Skip to content Skip to navigation

Poetry

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.


"Whoever becomes the leader in [artificial intelligence]

will become the ruler of the world" --Vladimir Putin

 

It’s coming very soon,

all around you quite a bit.

We’re now about noon,

nearly a fabulous fit.

 

Make sure to check all boxes

that apply to your dream life,

including all physical specs

for temp mates or wife.

 

All “work” will be performed

on portable computers

like autos, or just phoned

in to massive data servers.

 

You won’t have to worry or think—

It will all be done for you.

You can jus sit back and drink

dawn to dusk, laugh the day through.

 

Yes, we will all be like machines

in artificial neural networks

where language is rational

as we evolve greater “free will.”

 

In the end you and I

will live on as AI:

immortal algorithms

whose insidious mistakes

will happily replicate

without irony or hate.


Everything around us is mystery:

atoms in a raindrop, sudden thunder,

chemical composition of a tree,

trillions of stars whirling, bloom of flower,

that finger you use to stir your coffee

on this planet which offers such delight

amid rotational velocity

since that day you opened eyes to sunlight!

 

While some people blind themselves with cliché,

the cosmos careens on its merry way

to points unknown and unfathomable.

All we can work with is comparison.

Yet poetry is more than mere fable,

while God is hardly a theologian….


Autumn leaves at my feet, mud clinging shoes,

brisk west wind blowing with cooling bluster,

crows flying with fluffy low clouds brooding,

scent of mortality pervading air.

One wonders about vaunted ambition

as clumping feet tramples red-orange leaves

while forebodings of winter shiver bones.

Just what is it that we wish to achieve?

All will pass, even renewal of leaves.

 

Yet many crave headline folly of news,

or the illusion of media fame.

It’s best to live kindly in the moment

where love conjures happy contentment,

and like mushrooms create your own small rain

by hefting your own spores of hope in air!


(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...

Pages