim,

that foreign, smudged, thorny thing.

Beneath him the white porcelain

looks soft, almost as hidden skin,

and as you curl closer in,

you wonder if he thinks or cares

that there’s no route from here to there:

no mimicry, nor camouflage,

no leaping trick nor subterfuge—

not anything that he can do,

no pathway to your human heart!


There are many angles to living life:

looking out of a window six stories high,

strolling by a pond with mallards swimming,

being a vegetable before tv,

or just dozing, thinking about what’s happened.

 

The poet Euclid wrote about angles

in a way that retarded mathematics,

just as the broad eloquence of Plato

with dazzling angles of fictional thoughts

persuaded people that common sense fails.

 

If it wasn’t for old Aristotle,

would we have arrived at Rousseau, Hegel,

Whitehead, or any of the brilliant brains

who point like a corrective weathervane?


I have a friend who dreams about numbers,

another who dreams about divinity,

and one who dreams about playing music.

As a poet, my dreams are various

because poets remain generalists

who attempt eagle-like aerial maps

portraying the plight of humanity.

 

For a poet, so much is metaphor—

the basis of all languages we speak.

The poet takes a hike through life’s landscape:

aura red glow on tree bark at sunset

or the patter of rain on splattered roof

makes all the difference to scribbled lines,

which is what a poet most dreams about.


Gliding along Times Square

Walking with a rhythmic gait

Of a Broadway dancer

You wear a purple felt hat

Adorning your crown.

What a conversation piece!

A tailored dark gray designer suit

Hugs your supple frame.

The wonderment enthralls me.

Are you a tap dancer?

Are you a celebrity?

Main Stem? On Broadway?

MY view of you from the bus window

Doesn’t answer my questions,

But I loooooooooove that purple hat!


When whitecaps wave with ardent excitement

and fierce wind topples umbrellas like kite

flying surf side while waves pound sand—

birds screeching with ambiguous delight

and tykes digging desultory holes in sand,

clouds remain sailing heroes of the day

scudding to their global destiny

as ambassadors of climatic play.

 

Those unfettered clouds have no small regrets

inhabiting those blue celestial spheres

that some humans daydream upon absurdly

in moments of narcistic reverie.

The cawing of a seagull on bleached beach

is older than mankind’s ambitious reach.


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 28th, 2017

Viola, soul of the string orchestra,

less bright in tone than that star violin

who hogs both spotlight and show-off solos,

yet like the piano, it is useful

for composing:...

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

Blasted flowers stand withered in bright sunlight

while others like chrysanthemums prosper.

Lingering phlox might attract hummingbirds

while late moths and butterflies flutter in air

performing snap-ballet of leaps and...

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

Vibrations behind eyelid magnify

exploding sensors in inner cortex

with soothing, calming, implicit élan

that thrills spinal cord, wired head-hairs—

such the violin’s delicate finesse.

 

Its sweetness is like...

for Dr. Hampson Sisler
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Nov 7th, 2017

Among the delicate, delightful

creatures in the musical menagerie,

the most alarming, even frightening

animal to a child of two or three

is the organ, Behemoth of the Zoo.

 ...

for Matt Finley
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 31st, 2017

A trumpet rings like a new breath of life:

the mind clears away all obsolete dross.

Trumpet re-arranges synapses.

Two feet feel as if they carry no weight—

one is...

for Robert Martin
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 24th, 2017

The cello resonates like a garden.

Notes linger like strong flower-aromas.

Vegetation is dense, dark green, blue-bright.

Between strokes and chords sunlight breaks cloud-line.

The cello towers like an immense...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 17th, 2017

I've half a mind to play the squirrel

and run amok in the sunshine today!

I feel like scampering and gathering,

but since I have only the half deck,

what...

for Norman Baker
by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Oct 10th, 2017

Clarinet, network of clear notes,

most erotic of instruments

delineating the spectrum of love:

ardent, difficult, exultant.

 

A slender, single “beating” reed

delivers a smooth, creamy sound

where crescendo...

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