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Poetry

May morning mist, Smithfield Valley,

highlights blue, yellow pansy

blooming as bees hover softly

with air of light comedy

while brindled cows munch quietly,

clouds hovering hillside lightly

with dew-water droplets wooly

nesting in damp hair cozily,

sunlight spearing on pond that spills

our Creator’s cup of good will

on frogs, heron, and whippoorwill

amid chorus of insect trill.

At such moments like this Spring day

pleasure halts my tongue: naught to say.

 


How pleasant, refreshing to see

our tinpot dictator ranting

at justice, common sense. Silly

Europeans were expecting

 

polite, rational behavior,

but Don displayed ability

to lie, appear superior

with a sneer in society

 

while insulting a warrior

at the D-Day cemetery

for having displayed great valor

fighting for his beloved country,

 

jailed many Mafioso dons,

and wisely helmed the FBI,

then provided measured response

to blatant, lawless perfidy.

 

We wait for the fourth of July

in the hope of patriotism,

yet we are quite likely to fly

into the maws of despotism

 

while the Don celebrates himself

as the greatest politician

since Nero on stage played himself

crucifying a dumb Christian.

 

His compassion remains unmatched

in the annals of history

and his crass insults are beloved

by those who know no history.

 

Like the god Nero, Don is praised

as a great public orator;

the populace loves he was raised

as a famous branding realtor.

 

Don is the high school bullshitter;

exaggeration is his theme—

when it works, he’s a big hitter,

when it doesn’t, the joke’s quite lame.

 

 

(Americans think a realtor

to be a form of royalty

because their opaque behavior

appears as magic fantasy.)

 

Media manipulation

as the engine of governance

produces an awkward question:

can one rule through nasty vengeance?

 

As Christian Prez Jimmy Carter

points out: we have oligarchy,

unlimited scandal, huckster

mentality, gross bribery.


The damp joylessness of first Spring is here

with drooping snowdrops and constant showers

riddling muddy puddles in languages

that can only be translated by ear.

Gray geese bicker about territory,

show off with bluster courting their ladies,

while midges gather armies for attacks

and daffodil stems thrust furiously.

 

Mold begins to creep up doors and latches

while rust attempts to paint the outdoor grill.

Disorientation disturbs my will.

I worry about welts from diseased ticks.

Despite these awkward considerations,

I’m learning to love light, birdsong chirpings. 


To pierce the opaque world of corrupt lies

one needs Private Spectacles of Resonance

which bestows vision to see through dim cant

clothed in comic Harlequin arraignment.

Cruelty surrounds us like a carapace

of crustacean curses curled on lips.

All laws, customs, cultural perceptions

grow sizzling fat over the course of years

like slug wax in the portal of one’s ears

when we wake in blue dawn of the dew’s tears.

 

We proceed to draw history awkward

with far too much bloated baggage downward.

Those wistful tears burn away in sunlight

when our daylong working project goes right!


So many things that I once learned as a child

are either obsolete or downright wrong:

that mushrooms, celery have no nutrition,

that coffee and chocolate are quite bad.

Jupiter now has seventy-nine moons?

Who knew men and women are preparing

their own demise through over-population?

Or that religion could be so corrupt?

That science-denial would be a fad?

That knotweed would rule your backyard garden?

Can’t we just elect a big bullfrog king

to solve our problems with his magic ring?

 


by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 26th, 2017

You were the sweet sweat machine,

even at evening in August

when waning sun was orange orb

lingering in glory on the horizon.

 

Pushing the mower

at the age...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 19th, 2017

The chirp of phoebe wakes me at daybreak

while green grasshopper greets me at breakfast.

A woodpecker tattoos his pointy beak

into a black birch that will not long last...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Tue Sep 12th, 2017

I’m a wobbly monkey on Mondays,

hanging from the iron bar

with a forced, sardonic grin

as I swing in my cage,

plodding through the motions

of what monkey work...

by Kevin T. McEneaney in Poetry
Wed Sep 6th, 2017

President DT loves all the Dreamers,

but Compassion dictates that they must go.

They can all be packed in train containers,

run en masse over the Rio Bravo,

or put...

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...

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